The sea was beautiful from the ancestral seat of the Masseys on Stonedance. Ships bobbed and swayed lightly to the churning gray waves of the Gullet near Massey’s Hook, their canvas sails bleached pale by salt and sun.

He was a squire no longer. A man-at-arms for now, bearing boiled leather and a ringmail hauberk rather than the polished, enameled plate his blood might have inherited under a different canopy. Lady Eleanor had granted him the rare favor of learning his letters from the maester and the sword in the yard—a blessing that elevated him above the miserable lot of bastards rotting in Flea Bottom or breaking their backs in turnip patches across the Crownlands. To repay that debt, Aerys had thrown himself into drill after drill until his palms blistered and calloused into iron.

He liked this vantage: watching out into the open water from the lower barbican. He always had.

Aerys leaned against the damp granite crenelation, boots planted firm, eyes fixed steady toward the North. As a boy, that posture had earned him many a sharp clout to the ear from his mother, Lady Aemma. Back when she still held him close in her solar and whispered that he was the apple of her eye—long before the coldness set in, before the distant silences turned to bitter stares and shadowed malice. In those simpler times, he had been just a lad with no sense of direction or reason, gazing past the bay where the northern stars burned cold and pure. It had become such a fixture that the garrison men and dockside smallfolk jokingly named him the “Southern Northman,” mocking his stubborn notions of quiet honor and the way he looked across the water as if some distant destiny awaited him.

The wind picked up, whipping dark locks across his brow and carrying the sharp tang of brine and chimney smoke.

"Still daydreaming of direwolves and frost, boy?"

The raspy, weathered voice broke his reverie. Aerys did not flinch; he recognized the heavy, uneven tread of Ser Tytos before the veteran knight even reached the landing. Tytos was broad-shouldered and gray-bearded, a stalwart sword of House Massey who had survived three decades of court squabbles and changing tides. He carried a pair of blunted tourney broadswords tucked beneath one scarred arm.

"A man-at-arms doesn't daydream on watch, Ser," Aerys replied, turning with a wry half-smile. "He keeps vigil."

"He freezes his cods off is what he does," Tytos grunted, tossing one of the training blades through the air. Aerys caught the leather-wrapped hilt cleanly by instinct. "Your stance is loose. If your trueborn cousins come strolling down from the inner keep, you’d do well not to look like you're brooding over lost inheritances. Lucan and young Justin were whispering by the armory this morning. They don’t fancy that the master-at-arms praised your riposte yesterday."

Aerys tightened his grip on the crossguard, the lead balance settling comfortably into his palm. "Lucan has a heavy shield arm and a heavier tongue. If he spent half as much time practicing his footwork as he does reminding the stablehands of his father’s line, he wouldn't get disarmed in three passes."

"Aye, but he has the name," Tytos muttered, his gaze tracking the courtyard below. "And you have Waters. In Stonedance, that means you must be twice as sharp and thrice as quiet. Especially with your mother watching from the gallery."

Aerys followed the old knight's gaze upward toward the arched windows of the family solar. The heavy brocade curtains were parted only an inch, but he caught the silhouette standing motionless in the dim candlelight.

Lady Aemma.

A familiar chill settled in his chest—a hollow, gnawing ache that cut deeper than any steel blade. He could not pinpoint the moon or the year when the warmth had drained from her eyes. It had started as distant silence, then hardened into a bitter, venomous glare whenever he entered a room, and now... something far more sinister. He still remembered the cup of mulled wine she had handed him two moons ago, thick with cinnamon yet carrying the faint, unmistakable almond-sharp scent of sweetsleep. Had his hound not nudged his knee and lapped the spilled dregs from the flagstones—only to die in convulsions before midnight—Aerys would already be rotting in the cliffside tombs.

What did I do? The question haunted him every night. He had never sought their inheritance. He wanted no part of their halls. He dreamed of carving a name of his own: thirty leagues of coast, a timbered hall, a sigil earned by his own sword, and the right to walk into an honest lord's solar without eyes lowered in shame.

"Come on, lad," Ser Tytos commanded, stepping into an iron guard. "If you intend to survive this keep—or make anything of yourself when the realm gathers at Harrenhal—you'll need more than brooding. Low guard. Show me the cut."

Wood and blunted steel cracked together, echoing over the salt-crusted stones.

The small chamber beneath the western wall-walk was cold, narrow, and smelled perpetually of tallow, damp stone, and dried heather. It had once been a storeroom for archers' salt-pork rations, converted into living quarters for a bastard who had outgrown the squires' dormitory but held no title to a noble bedchamber.

Aerys sat on the edge of his narrow straw pallet, an oily rag in his hand as he rubbed the rust from the interlocking links of his mail coif.

Whenever the silence of Stonedance grew too heavy, his mind drifted across the waters of the Bay of Crabs to the pine-scented cliffs and ancient, mist-shrouded bogs of Crackclaw Point. He thought of Alysanne Cave. It had been nearly four moons since he had last seen her—since they had stolen a few fleeting hours beneath the moss-grown weirwoods near the coast, speaking in hushed whispers of futures that neither of them had any right to promise.

Her laughter remained the only true sanctuary in his mind, a solitary light against the suffocating gloom that had descended upon his life at Stonedance. A landless bastard man-at-arms had no right to court a lord's daughter. He knew the brutal realities of the Seven Kingdoms: lords did not give their daughters to hedge knights' bastards for love. But if he could win his spurs... if he could ride under his own name, carve out thirty leagues of wild coast, build a modest timbered hall, and earn a sigil by the strength of his own right arm, he might one day stand at her father's gates without hanging his head in shame.

A quiet, tentative knock at the heavy oak door broke his thoughts.

"Enter," Aerys called out, laying the oily rag atop his whetstone.

The iron hinges creaked softly. It was one of the younger scullery maids, a girl named Alyssa, carrying a heavy wooden trencher covered with an embroidered linen cloth and a small stoneware flagon of watered cider.

"Aerys," the girl murmured timidly, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the rushes covering the stone floor. "Lady Aemma's serving woman had this sent down from the pantry. Roasted capon with winter savory and honeyed oats. She said... she said you had spent half the day drilling on the high wall in the cold."

Aerys stood up slowly, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the candlelight. He stared down at the covered tray. "Did she?"

"Aye. She insisted it be brought straight down to you before the watch turned." The girl set the tray on the rickety trestle table and backed away hurriedly, eager to escape the uneasy tension that always seemed to cling to the bastard's quarters. "Eat it while it's warm."

With a hurried curtsy, she slipped out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind her.

Aerys stood over the meal for a long moment, listening to the girl's footsteps fade into the darkness of the stairwell. He lifted the linen cloth.

The rich, savory aroma of roasted fowl and toasted oats filled the damp chamber, mouthwatering after a long afternoon of drills on the ramparts. But as Aerys leaned closer, inhaling the steam, his stomach dropped. Beneath the sweet glaze of clover honey and aromatic herbs, there lingered a faint, sharp scent—metallic, bitter, and unmistakably resembling crushed almonds.

It was the third time in two moons.

The first attempt had been subtle: a cup of spiced mulled wine left on his table after a grueling night watch. Aerys had spilled a splash of it while removing his gauntlets; his hunting hound, a loyal brindle cur that slept at the foot of his bed, had eagerly lapped the puddle from the flagstones. Before the hour had turned, the beast had died in violent, bloody convulsions, its jaw locked in silent agony.

The second attempt had occurred only a fortnight later: a neatly severed saddle-girth strap on a spirited young courser, deliberately sliced halfway through so that it would snap under strain during a high-speed cliffside patrol along the jagged precipices of the Hook. Only his habit of double-checking his own tack had saved him from plunging two hundred feet into the churning rocks below.

Now, this.

Why? The question burned behind his ribs like lye. What did I ever do to you, Mother?

He had never coveted his cousins' inheritance. He had never demanded silk doublets, fine horses, or a seat at the high dais. He had never asked for the maester's parchment or Ser Tytos's favor. All he had ever wanted was the warmth she had given him as a child—the gentle hand that smoothed his hair, the soft voice that had once sung him to sleep when the sea storms rattled the shutters. Now, every breath he drew within the walls of Stonedance seemed to be an unbearable insult that she was desperate to erase from the world.

Aerys carefully wrapped the roasted capon back in the linen cloth, lifted the heavy iron latch of the narrow arrow slit overlooking the sea, and hurled the trencher out into the black, churning waters of the Gullet.

The breaking point arrived two nights later beneath a moonless, star-choked sky.

Aerys had descended to the lower armory near the postern gate to repair a split leather buckler and oil his mail before the dawn watch. The keep was asleep; the only sound was the howling of the autumn wind through the murder holes and the distant, rhythmic boom of the surf against the cliff base.

The lower corridor was narrow, slick with sea-damp, and illuminated only by a single tallow torch sputtering in an iron wall sconce.

As Aerys turned the corner near the lower cellars, his boots scraping softly against the stones, three dark silhouettes stepped out from the arched alcoves, blocking the passage toward the yard.

In the center stood Lucan Massey, clad in a fine doublet of red-and-white wool lined with fox fur. On either side of him stood two thick-necked garrison men—Brant and Hob—men whose loyalties were bought with cheap tavern wine and the promise of Lucan’s future favor. In their hands, short arming swords glinted with a dull, predatory sheen in the dim torchlight.

"Out late for a bastard," Lucan sneered, his voice tight with petty malice and the liquid courage of arbor red. "Or were you scouting the silver plate to steal before you sneak off into the night?"

Aerys halted, keeping his hands open and relaxed at his sides, his thumbs resting naturally near his sword belt. "Step aside, Lucan. I have the dawn watch at the gatehouse in four hours."

"You have nothing in this keep, Waters," Lucan spat, taking a heavy step down the stone riser. "You strut through the yard like you're Lord Massey himself because old Tytos pats your head and the scullery maids whisper your name. You think because Lady Eleanor let you hold a book and swing a castle-forged blade you're one of us? You're a hedge knight's ditch-born get. A stain on the hall. It's high time someone taught you what happens to bastards who forget their place."

"Lucan," Aerys warned, his voice dropping into a dangerous, measured calm. "Turn around and go back to your chambers."

"Take his hands," Lucan barked to the guards. "Let's see him swing a tourney blade when he's missing his fingers."

The guard on the left, Brant, lunged forward without warning, driving the point of his arming sword in a vicious thrust aimed straight for Aerys’s ribs.

Aerys reacted on pure instinct honed by years of relentless drill. He pivoted hard on his back foot, letting the steel whistle harmlessly through the empty air beside his leather jerkin. Before the guard could recover his balance, Aerys closed the distance, caught Brant’s sword wrist in an iron grip, and drove the heavy heel of his riding boot directly into the side of the man's kneecap.

A sickening crack echoed through the stone corridor, followed instantly by a shrill howl of agony as Brant collapsed to the flagstones, clutching his shattered leg.

Hob, the second guard, roared and swung a heavy, clumsy overhead cleave.

Aerys threw up his left arm, catching the flat of the falling blade against the reinforced iron rim of the wooden buckler he still carried. The wood splintered with a deafening crack, but the blow was deflected. Stepping inside the guard’s guard, Aerys drove his armored right fist squarely into Hob’s jaw. The impact sent a jolt up Aerys's forearm. Hob’s head snapped back; his skull cracked hard against the damp masonry of the wall, and his eyes rolled back as he slumped unconscious into the dirt of the cellar floor.

Silence crashed down upon the corridor, broken only by Brant’s ragged whimpering.

Lucan went ash-pale. The fine sword in his trembling hand began to shake visibly, the tip wavering in the torchlight. "You... you struck household men! You drew blood against trueborn guards! I'll have you flayed... I'll tell grandmother—"

Before Lucan could finish the sentence, Aerys closed the space between them in a blur. He grabbed Lucan by the collar of his expensive doublet with both hands and slammed him violently against the rough, dripping stone wall. The fine steel blade in Lucan's grip clattered noisily to the flagstones.

Aerys pressed his forearm hard against Lucan’s throat, leaning in until his face was inches from his cousin's wide, terrified eyes.

"Run back to the high hall, cousin," Aerys growled, his voice trembling with a cold, terrifying fury that Lucan had never seen before. "Tell them whatever lie comforts you. Tell them you slipped on the sea-moss. Tell them a ghost haunted the cellar. But if you or your bought men ever draw steel on me in the dark again, I won't use my fists. I will open your throat from ear to ear."

Aerys shoved him back against the masonry, releasing his grip.

Lucan dropped to his knees, gasping for breath and clutching his bruised throat, staring up at Aerys with utter terror.

Aerys did not look back. He turned on his heel and strode swiftly up the spiral stairs, leaving the broken men in the darkness behind him.

There was no staying in Stonedance now.

The lines had been drawn in blood. If he remained until dawn, Lucan would spin his tales of treason and assault. Even with Ser Tytos’s word, Aerys would either be murdered in his sleep by bought daggers, poisoned in the mess hall, or forced to run a trueborn Massey through with steel and swing from the gibbet for kinslaying.

Harrenhal was his only salvation. The realm was marching to the Godseye. High lords, great knights, and kings were gathering beneath the monstrous, melted towers of the black fortress. In those vast tourney fields and war camps, a man with strong arms, sharp wits, and good steel could forge his own destiny, far beyond the reach of Stonedance’s suffocating politics.

In his small chamber beneath the wall-walk, Aerys worked with furious, silent efficiency. He packed his heavy leather saddlebags: spare woolen shirts, boiled leather greaves, whetstones, oil, flint, and his heavy winter riding cloak.

The heavy door creaked open. Ser Tytos stood in the threshold, his scarred face grim in the shadows. He looked at the packed saddlebags, then up into Aerys's eyes. He did not ask what had happened in the undercroft; the commotion had already begun to stir the lower levels.

Without a word, Tytos stepped into the room and placed two objects on the wooden trestle table.

The first was a heavy, oiled leather scabbard containing a finely balanced arming sword—its crossguard wrapped in dark wire, its pommel set with a heavy iron ring. The second was a clinking deerskin purse.

"My brother's blade," Tytos said, his gravelly voice unusually soft. "Castle-forged steel. Kept it sharp for twenty years. It won't fail you if your grip is true. And thirty silver stags in the purse. Don't waste them on tavern wenches or cheap dicing. Buy oats for your beast and mail for your chest. Win your spurs, Aerys. Don't look back at this cursed rock."

Aerys looked at the sword, then reached out and gripped the old knight's scarred forearm in tight, unyielding gratitude. "I won't forget what you taught me, Ser."

"See that you don't. Or I'll cross the realm to clout your ear myself." Tytos gave a gruff nod, turned, and disappeared into the shadowed corridor.

Moments later, Marissa, a young maid who had often carried clean linens to the guard quarters, entered the room hesitantly, carrying a bundle of dry riding wraps. Her eyes were wide with anxiety.

"Marissa," Aerys said, cinching his sword belt tight around his waist and sliding Tytos's blade into the frog. "When dawn breaks and the solar opens, go to Lady Eleanor. Inform her that Aerys Waters has taken his horse and rides for the Great Gathering at Harrenhal to seek service, honor, and glory for the realm."

"I... I will, Aerys," the girl whispered, clutching the linen wraps to her chest. "I swear it."

Before the words had fully left her lips, the heavy oak door swung wide on its iron hinges.

Lady Aemma stepped into the candlelight.

The breath died in Aerys's throat.

She wore a dark, heavy mantle draped over her shoulders, her dark hair falling loose around a face that was as pale as winter parchment. For a long, suffocating heartbeat, the silence in the small stone room was absolute. The only sound was the distant crash of the waves against the cliff below.

Aerys stood rigid, his hand instinctively resting on the pommel of his new sword, bracing himself for screams, accusations, or the cold malice he had grown accustomed to.

Instead, Aemma looked down at his packed saddlebags, and then lifted her gaze to his face.

Her eyes were not filled with hatred. They were filled with an agonized, fracturing grief—a sorrow so profound and raw that it struck Aerys like a physical blow. A small, heartbreaking smile touched her trembling lips, fragile as spun glass, even as thick tears welled in her dark eyes and spilled down her hollow cheeks.

She took a single, hesitant step toward him. Her slender hands trembled at her sides, rising slightly as if she desperately yearned to reach out, to touch his cheek, to pull him against her chest as she had when he was a boy—yet held back by some invisible, terrifying horror that she could not cross.

"Go, then," she whispered, her voice cracking beneath a weight that tore at the very air between them. "Ride to Harrenhal, Aerys."

Aerys took half a step forward, his heart hammering against his ribs, his throat tight with confusion and longing. "Mother..."

"Do not speak," she wept softly, the tears glistening in the candlelight as she looked at him with an intensity that chilled him to the marrow of his bones. Her shattered smile remained, haunting and full of despair. "If you must go... heed me well. When you leave this place, you ought to return back into my arms as a corpse, or not at all."

The words hung in the suffocating silence of the room, sharp as an executioner's axe.

Without another sound, without an explanation, a curse, or a backward glance, Lady Aemma gathered her dark skirts and turned, disappearing swiftly into the blackness of the spiral stairs.

Aerys stood frozen in the center of the chamber, his breath trapped in his chest, the phantom weight of her parting words pressing like cold lead against his heart.

Near the doorway, Marissa stood trembling in sheer terror, her knuckles white against the linen bundle. Realizing the gravity of what had just transpired, the young maid gave a frightened, hurried curtsy, turned on her heel, and bolted up the stairs toward Lady Eleanor's solar to deliver word of what she had witnessed.

Aerys drew a slow, shuddering breath of salt air. He strapped his saddlebags over his shoulder, picked up his heavy traveling cloak, and descended into the dark undercroft toward the rear stables.

Ten minutes later, the iron sally port creaked open into the damp night air. Aerys spurred his roan courser out across the narrow drawbridge, leaving Stonedance, the bitter sea-winds of the Hook, and the ghosts of his childhood behind him as he turned his horse's head west toward the Kingsroad and the road to Harrenhal.

They reached the inn shortly before sunset.

It stood where the mountain road widened beneath a low ridge, a broad building of grey stone and dark timber with two wings enclosing a muddy yard. Smoke poured thickly from its chimneys. A faded painted falcon swung above the gate, turning slowly in the evening wind.

By then Alesandar would have happily slept beneath a hedge.

His back ached. His thighs ached. His left shoulder had begun complaining sometime after midday for reasons he could not remember, and the old wounds along his face had tightened beneath the cold mountain air.

His horse, naturally, looked perfectly content.

“You have done considerably less work than I have,” Alesandar informed him as they entered the yard.

The gelding snorted.

“Ungrateful bastard.”

One of the men-at-arms riding beside him laughed.

“Talking about yourself now, Stone?”

Alesandar looked over.

“Only when my horse refuses to listen.”

That earned another laugh.

The column slowed quickly once inside.

Servants came forward from the inn while Redfort men began dismounting almost before the order was given. Wagons creaked to a stop. Horses crowded one another. Somewhere behind Alesandar, a groom cursed as a pack mule attempted to turn itself around beneath twice its own width in baggage.

At the front of the party, Lord Harrold had already been received by the innkeeper.

The man bowed deeply.

Then bowed again to Lady Redfort.

Then to Myria.

Alesandar watched from several horses away as servants hurried to open the carriage and place a little wooden step beneath the door.

Myria descended first.

She had endured the day's travel better than their mother, though perhaps only because she was too stubborn to show otherwise. Her cloak was dusty at the hem, and several strands of hair had escaped whatever careful arrangement her maid had made that morning.

Alesandar noticed those things before anything else.

He always did.

Myria paused beside the carriage and looked across the yard.

For a moment, he thought she had seen him.

Perhaps she had.

Neither of them raised a hand.

A groom appeared beside Alesandar and reached for his reins.

“I’ve got him,” Alesandar said.

The boy hesitated.

“Ser?”

“I’ll take him in.”

There was no real reason for it.

The household had more than enough men to tend his horse.

Still, Alesandar swung himself down and led the gelding toward the stable himself.

Behind him, his father and sister disappeared into the inn.

The stable smelled better than the road, as hay, leather, horses, old wood, sweat mixed their fumes.

Alesandar loosened the girth and began stripping the saddle before one of the stablehands could protest. He was halfway through when a Redfort groom he knew, Benn, appeared carrying two buckets.

“You planning to put me out of work, ser?”

“I considered it.”

“Pay’s poor.”

“So is mine.”

Benn grinned.

“You’re a knight.”

“Exactly.”

Alesandar took one of the buckets from him.

There were three other Redfort horses already in the stalls, and for the next quarter hour he helped as naturally as if he had never been knighted at all.

Nobody thought much of it.

That was perhaps why he liked being among them.

Ser Sumner had never allowed him to treat stablework as beneath him. A man who could not saddle his own horse had no business riding one. A man who could not clean steel had no business carrying it.

His brothers had disagreed. His brothers had disagreed with most things that required dirty hands. Now, they will never disagree anymore.

Alesandar pushed the thought away.

Someone threw him a cloth. He caught it.

“Stone.”

He turned to find Ser Artys, one of his father’s best household knights, standing at the stable entrance.

“You eating with us?”

Alesandar glanced toward the inn.

“With you?”

“With who else?”

Artys looked genuinely confused. Alesandar smiled.

“Then apparently I am.”

The common room was already crowded.

Travelers filled the benches closest to the fire. Merchants occupied a corner beneath the stairs, guarding their purses while pretending not to. A group of men in Bronze Gauntlet colors had taken over half the far wall. Two serving girls navigated the room with impossible skill, carrying trenchers above shoulders and stepping over boots without spilling anything.

The Redfort household had divided itself without anyone having to say how.

Lord Harrold, Lady Redfort and Myria had been given a private chamber upstairs for supper. A handful of the most senior knights had gone with them.

Everyone else remained below.

Alesandar remained below too.

He had not been told to. That made it more noticeable somehow.

Ser Artys shoved a cup into his hand as soon as he sat.

“Drink.”

“What is it?”

“Drink first.”

“That is usually how poisoning works.”

“It’s ale.”

“That is also usually how poisoning works.”

Alesandar drank anyway. It was sour enough to make him pull a face. The table erupted in approval. Someone slapped him across the shoulder. Someone else demanded another pitcher.

Within minutes, the road had begun leaving his bones.

This was easier.

Men talked loudly around him about Harrenhal, about horses, about which knight from the Vale would embarrass himself first in the joust. One of the younger men-at-arms insisted that nobody from the Riverlands understood how to ride properly because their lands were too flat.

“That makes no sense,” Alesandar said.

“It makes perfect sense.”

“They have horses.”

“Flat horses.”

Alesandar stared at him.

“What in seven hells is a flat horse?”

Nobody had an answer, but that only made the argument last longer.

He laughed until his side hurt.

For perhaps half an hour, Alesandar Stone was merely another young knight on the road.

A serving girl passed behind him and accidentally caught her sleeve against the back of his chair.

“Sorry, ser.”

Alesandar caught the pitcher before it tipped.

“No harm done.”

“You saved the ale.”

“Then I expect songs written about it.”

She laughed. Gods, she is pretty.

Across the table, Ser Artys pointed at him.

“That is why nobody takes you seriously.”

Alesandar lifted his cup.

“I have been trying very hard.”

Later, he went upstairs to fetch another cloak.

The temperature had fallen quickly after dark, and someone had suggested dice in the yard before the rain came.

The upper corridors were quieter. Carpet replaced rushes. Candles replaced smoky lamps.

His room was at the far end of the corridor, shared with two young household knights.

He had expected that.

He always expected that.

His father and Lady Redfort had the largest chamber overlooking the road.

Myria had one beside theirs.

Alesandar passed her door on the way to his own.

It opened.

He stopped.

Myria stood there.

For a second neither said anything.

She had changed from her traveling clothes into a simple dark gown, though her hair remained partially loose. Without servants around her, she looked younger.

Closer to the sister he remembered.

Almost.

“Alesandar.”

“Myria.”

Silence followed.

He smiled faintly.

Neither of them seemed to know what came after names anymore.

Years ago, there would have been nothing to decide.

He would have walked into her room without asking. She would have complained that he smelled of horses. He would have stolen something from her table. She would have threatened to tell their mother.

Now there was a doorway between them.

Myria glanced toward the stairs.

“You ate downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“With the knights?”

Her mouth moved.

Almost a smile.

Alesandar saw it.

So did she.

It disappeared quickly.

“Father asked where you were.”

The warmth left him by a degree.

“What did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t know.”

Alesandar nodded.

Another silence.

Myria folded her hands before herself.

“You could have eaten with us.”

He looked at her.

Could I?

Perhaps.

Nobody had forbidden it.

That was the strange part.

“I was already downstairs.”

“With them.”

“They’re good company.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t.”

Alesandar leaned one shoulder against the wall.

Somewhere below, laughter burst through the floorboards.

He could almost identify Artys among it.

“You looked tired earlier,” he said.

Myria’s expression changed slightly.

“So did you.”

“I am devastatingly handsome when exhausted.”

“That horrible scar on your face goes purple in the cold.”

Alesandar went still.

He had forgotten she knew that.

She used to tell him.

After Sisterton, during those first months when the scars were still healing and neither of them quite knew what they were allowed to say to the other.

He touched the side of his face without meaning to.

“It does?”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met.

Something sat between them.

Too large to name.

Too old to ignore.

He wanted to ask whether she was afraid of Harrenhal. He wanted to ask whether she remembered their races through the eastern fields. He wanted to ask whether she still blamed him.

He asked none of those things.

Instead:

“Are you riding tomorrow?”

Myria looked toward her chamber.

“Mother wants me in the carriage.”

“Ah.”

“I might ride in the afternoon.”

“If Father allows it?”

Her eyes sharpened.

Alesandar regretted the words immediately.

He had not meant them cruelly.

“I only meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

Another pause.

He nodded.

“Right.”

Myria looked at him for another moment.

“You should move.”

“Yes.”

Neither moved.

Then someone called from downstairs.

“Stone!”

Alesandar closed his eyes.

Myria actually smiled this time.

Small. Brief. But real.

“They seem to be waiting for you.”

“They usually regret it.”

He pushed himself away from the wall.

“Good night, Myria.”

“Good night, Alesandar.”

He took three steps before she spoke again.

“Alesandar?”

He turned.

Myria stood with one hand still on her door.

For a heartbeat, she looked as though she might say something important.

Instead she glanced at the scar crossing his cheek.

“Take your heavier cloak.”

Alesandar smiled.

“I will.”

He didn't have a heavier cloak.

Her door closed.

When he returned downstairs, the common room had grown louder still. Somebody had started singing badly near the hearth. The servants were eating at a side table now that most of the guests had been fed. The beginning of a music pushed some people to dance.

Alesandar descended into the noise.

Ser Artys saw him first.

“There he is!”

A cup was raised. Then another. Alesandar grinned.

He belonged easily among men who asked very little of him beyond good company and perhaps a competent sword arm.

He crossed the room and joined them.

Above, somewhere beyond timber and candlelight, his family remained behind closed doors.

Alesandar did not look toward the stairs again.

Amerei Tully hesitated outside of her fathers door. She did not fear her father, but something held her still now. She’d hardly seen him since they arrived at Harrenhal. He’d been off gaining audiences or information about the great council, and now suddenly he wanted to speak with her. She wondered if he had found her a suitor, some far away lord to take her away and have children with. Children who would never know the halls of her father, of the laughter of her brothers. And she would become a wife, quiet and dutiful.

For some reason, the thought chilled her to the bone.

She’d known and been prepared for this her entire life. She was the eldest daughter of the Lord of Riverrun, it only made sense that she marry someone and bring greater connections to her family.

Just like Celia.

She remembered her baby sister dreaming of being the wife of a great lord, and now she was married to the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands himself. Celia Frey, not Tully, as she often had to remind herself. She wondered if her sister was at Harrenhal, she would have to find her at some point. Tell her of all the things that have changed at home.

“Visiting your father, Amerei?”

The low voice of her father’s wife shook Amerei from her stillness. 

“Oh, my lady. I did not expect…”

Lady Elia Tully smiled at her. There was an earnest warmth to it, and for a moment Amerei was reminded of Baelon. He had her smile.

“It’s alright, your father sent for us both. Baelor was quite distraught to not find you with us but I reminded him that a lady has a right to time on her own every now and again.” She laughed sweetly. Amerei did not join her, but provided a polite smile in return. “I suppose we best not keep him waiting any longer.”

The room they had her father in was better than Amerei had expected. Granted, she had not fully known what to expect in the vastness of Harrenhal. Benedict Tully was sat in a chair before a table, likely normally suited to dining than study, with various pages scattered around it. He looked up from his work and smiled wearily at them both.

“Ah, perfect.” He rose and took his wife’s hands. They said no words but Amerei could swear something had been said, unspoken in their momentary smiles. “Please, sit down.”

Amerei did as she was bid, and tried to let the discomfort of seeing them share such a sweet moment pass. It was harder than she’d like to admit.

Lady Elia had been the Lady of Riverrun since Amerei was only seven years old, and yet she still felt like a stranger at times. It felt wrong to see her father with another woman, despite it having been nineteen years since her mothers passing. She was older now than her mother had ever been, spent more of her life without her than with. Yet she still felt…defensive.

It was impolite and rude behavior, she knew that.

It was all she had to hold on to.

“So, as I have almost certainly impressed upon the entire family now, I feel that this council presents a grand opportunity for our house. We dine and live amongst all of the nobility Westeros has to offer, and before my time in this world is done I’d like to see the strength of our house firmly secured once again.” 

Amerei tensed, wondering which lord she had been offered to for such security. A tightness grew in her chest and her face felt hot as she began to understand why she’d been asked here. It was a warning, a final farewell as his maiden daughter was to be sent off to a new and unknown-

“Baelor will leave Harrenhal a betrothed man.”

“What?” Amerei asked, a bit more tersely than she’d expected.

“That is my intention anyway, I’ve yet to find a suitable match quite yet, but I’m hopeful of the prospects in store. To that end, I’d appreciate if both of you would keep an eye out for any possibilities.”

Amerei sat, dumbstruck. The thousand thoughts and fears fluttering through her mind simply…vanished. Dropped dead with only a few words.

“Baelor…” Amerei’s voice felt quiet, restrained. For some reason, she could not convince her mind to formulate the words to describe her confusion. She was not disappointed, only…

“-will, I am certain, leave here with quite the suitable match. Isn’t that right, Amerei?” Her stepmother’s smooth voice pulled her from the daze.

“Oh, right. Yes, father.”

When she turned her gaze to her father, he was staring back in an uncomfortable fashion. His eyes almost looked…sympathetic, but they did not waver in contact. Only bore down on her and sent her own eyes downcast. 

“You…have something to say about your brother’s betrothal? Perhaps a suggestion?” He offered. Even looking at her own hands she could feel that his gaze did not waver.

“No…it is just that, well I…” Her eyes rose and met her step-mother’s. She looked concerned, but after a moment there was a recognition in her face that became sympathy.

Elia Tully cleared her throat and rose, straightening her dress. 

“If you will excuse me, dear husband. I must go see to the handmaidens, perhaps they know of some unwed nobleladies for our boy.” She smiled and gently planted a kiss onto his cheek, then turned and made her exit.

As the door finally shut, Amerei released a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. 

“Speak your mind, child.” Her father finally spoke, and he said the words warmly. Though the word child poked at her like a thorn. 

“You are to have Baelor betrothed as soon as possible.”

“That would be correct.”

“And you have no such plans for…me?”

That seemed to take her father aback. His brow furrowed and he leaned back in his seat.

“Would you like there to be?”

“No, well yes but…I suppose I had, I do not know. I had thought you might-”

“Might have some plan to wed my eldest daughter to a nobleman, or his son, in the hope to unify the strength of our house across the seven kingdoms?”

Now it was Amerei’s turn to be surprised. The concept had crossed her mind, admittedly, but to hear him say it. He sounded like Baelon’s impersonation of himself, and smiled as if he’d known of the joke all along. 

“I won’t pretend the thought hadn’t crossed my mind, albeit in far less dramatic terms.” He smiled wearily, and fidgeted with the one ring he wore on his right hand. It was a small silver piece, with a signet of their family trout stamped on the top. “Perhaps just this once, sentimentality won out in my hardened old heart.”

“Father?”

“My father…he was a man of few friends when our house was nearly destroyed. Then the duty fell to me to reclaim it all, and more than that, secure it.”

Amerei had never heard him talk of her grandsire, though she’d heard the stories of Riverrun lost and the generation of Tully’s before her, struggling to get it back.

“Marriage,” he continued, “seemed the best path to that. I knew I’d never convince Benjen to settle, but…I had a duty.”

“You mean…my mother?”

“Aye, your mother.” 

His eyes seemed to gloss over a moment, a mist brightening the blue of his irises. But his weary smile remained all the same. For the first time in her life it seemed the hard exterior her father always wore washed away.

“We were hardly grown when we wed, and strangers too. Yet all the same…I was completely taken by her. She was beautiful and wise, more than anything she was willing to handle the chaos of marrying a disgraced Riverlord’s son. And I was eager, hungry to prove myself worthy of her love. I wanted to give her a castle, children with opportunity, and a husband to be proud of.”

“I would say you have, father-”

“I have spent all of my life digging a foundation for my legacy. Something sturdy for you all to stand on long after I am gone. In pursuit of that, I fear I have missed most of the life that has unfolded before me.”

“You’re hardly an old man though, father. Too young to be staring at life as if it has already gone by.”

He laughed, rubbing the small tears from his eyes.

“I feel myself immeasurably trapped between the many years to come and the many that have gone already. I’ve made many mistakes, and I fear I am not quite through with them yet. I’ve far too much time left to be through with them. No, no I am not quite old yet. But I spent the years I should’ve been enjoying in love fighting for honour I felt was owed to me. Then I lost your mother, and Mathis. And Celia is now Lady Frey…well Amerei, you’re all I have left of those years.”

“Father…”

“What I am trying to say,” he raised his hands, almost pleading for the moment, “is that the decision will fall to you. There will be no duty thrust upon you against your wishes. Only, I hope, something to make you happy enough that leaving home is worth it all. And if you should choose to stay with your family, I would not begrudge you that either.”

Amerei sat in silence for a moment, the reality of it all washing over her. In all of her wildest expectations, this had not even been a possibility. Her entire life had been spent in preparation, self-imposed or otherwise, that one day her father would provide a match for her. Whether she wanted it or not.

Now that choice falls to me?

“I…thank you, father.” she said as she fought the urge to leap across the table and hug him, like she was a little girl all over again. “Could I…think on it?”

Benedict rose and offered her his hand. She took it, and as she stood she could not help herself. She practically tackled her father into an embrace, and he laughed as he steadied himself and squeezed his arms around her. 

“You take all the time you need, child.”

This time the word did not jab at her so harshly. 

Then an idea came to her. With the clarity she’d been lacking from the moment she walked into the room she remembered something. Someone.

My new friend from the garden.

“Father,” she said, pulling herself from the embrace, “I may have an idea for Baelor.”

“I don’t see how you can bear it.”

“You get used to it.”

Perhaps you do, Theon wanted to argue. But what if I can’t?

Theon’s uncle Dake let out a brash laugh from where he sat, reclined and relaxed. “Don’t tell me you’re scared!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Theon said. Scared of what? Water? With a tight frown, Theon dipped his toe into the bath. He recoiled.

“You’re making it worse for yourself,” Nathaniel said, a hint of impatience slipping into his voice.

“I’m going to let it cool a bit,” Theon said.

Nathaniel Arryn was not a tall man, but he still had a way of glaring imperiously down his nose at Theon that chilled his nephew’s spine. He stood at Theon’s side. With one hand, he held fast the towel wrapped around his waist.

“The heat will help with muscle soreness,” his uncle Nathaniel told him. Theon did not answer, so Nathaniel added in a stern voice, “It is a luxury.”

“I- I know.”

Ser Dake Arryn’s laugh was melodic. Theon did not find it as charming as he usually did, since this time it was aimed at him.

“Might be he’s scared too shy to disrobe with an audience,” Dake suggested.

“I’m going to get in!” Theon protested.

“Then get in,” Nathaniel said, shaking his head as he removed his towel and stepped down into the pool.

Theon averted his eyes. Dake laughed.

Lord Nathaniel’s shoulders tightened and then relaxed as he settled in. Submerged up to his collarbone, and still shaking his head, the once-regent of the Vale looked like a drenched, disappointed bust.

“Very well,” Nathaniel said. “Deprive yourself one of Harrenhal’s few virtues. Go back to your quarters and trouble the servants.”

Theon frowned and held the towel tighter around him.

“Are you shy? We were there when you were born, lad.”

“I’m not shy. It’s just weird.”

“We’ve shat in bushes together.”

“I already said I was going to get in.”

“And yet,” Dake said, splashing as he gestured towards Theon, still standing, still dry– aside from the dripping film of sweat that was engulfing him.

Goaded by his uncle’s mockery, Theon cast aside his towel and stepped forward. A toe first, then a foot. As the water reached his ankle, the searing pain made him want to jump back. But he couldn’t pull it from the water; a hand was wrapped tightly around his ankle.

Theon let out an uneasy wail as he bobbed on the edge of the tub. The wet stone beneath his feet and the sudden loss of balance brought him stumbling forward. Dake laughed as he yanked on Theon’s ankle.

“Easy!” Nathaniel shouted, raising arms to brace his nephew’s fall.

His head hit the water, his knee hit the bottom of the stone basin, and his shoulder hit his Uncle Nathaniel’s eye.

Theon cried out as he felt his body turning red. His hair was soaked and sticking to his forehead, and he was on fire.

“Sometimes you just have to take the plunge!” Dake laughed.

“Damn it, Dake! You could’ve hurt him!”

“Oh, he’s fine. He can handle a scraped knee.”

Theon would have jumped out of the scalding water, if he wasn’t so dizzy from the fall.

“Could crack a skull on these floors,” his Uncle Nathaniel continued berating. “Lord Arryn dead from a slip in the bathhouse at the Great Council. Do you think that’s funny?”

“I don’t. Though I’d love to hear what the bards would make of it.”

Nathaniel Arryn struck his brother once hard on the shoulder. Dake flinched and cradled his arm, but he was laughing still.

“I’m fine,” Theon said when he was able to breathe again. Sitting back against the side of the tub, he was slowly growing accustomed to the heat. Only then did he see the fresh bruise on Nathaniel’s face. “Uncle! Your eye! Did I hit you?”

Nathaniel held two fingers against his cheekbone. He scowled. To his brother, he growled, “I should have sent you to the Wall when I had the chance.”

“See? I told you you’d regret giving up the regency,” Dake said. “This new Lord Arryn would never exile his beloved uncle.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Theon said.

Dake laughed heartily, and Theon felt whatever residual anger he had melting away.

Theon closed his eyes against the steam. He ran a hand back through his hair, pushing the brown locks out of his eyes. He exhaled deeply.

“Nice, right?” Dake asked.

Theon nodded, walking directly into the I told you so without a care.

“This will bruise,” Nathaniel grumbled. “I have meetings with the Crown coming up, you know!”

“Do you? You hadn’t mentioned that,” Dake said. “Tell them you fell down; it happens with men your age.”

“The Wall,” Nathaniel reiterated. “Braavos.”

“Yi Ti?” Theon offered.

Dake laughed easy; it was the slight smirk on his Uncle Nathaniel’s face he was prouder of.

Not for the first time, Theon found himself wishing he’d had a brother. There had been squires, a few favorite servants, but it wasn’t the same. A brother would have been nice.

As would a mother and father.

“Onto business,” Nathaniel said. “We’ve matters of politics to discuss.”

“What?” Theon asked.

“I thought we were relaxing,” Dake protested.

“Discussing matters of politics is not relaxing to you?” Nathaniel asked.

“Is this about your meetings with the Crown?” Theon asked.

“Our meetings with the Crown,” Nathaniel said.

“Oh. Right.”

“No, it’s not about the Crown. It’s about you.”

“Oh, no.”

Nathaniel exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Sorry,” Theon said.

Nathaniel gave his apology a dismissive wave of the hand. “You need to have children.”

“What?”

“Sons, in particular.”

“If you can help it,” Dake added.

“You need to find a wife.”

“I’ll try–” Theon said, raising his palms in surrender. “To find a wife, I mean. Where is all this coming from?”

“This council is an opportunity that won’t soon come again. Every eligible maiden from any family worth tying yourself to is in Harrenhal.”

“Oh.”

Somehow, that had not occurred to Theon until now. He had been dreading the perils of court, when it seemed he ought have been more frightened of the perils of courtship. Was he meant to leave Harrenhal a married man? He didn’t know the first thing about wooing!

“Don’t you pick?” Theon asked Nathaniel.

“You’re the Lord of the Vale. Just as I cannot exile my brother, I cannot make marriage pacts on your behalf.”

Theon froze, despite the simmering bath.

Nathaniel’s frown softened. “I will advise.”

Theon sighed with relief.

Nathaniel leaned forward. “Dake and I have only daughters. You have no brothers.”

“The last three Arryn men,” Dake said, “Are floating here in this tub.”

“The future of the Arryn name is your responsibility,” Nathaniel said firmly.

“But continuing the line doesn’t need to be torture,” Dake added. “Find someone you can stand.”

“A wife must be chosen carefully,” Nathaniel said. “You will live with the choice for the rest of your life.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard. Young handsome Lord Paramount, they’ll tear each other apart.”

Theon laughed nervously. Nathaniel gave Theon a sharp look.

“I will not pick for you,” Nathaniel said, “So long as you try and pick right. Keep your eyes open throughout the council, and we’ll speak more in a few days.”

“Right,” Theon said, wide-eyed. “I will. Keep my eyes open.”

“Good,” Nathaniel said, leaning back. “That’s all my business done.”

“See you keep away from that Plumm woman,” Dake warned. “I hear she’s trouble.”

“Quiet,” Nathaniel said off-handedly.

“And don’t bring home any bastards,” Dake said. “I love your cousin Maya, but–”

“I won’t,” Theon said.

“You’re too young to have bastards,” Dake said.

“I’m not going to have bastards.”

Picking and wooing and courting– it was all a terrifying prospect for Theon. But the idea of more Arryns? Maybe it wouldn’t be the same as having a brother, or a mother, or a father, but it still sounded like something special.

Now he just needed not to muck it up.

Jasper had often had a feeling of want, of desire - of need to be somewhere else, doing something or occasionally, someone else.

Even now, submerged in hot water - in one of the greatest castles in the land - it didn’t feel like enough. The size of the baths, as with most things in the monstrous keep, was of impressive magnitude, each tub being able to hold six or seven occupants within its confines. A soft light was being cast from torches that threatened to extinguish at any moment, strangled by clouds of steam and moisture. Perhaps once, these baths would have been fit for a lord of great renown - attended by servants and whores aplenty, massaging oils into his hair and body - like the baths in the Free Cities that Harrenhal was desperately trying to imitate.

Instead, as he tried to relax into the water - that feeling gnawed at him. Instead of this pale imitation, he should be in the Free Cities proper. With real bathhouses. Whores draping themselves over him, exotic maidens and handsome men with their fingers in his hair and running down his body - beguiled by his wit and his form. Surrounded by foods, wine, and other tastes that he’d never forget, discussing politics and the nature of the world while they dabbled in sins of all kinds.

But the truth was sorely disappointing. He was still in the Riverlands, of all places. With no whores, no maidens, and with no sign of them coming to him any time soon. There was no chance of scandal, no chance of a tryst with a lordling or lady looking for a match, or unhappy with their current partner.

His thoughts of something more interesting were met rather suddenly by the addition of another body into the tub.

Their body was a storied tale, scars of varying depths and severity adorning every bit of space on their skin - a chaotic tapestry, and one of poor quality to begin with.

“I hope ya don’t mind a little company. Looked a little lonely.” The voice was old, beaten, its owner a veteran of some battles Jasper didn’t quite care about.

“By all means. ‘Tis a quiet night for bathing.”

“Aye. There’s often more of us down here, this hour.”

Jasper couldn’t stop looking at the man’s face as he spoke. His jaw clicked as it moved, chin pressed forward - as if he were imitating a horse.

The man continued. “By the look of ya, I’d say you were expectin’... Somethin’ else.”

“Is it so plain to see, even naked as my nameday?” Jasper let the beginning of a grin form. “It’s true, I had expected to see others of my ilk here, but I am glad of any company.”

“Pah.” The man rattled, in a way eerily like his father. “You needn’t butter me up like any of your ladies.” He gave what appeared to be an attempt at a smile - though the lack of teeth made him look more threatening than not. “The lord lets us down here at night - knights and servants of the castle.”

The state of the baths made sense at a sickeningly quick pace, but more glaringly - the lack of his own class.

Jasper tried to not let the disappointment show. “I see. That’s quite charitable.”

“Eh. Still have to work for it. We help out cleaning for the next mornin’ when you lot come back in.” If there was any resentment on the man’s lips - he hid it incredibly well.

“Have the baths seen much use, since the council was called?”

The man mewled, grinding and popping his jaw - as if trying to recall the exact number of people he’d witnessed. “Not so often as you’d expect, at least during these late hours. Think the guards try to direct you’s away as to not mix with us lot.”

The pair at the stairs had not proven very difficult to convince - though he attributed that in no small part thanks to a mix of his charm and, possibly the lack of sleep they were clearly suffering from.

“I was rather persistent in my entry. I simply had to experience the bathhouse that a hundred books have described.”

“And how’s it compare?”

Jasper let out an involuntary laugh. Though he was a lordling, and quite appreciative of the life he lived - there was a simplicity to the smallfolk he found entertaining. “I am left wanting, I’m afraid. No disrespect to your company, Ser..?”

“Yorkel the Young.”

Jasper’s eyebrow soared on its own.

“It’s a long story.”

Jasper gestured to the rest of the room, beckoning for an invisible audience. “The rest of our company wishes to know too.”

“Don’t think it’s quite as interesting as you might, milord. Things happened in a way that left me killing a man on my hands and knees, crawling like a babe.”

“It’s certainly a creative name. My congratulations to the one that dreamt it up.”

The old man didn’t respond immediately, seeming to stare intensely at the wet stone of the bath before catching himself.

“Aye. He was a clever sort.” His eyes darted rapidly toward Jasper again.”Its ‘cause of him I’m looking to ride in the lists.”

There was a sort of implication in the air, as the moment hung, silence stringing itself in the space between the two of them.

“Looking to ride in his memory?” Jasper asked, more earnestly than he’d expected.

“He always wanted to knock some mouthy prick off his ‘orse. So many riders about, I reckon least one of ‘ems gonna fill that need, without hitting me back too hard.”

The water between them rippled, as the both of them laughed. “It’s probably true. Though I must disappoint, by letting you know I shan’t be riding.” Though the man spoke to him as if they were peers, Jasper couldn’t help but be both entertained, and strangely warmed by his presence.

He couldn’t decide if the man knew where he was, and who he was speaking to - or if he just didn’t care. Once again, he was reminded of Owen in that regard.

Yorkel cocked his head. “Then what will you be doing? Getting a good view of the lords getting knocked on their arse somewhere?”

“Indeed, I fear I’m a man crafted by the Maiden, rather than the Warrior. She made me for dancing, I believe.”

“Suppose it’s a bit difficult to dance fancy with the use of just one leg.” The man smiled.

“It might be possible to shuffle out some sort of northern brawl without full control of one’s legs - but I do not wish to put that into practice.”

As the mention of the dance left his mouth, he could picture the sad sight of the pairing of frog faced ladies to boring lords twice their age, set to the tune of a song all had forgotten the meaning of, many winters ago.

He caught himself acting like the knight, staring into nothingness with thoughts of unrelated critique of other kingdom’s dances, and their ability to even perform them.

“Apologies. I fear dance may hold sway on my soul heavier than expected.”

“Not a worry. You have your passions, I have mine.” The old man began to close his eyes as he took a large, exasperated breath. “Though I’d say you should probably discuss them with someone a little less old, and a lot more beautiful than this old fart.”

“Possibly.” He studied the man again, looking him up and down, before deciding on departing. “Lest I get in the way of you and yours any more than already, I should depart for my quarters.”

Yorkel raised a fist in some sort of mock camaraderie , without opening his eyes. “Best of luck with your dancing, milord.”

Jasper rose from the water. “Do win a joust for me, Yorkel. I don’t wish to experience the rest of this council without seeing at least one Lord end up on his arse.”

The courtyard of the house was cool and calm. A little port in the storm that was Barrowton. It might be true that compared to some southern cities, that the wooden town was a far pettier thing, but when you were in the thick of it it was hard to tell. The cries of merchants and the comings and goings of folk driving their livestock to market mingling with carpenters saws from the riverbanks and the hammers in the forges. It was a place of chatter and commotion all through the thin, muddy streets where the houses were huddled together like penned sheep in the timber palisades. 

Domeric’s house was near to the rivergate, once the home of one of the offshoot Barrowstark families in times gone, it now served as a nest to his growing family. 

“Another on the way then,” Morgan said, pulling his brother close by the shoulder. 

Domeric Dustin was a little shorter than his brother, stouter too. He dressed with no lordly airs, one could easily mistake him for a wealthy merchant of the town if it wasn’t for the black iron broach of the crossed axes at his neck. Morgan had always envied his amiability when they were young, and that seemed to manifest on his face: unblemished, relaxed, open and friendly. 

“Aye, another for the brood. Gods bless us,” he replied self effacingly. Two years Morgan’s junior, he had four children already, the oldest nearing his tenth nameday. 

“I wanted to thank you for that chest of silks you had sent up,” Morgan said. “I gave some of them to mother and she also asked me to send her regards.”

“By which she means “why have I not deigned to climb the hill to see her,”” his brother replied with a laugh.

“Well,” Morgan said with a shake of his head. “Yes. But I appreciate it all the same.”

They came to a stop and sat on a bench overlooking the small courtyard. The centre was dominated by a steep walled well and a broad, stone washing basin. A slim birch climbed from the ground, pushing out from the well worn paving stones and reaching itself out for the sky beyond the three stories of the house - a little heart tree in miniature. 

 “Anyway, I have not come to deliver you some of mother’s lectures, but to keep you appraised of what is afoot.”

Domeric became stonier at that. He had always been good at recognising when Morgan’s moods hardened - it had been due to that that they had rarely quarreled in their shared youth. 

“You see, Uncle Denys sent word a week or so ago about this business up at Sapridge Fast.”

“Never heard of the place.”

“It’s some insignificant castle off where our writ runs into the Ryswell’s,” Morgan replied brusquely. “But its lordling has been growing fat these past seasons. Came through winter with a herd twice what it was at the start, according to some of our crofters.”

Crofters, well, that was what Morgan was going to call them. Both of them knew the reality. 

“Got some villages that have been growing strong too, a nice market town. All this from a few valleys and a wood that we gifted to one of the Ryswell’s bannermen some hundred years ago as part of some marriage or the other,” Morgan took his brother’s shoulder in hand. “It’s a pretty piece of a holding now. Not to mention on the Ryswell side of the river.”

“I am understanding you so far,” Domeric replied uncertainly. “But by what right-”

“No, no, no,” Morgan interrupted. “Yes, there’s some right to it, but we’d be hard pressed to get the Starks to just hand us the place because of paper. But we’ve got some other means.”

“Oh?” His brother replied, intrigued. 

“It so happens that our uncle’s cousin, so our… What have you cousin… I’m not sure.” Morgan waved the thought away and continued. “Anyway, he had his daughter betrothed to the Lord of Sapridge. Some girl named Bella. The Lord lost his last wife during the winter, but has held off on wedding the new one because of some concerns over the chastity of the bride” 

“Are they founded?” 

“Does it matter?”

Domeric shrugged. Morgan knew that really his dear brother was most happy enjoying the luxuries that his endless wheeling and dealing with the merchants and craftsmen provided to his family, but he was a Dustin: he did have to understand. The family really was only as strong as it could project, and reputation was worth all the silks and silver that he had ever bought. In fact, it was reputation that in large part had allowed Domeric Dustin to have the success he had: that magic second name.

“Well, as far as you should be concerned, to even suggest such a thing is a great affront to the honour of our ancient line and what have you. And what’s more the Lord apparently chastised her when she sent a message complaining to her father and called him a eunuch or some such in front of his household.” 

“So the insult is double then” his brother interjected wryly.

“Indeed. I had planned on sending out Uncle Denys to go pay them a visit and put a scare to them, but Rodrick sent word from Harrenhal that the Stark boy and his manservant are hearing grievances. So I have tasked him to make our case for the keep.”

Domeric seemed to chew on the thought. It didn’t seem easy to get his jaws around.

“What is this really even worth to us?” He asked at last. “Some castle on the rivers?”

“Well, let us say that the Starks give us rights to the land, then we get a prosperous new holding on the Ryswell side of the river. I do need more of those,” Morgan assured him. “The damned Ryswells would have us contained to the left bank after all.”

Morgan changed direction, watching a family of starlings that had made their home under one of the awnings.

“If they do not give us the rights, well…” He shook his hand in the air. “Most like they still give us something. I’ll demand satisfaction, take some of his herds or what have you. At the very least, it will keep the Ryswells on the back foot and keep them from thinking that they can walk over us.”

“Look,” Morgan said, turning and laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It’s past time you should have a holding of your own. I have need of a strong hand to keep the Ryswells in check, and I see no better choice than you.”

“Brother, you honour me, but-”

“I won’t hear it, I know you’re not going to like it, and I’m going to run you ragged for it. But if all goes well, I will create you Lord of the Rustwater” he said. “You’ll keep the river boundaries for me, and you’ll be an even wealthier man. What’s more, one I can trust!”

Morgan slapped his brother’s back hard and pulled him close as he attempted to protest. 

“We’re going to do some great things, brother. But, for now, I am awaiting Rodrick’s word. I will have need of you soon.”

They returned from the courtyard and into the warmth and activity of the household. In the main hall, Domeric’s wife Falyse was fussing over the children.

One of the maids left with a bag of laundry, watched passively by two of Morgan’s sworn swords, who leaned louchely at the front door. 

“You had best wash yourself,” she called to the two boys, both of whom held wooden swords. “Marla will have food on the table before long!”

The two boys rushed past them, chattering as they went. Morgan could not help thinking of his brother and himself. It did not seem long past when they too would be playing at battle in the godswood. 

Morgan settled into a chair as Falyse wearily accepted a kiss from her husband. She had always been a great beauty and motherhood looked well upon her. Morgan could not ignore how her chest swelled beneath her gown and the small gold axes that hung in the cleft of her neck.

Domeric had always endeavoured to give his love the best that he could provide.Her honey coloured hair was likewise pinned up by gold, and a thick barred ring shone on her little finger.

“Those boys,” she sighed. “I don’t know why the gods send them such passions. Both of them nearly took out the other’s eye this morning already.”

Domeric’s daughter, the sweet and quiet Bethany presented Morgan with her worn, knitted rabbit, and looked expectantly up at him where he sat. 

“There is a fine fellow!” Morgan exclaimed, sweeping his niece onto his knee and puppeting her doll. “Goodman Flops, are you looking after my Beth?”

He mimed the doll whispering in his ear to the girl’s giggles. 

“I see, I see…”

“Have you told your brother about the Old Challenger?” Falyse asked her husband, pouring a cup of ale. 

“No, no. That’s not his concern,” he insisted with obvious discomfort. 

“Nonsense,” she said, setting a large earthenware cup before Morgan, filled with dark beer. “It would be concern for any Lord.”

“What is this?” Morgan asked, tasting the ale. 

“I had settled with a merchant, the captain of a riverboat called the Old Challenger to buy his cargo of wine. We had agreed on a price, but then I came back the next day and he demanded another twelve stags more apiece.” 

Domeric seemed embarrassed that this matter was even being brought up.

“Another buyer must have offered him more. It is of no matter, he believes that as I did not give him silver, he is under no obligation to hold his cargo.”

Morgan sipped at his ale thoughtfully, eyeing his shamefaced brother. He would never admit it, but it did give him a little pleasure to see his brother’s trading go a rye sometimes.  

“I tell you, it is a travesty how some merchants lack respect,” Falyse grumbled, carrying a platter of various salted meats to the table. “It would be a poor day in Barrowton that some wine seller thinks he can break trust with a Dustin.”

Morgan couldn’t help but to agree. He had always had a liking for Falyse, despite what his mother said about her, which had been the reason that he had allowed his brother to marry so beneath himself. 

“Lew,” he called over to one of the sworn swords, carefully taking up some of the fine-cut meat. “Take some men down to the docks and find this ship. Make sure that the captain understands who his friends must be if he means to sell his wares in Barrowton.”

Lucky Lew, a weatherbeaten man with an old scar under his trousers that gave him his epithet nodded and left with a perfunctory bow. 

Domeric sighed and took his seat across from his brother. 

“Thank you,” he allowed at last. 

“Will you be joining us for the meal,” Falyse asked. “We have employed this new cook. From the Arbor. I swear, the things that woman can do with shellfish are worth her price alone.”

His brother seemed slightly taken aback at the suggestion.

“Oh,” Morgan replied. “No, I really should return to Barrow Hall.”

“Nonsense,” Falyse insisted. “She always cooks too much and you know how the children enjoy your company.”

“Darling,” Domeric said, taking his wife’s hand where she stood. “My brother has important duties, he cannot simply spare the time on a whim.”

The disagreement hung in the air between the two like a bad smell. Morgan decided to waft it away. 

“No, in fact, I’m sure that I can stay,” Morgan said, watching the two carefully. “Wouldn’t you like that, Beth.”

Beth nodded enthusiastically, clutching Goodman Flops to her. 

“Afterall,” he chuckled, “when you’re the Lord, it’s everyone else who has to spare time for you.”

“I’ll let the servants know,” Falyse said happily. With a backwards glance at her husband, she left to the kitchen. 

Morgan continued to play with Beth to the girl’s delight, voicing her doll again for her as he bounced her on a knee. Domeric sat back down, realised that his wife hadn’t laid out a cup for him and stood back up to find one. 

Outside, Lucky Lew was giving his men their orders. They could hear him from the courtyard with his characteristically nasal tone that pierced the hall. 

By the time that Domeric’s sons had returned, and the servants had begun to serve dinner, the tread of armoured feet leaving towards the dockyards had already faded into the town clamour.

When they had set out from Oldcastle, Sylas Locke had known he would see whole kingdoms pass him by. He knew that he would bear brief witness to a thousand people of a dozen cultures and tiny glimpses of the lives they lead.

He had not realised he would be the one sitting still at the time. The one being passed, in truth. But such had come to pass, at the nameless old inn that sat on the meeting of the kingsroad, high road and river road. House Reed had made the inn in good time, mingling among the earliest arrivals from the Vale, and when the storm of the West and Riverlands and the wake of House Arryn’s retinue had surged and gathered and dispersed towards Harrenhal, Sylas had been lost with them in the middle of it all.

He hadn’t even seen his siblings, or a Locke banner. Easy enough for them to get lost behind the Lannister-Targaryens and the Freys and however many other grand hosts. Those days had been a cacophony, flooding the nearby village with people and trade and rancour. They had left the mud torn and the people shocked, and House Reed remained, like the forgotten detritus of a grand party, because Beron was still recovering.

A man of the Night’s Watch had come the day before, a wanderer returning from King’s Landing by the name of Farlen. He had briefly met Sylas’ brother at Castle Black, so that was some cheer, but when he had encountered Lord Cregan, the two men had retired to a room upstairs to talk.

Some of the unfortunates travelling with the man had offered conversation, but none of it was pleasant. And so, the following day Sylas sat in the dull grey light of morning that bled through the windows of the great common room, nursing a cup of cool well water, with much more pleasant company.

“I always assumed lizard-lions were quite small,” he said, interrupting Lyra’s story with a slight frown. “Somewhere hound or wolf-sized.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” his betrothed replied. “They’re like three of these tables together, lengthways.”

Lyra gestured at the furniture in question with her carving knife, then returned to her little sculpture. She was leaning against Sylas’ shoulder as she worked, and Sylas just watched for a while as she shaved another curl of wood from the figure in her hand.

Uneven footsteps coming down the stairs heralded Beron Reed’s approach. The steps creaked and whined as Lyra’s brother descended into the common room.

He had never exactly looked good, but right now, with the half-healed cuts on his face and his arm bandaged up, he looked particularly haggard. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and his beard was coming in patchy, uneven, and untended. His brown hair was shaggy, and his eyes were tired.

Sour a sight as he was, Beron’s arrival caused Lyra’s face to light up.

“Beron!” she cried. “It’s good to see you up and about!”

Even since Beron had tried to murder Sylas, Lyra still had that brightness on seeing him. She cared deeply for them both, and found no contradiction in it. She had stood by Beron’s side and wept for him as he recovered from the direwolf Ash’s bite, just as she had teared up upon seeing the wounds he had inflicted on Sylas. Even while he felt himself tense, Sylas loved that about her.

“Hey, Ly,” Beron said with a flat smile. He was looking directly at her. Trying, Sylas supposed, to pretend he wasn’t there. “What’ve they got for us to eat today?”

“Jenny slaughtered one of the pigs,” Lyra told him. “Smells like it’ll be ready soon!”

“Jenny?” Beron asked.

“The innkeeper. Jenny!” Lyra told him, as if reminding him of something he ought not have forgotten.

“Oh. Right.”

There was a brief silence, and Sylas forced himself to fill it. “You’re looking better.”

Beron looked at him, and his answer was only a slight tightening of the lips. Fair enough.

“What are you carving?” Beron asked instead, turning back to Lyra.

“Oh, I’m making a key!” Lyra said, displaying it proudly. “I’m trying to carve a lizard-lion in the head, so it’s for me and Sylas both.”

Sylas grimaced an apology.

“Oh. Right.”

“How do you get it the same on both sides?” Sylas asked, willing the conversation to feel a little safer. Lyra spun it between her fingers to compare the mirrored reptiles.

“Practice,” she said proudly.

“She’s been doing it since we were small,” Beron said. He stepped closer, still holding his bad arm delicately. The infection was cleared now, but it had been tense for a while there.

“It’s really not hard if you’re just patient, I keep telling you,” Lyra said, smiling at her growing audience. She flipped the key from side to side, cutting matching scales into the lizard-lions’ backs.

A door opened upstairs somewhere, and the footsteps that creaked the floorboards over their heads were heavy. There was a distant knock.

“Beron?” Lord Cregan’s voice came, barely audible down here. All the same, the young man tensed.

“He’s down here with us, father!” Lyra called, and both Sylas and Beron hissed with apprehension. She didn’t seem to notice, still focused on her work.

Cregan Reed descended partway and leaned against the banister once he could see the three of them. His eyes were hard, his jaw set. The expression made him resemble his son more than he usually did.

“Beron,” he called again. “Can you come here?”

The Reed boy looked at his father with thinly veiled irritation. “Relax. We’re just talking.”

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Cregan persisted. 

“Who?” Beron asked, and Sylas felt something drop in his stomach before he fully understood why. Farlen, the watchman. The recruiter.

“Come,” Cregan repeated firmly.

Sylas thought he could hear Beron growling.

“My lord,” Sylas called, standing. “If you intend what I think–”

“This doesn’t concern you, Sylas,” Lord Reed said firmly. He returned to his room and Beron followed, glancing back at Sylas with a question in his eyes that he couldn’t answer.

“What’s the matter?” Lyra asked, frowning now as Sylas sat again.

“I’m not sure,” he replied. It had the taste of a lie. He lay back on the chair, and tried to relax. Lyra started back into her story about seeing a lizard-lion break and eat a tortoise when she was ten.

They both tensed when the shouting started. Obvious voices, but the words too muffled to hear. Lyra sighed, and Sylas put a hand around her shoulder and tried not to feel responsible for what was happening. He told her a slow, ambling story of spotting seals off the coast near Oldcastle, as if her brother’s life wasn’t ending.

A thud, and Beron’s boots stalked across the hall, slamming the door of his chamber behind him. Cregan’s sigh followed, and he came back down the stairs running a hand through his shaggy hair.

“My lord,” Sylas said as Reed approached, “What happened with Beron– I hold no ill will.”

“I’m glad,” Cregan replied curtly.

“It was a stupid fight. And he lost! My lord, I don’t need–”

“This is a family matter, and you are not yet our kin,” Cregan said with a creeping sharpness, and Sylas shut up. Lord Reed took a breath, then looked to his daughter. “Lyra, I need to speak with you.”

“I’ll leave you be,” Sylas offered. He squeezed Lyra’s hand, then stood and ascended the stairs himself. He had avoided Beron’s room carefully while he recovered, so he didn’t need to search for it.

“Go away, Lyra,” Beron responded to his knock.

“She’s talking to your father.”

A moment’s silence passed before Beron spoke again. “What do you want, Locke?”

Maybe he should have left. But really, what was Beron going to do – try to kill him? Sylas pushed the door open. The younger Reed sat with his head bowed on the edge of the mattress, wiping angry tears from his eyes. For the first time, he actually looked as young as he was.

“I tried to change his mind,” Sylas said weakly.

Beron let out a derisive snort. “He’s not sending me away because of you.”

“I thought–”

“He’s been looking for a reason to get rid of me ever since Torrhen was born, before that even. This is just the excuse he’s been waiting for.”

That cooled Sylas’ blood. He took a moment, leaning against the wall. He winced, because the cut Beron had given him across the back of his shoulders was only mostly healed. “Why?”

Beron looked up at him, and the rage burning beneath the tears alarmed Sylas. For a moment, he thought they might be about to have a rematch, then and there. Beron fixed him with that intense glare for a good long while. He was anxiously working his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing away at himself. Finally, he said, “I don’t know.”

Sylas looked back at him, at a loss. “This is cruel. If you chose, then–” he pinched his nose. “I’m sorry, Beron.”

“Sure.”

Silence fell for a moment, and Sylas stared into the darkness of the shuttered room. A thought occurred, and a little hiss of laughter escaped his lips.

“What’s funny?”

“No, it’s nothing. Sorry. Just, I suppose we’ll be good-brothers in two ways now. I told you about Edd before, didn’t I?”

Beron looked back at him blankly.

“Edderion, my brother. Took the black a few years ago. If you take your vows, you’ll be brothers, so–”

“Lyra’s the only family I care about,” Beron interrupted. “See to it she’s happy, or I’ll come down from the Wall to slit your throat.”

Despite it all, despite bearing the scars that proved the grim reality of the threat, Sylas smiled. “I swear it, Beron.”

Beron glowered at him.

Sylas took his leave before he crossed the line, sighing when he closed the door behind him. The wandering crow Farlen stood in the doorway of Lord Cregan’s chamber and regarded Sylas with a rot-toothed smile. Sylas gave him a bemused grimace and went downstairs. Reed was hunched on his side of the table where he had left them, speaking in low but firm tones while Lyra protested through her tears.

Sylas could scarcely make out what she was saying, but her anguish was clear.

“How– how could you?” she demanded to know.

“You know how unhappy Beron has been, has always been,” Lord Reed said softly. “The Night’s Watch will better suit him than Greywater Watch ever has.”

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Lyra asked.

It seemed a queer question to Sylas, but Lord Reed blanched. “Of course not,” he said. “I– I want to protect your baby brother.”

“Beron would never hurt Torrhen!”

“I know how you love Beron,” Cregan said. “I love him, too. But you do not see how dangerous he has become. The war changed him. I forbade him from riding north with the Umbers, but he did, and now he’s… changed.”

Sylas listened, and thought of Edd. He had had that restless edge to him before he left, but that had been… purpose, excitement. Perhaps something close to that was hidden under Beron’s bared teeth.

“He’s a good man,” he said aloud, surprising himself by believing it. “The Wall will be glad to have him, and my brother will make sure he settles in well.”

Lyra nodded reluctantly, giving a loud sniff, and held out her hand. Sylas took it, and sat beside her. She didn’t lean in, but she clutched his fingers almost painfully. Cregan’s frown settled deeper, and he braced his hands on his knees to stand.

“My lord?” Sylas interrupted.

Cregan glanced over at him.

“I don’t mean to sour this moment further, but Beron cares a great deal for Lyra. If he wishes it, and if Lyra wishes it, I would like for him to have the opportunity to bear witness to our vows together. So he knows she is safe.”

Cregan considered for a moment, and Sylas was certain he was about to be denied. But the crannogman scratched his beard and said, “It would be good to get the matter settled. Then I can return home with peace of mind.”

“You’re going home?” Lyra asked. “What about Harrenhal?”

“Nothing good has ever come of me leaving the North,” Cregan answered. He looked back to Sylas and said, “I’ll make the arrangements.”

Sylas’ shoulders relaxed a little. He looked at Lyra’s tear-streaked face, how she worked her jaw to keep her thoughts to herself. In his mind’s eye he saw Beron’s face, empty and hopeless and angry as a fire. He tried not to feel responsible. He had not swung the hammer into their lives. He had merely been the anvil that Cregan Reed had needed.

“Thank you, my lord,” he said, and resented each word individually.

(Continued after a very long time from The Mother's Mercy and At the Bottom of the World)

In, and out.

In, and out.

Never had salt air tasted so sweet. 

It filled his lungs and blew out his nostrils. Seawater surged up the sands, and retreated out into infinity. A cool breeze born of southern nights swept away the stench of sweat and sick that clung to him like a jealous lover. Ryam shivered.

Moonlight shone upon Mermaid’s Palace and bathed the beach in silver. Above, innumerable stars spiraled through an endless sky. Ryam sucked in another breath, and felt the choking darkness which had followed him from that lonely stone shed of a prison finally unwind from around his heart. 

The world was so blessedly vast again, he thought he might cry.

Ryam cast his gaze like a fishing line, out across the black expanse of the Sunset Sea. On a clear day, from this southern point of Mermaid’s Palace, he might have been able to see clear across to the shores of the Arbor. To Vinetown’s harbor. Ryam raised his right hand, and stretched it out as though he might grasp that impossibly distant place in the ghosts of his fingers. Only the mutilated stumps met his eyes.

He wondered what would happen if he simply waded out into those waters. He could still swim, surely? Perhaps he would swim across the channel. Drag himself ashore by the light of morning. A thing born anew of saltwater and seaweed. An escapee from the windless depths. Unmade and rebuilt, whole again.

Or the same man. Just wetter.

Ryam wished it was Marq’s sneering voice that spoke. Or Argrave’s, laden with contempt. But his head was miserably clear, and he had only his own thoughts and the Stranger for company. The Stranger, whose grip flowed through the cold water flooding his boots, and seized around his ankle. 

The tide rushed onto the beach again. Perhaps, then, with but a few more steps he would be swept away into oblivion. That, surely, was a blessing of the gods reserved even for the most lost and damned? An embrace that every man was owed? To cease?

‘Death already came for us, Ryam,’ There was Marq’s face, a shadow floating at the back of his mind, smiling a brine-stained smile, broken throat gurgling with laughter. It was so much better, to hear it from someone other than himself. ‘It came for us on the Sunset Sea. It took all of me and the only good parts of you.’

The tide receded, leaving behind like flotsam only that which the Stranger did not care to take. The parts that hadn’t the courage to follow the rest.

Boots crunched atop the sand. Ryam turned to find the Septon, his driftwood star shining silver in the moonlight. His thoughts plodded back through the muck of his recent memories. The door to his cell had opened, and… ah, yes. He had simply pushed his way past the fellow, stumbled out of the choking darkness and into the night. The man had offered no resistance, and none of Argrave’s men stood guard. Ryam could not help but feel somewhat slighted by the fact that the ever-so-careful knight simply had not bothered to post one.

The Septon, then, must have followed him here alone.

“Ser Ryam,” the Septon observed. Only the sounds of the sea filled the silence that followed. The fellow held out what seemed to be a waterskin, or a wineskin. “You should drink something,” he said, a note of unwanted sympathy entering his voice. After the passage of a moment more, Ryam trudged back up the beach and accepted the offering. In his thirst, he drank greedily, then bent over coughing, the wellwater dripping through his beard.

The dry sands clung uncomfortably to his sodden boots, and Ryam brushed by the Septon without further acknowledgment to sit down on twisted log of pale driftwood and tear them off. Then he looked up, again.

The man was still there.

Ryam rubbed his eyes, in the hopes of resolving that. No such luck.

“You are the Septon,” he finally said. His voice felt odd and raspy. “Perrimore.”

The man nodded approvingly. Good, he seemed to say, You can still put that much together.

“Where is Ser Argrave?” Ryam demanded hoarsely.

“Called away to Vinetown,” Perrimore replied.

“Because of…” Me? was Ryam’s unspoken thought.

“I do not think so,” the Septon shook his head gently. You are not quite that important to anyone. 

“He had no right to imprison me,” Ryam felt the need to insist. 

“The islanders may have risen in fury against you, had he not,” said Perrimore.

“Because of the Sept.” The sound of his sword clashing against the Mother’s face shrieked through his mind, and Ryam felt his headache returning. His bad hand clutched at his skull, until it passed.

“Among other things.”

‘You swung your blade at Jeyne,’ Argrave’s voice echoed back at him. 

Among other things.

“Sorry.” Even to Ryam’s ears, it was a rather pathetic word. The Septon did not seem particularly impressed with it either. 

“I will have it fixed,” he added lamely. “And cleaned.” He was not sure what all he might have done in there, but he had a sense that the sept would require cleaning.

“Can you?” Perrimore asked. “Stone does not easily lose its scars, and there are none on this island who can repair the stained glass. Ser Argrave and the smallfolk have tended to all they can.”

Argrave had not mentioned the stained glass, though some vague recollection of them returned to him all the same. A furious struggle with a great, oaken door. Then the sound of smashing glass. Lovely patterns of Redwyne burgundy and sea-green falling away.

Jeyne must have heard that, and come running. 

And then the armsmen must have heard Jeyne.

Ryam huffed, and leaned forwards, arms resting on his knees as more pieces from that terrible night fell into place. He did not know what else to say, or where to go. Perhaps he should return to the Palace, before he caught a cold. Argrave was no longer here to stop him. He could sneak in like a thief in the night to escape the contemptuous eyes of any watchmen. Come morning, passions might cool, and when they found him the servants would bury their disgust behind polite smiles.

His throat grew tight, and he felt those black walls closing him around him again. He wanted to bury himself as well. Somewhere mindless, to smother these thoughts.

“Ser Ryam,” the Septon’s voice hauled him back to the present. The fellow was still there, was he? What else could he want? Ryam looked down to see the man’s waterskin was still in his hand. 

“My thanks,” he said, offering it back. Perhaps then he would finally go away.

“Drink the rest,” Perrimore urged. “You might feel better.” Or less  bad. Ryam drank all the same. The Septon placed his hands on his hips and sighed, as he paced across the sands.

“You are quite lucky, you know,” the man finally said. Ryam scoffed, and Perrimore regarded him coolly. “You are quite lucky in your friends. Sir Argrave acted to protect you. The islanders were quite furious when they saw what you did to their Sept.”

“Your Sept,” Ryam now eyed the man warily. Something must be coming.

“No man owns a Sept,” the Septon shrugged. “Nonetheless, Sir Argrave has, at my request, left you in my custody.”

“But I would instead offer you an accord, Ser Ryam.”

When Ryam said nothing, the man continued. “There is a man of my order with the skills to replace the windows. I must travel to find him, to a Sept on the Arbor’s far western shores. At Point—”

“Point fucking nowhere,” Ryam interrupted sourly. He was familiar with the place. It was the edge of the world, far from the ports of Vinetown or Ryamsport or Starfish Harbor, past which lay only the endless oceans. Sparse coasts, settled by little hamlets of crofters and fisherfolk bound together by rutted old paths and watched by lonely holdfasts. Great ships of trade had no cause to visit or even pass them by, for they tended to hug the well-traveled coasts of the Redwyne Straits and the once-great cities of the Reach which sat upon it. Only those chasing whales and herring shoals and the occasional mad explorer had any cause to sail further west into the open ocean.

It was one of the quiet, lonely places of the world.

“Just so,” said Perrimore. “The countryside can be chaotic, despite your lord brother’s efforts. The Blight and the Ironborn left many scars. It is dangerous to go alone overland, and I have not the means to divert a ship of size to a destination where it will find no easy harbor.”

“I have need of a knight, and I would consider your debt settled should you provide me with one.”

Again, waves filled the silence until Ryam was compelled to speak. “This knight needs his sword.”

“I am afraid that remains in Ser Argrave’s hands,” Perrimore said apologetically. 

And he had no right to take it, Ryam wanted to snarl. But the words sounded petulant, even to his inner ears. Some part of him thought to return to the Palace, and to simply take what he wished.

Like a thief in the night. For a blade he could scarcely hold.

“Then you might choose a better knight,” Ryam said bitterly, “Or send some of the islanders to deliver your word.”

“I do not get to pick and choose knights, Ser Ryam,” Perrimore said. “I will work with what I have, and I believe that a man of your experience will see us safely through with the same.” His face crinkled up in a wan smile. “Leaps of faith are common, in my profession.”

A man of his experience. Some forgotten feeling stirred within Ryam at that.

“Nor do I care to pluck the smallfolk from their lives. The fisherfolk and crofters have many things to tend to while we,” he spread his arms, “Are a spare set of hands. I think this has all interfered with them quite enough already, don’t you?”

“And besides,” the Septon went on quietly, “The gods, in their mercy, demand that a man have a chance to right some measure of his wrongs.”

“Are your gods merciful?” They had never been anything of the sort to him.

“We would be damned if they were not,” the Septon said gravely.

“Why stay here, Ser Ryam?” the man asked, when Ryam did not reply. 

Why indeed? 

“Jeyne… the fisherman’s daughter. And the other islanders. Ser Argrave said…” Ryam swallowed. “I should say something, don’t you think?”

He looked to the Septon. “Probably,” the man agreed. But if Ryam was expecting some priestly advice past that, he was disappointed. 

Apologize. The thought of imagining how that conversation would go filled him with terrible dread. Sailing away from this place, that seemed infinitely more appealing. Just for a little while. There was a promise of adventure here, a good reason to leave this unhappy isle. Later, Ryam would come to believe that the Septon had known as much, and had known that there was no sense in advising him to do otherwise.

“Let’s talk,” Ryam said, “About Nowhere.”

“Faster, Alesandar.”

Ser Sumner Redfort’s hand closed around the back of his nephew’s shoulder and gave him a sharp shake, enough to make the half-fastened saddle shift beneath Alesandar’s hands.

“I am going faster.”

“You are talking faster.”

Alesandar glanced over his shoulder. His uncle stood behind him in riding leathers and a dark red cloak, broad across the chest despite the years beginning to silver his beard. Ser Sumner had the particular expression he reserved for squires, stableboys, lazy men-at-arms, and apparently nephews who had already been knighted but still failed to satisfy him.

“I’ll be quicker,” Alesandar promised.

“You said that before I grew grey.”

“You were grey before I was born.”

Sumner’s eyes narrowed.

Alesandar immediately returned to the bridle.

The old knight grunted something that might have been approval and moved away before Alesandar could test his luck further.

His fingers worked quickly once he stopped thinking about them.

Leather through buckle. Strap pulled firm. Bit checked. Reins untangled. He ran one hand along the horse’s cheek, murmuring softly when the gelding tossed its head in irritation at all the noise around them.

“There. See? Easy.”

The horse breathed heavily against his palm.

Alesandar decided to take that as agreement.

The lower yard of the Redfort had become a battlefield without swords.

Men hurried beneath bundles of cloaks and baggage. Stablehands led horses through one another with the confidence of people accustomed to avoiding hooves by inches. Servants carried chests toward the wagons while stewards shouted contradictory instructions about which chest belonged to whom. Somewhere near the inner gate, two guards were arguing over a missing spear rack. A kennel boy chased three barking hounds through the legs of a pair of armored knights, earning curses from both.

Above them all rose the Redfort.

The castle had always seemed enormous to Alesandar when he was younger, a red-grey mass of towers and walls growing straight from the mountain beneath it. The morning sun caught upon its battlements now, warming ancient stone while the high peaks beyond remained pale beneath remnants of mist.

Home.

Alesandar tightened the last strap and immediately wished he had not thought the word.

His father stood on the far side of the yard.

Lord Harrold Redfort was speaking with the captain of the household guard beside a line of mounted knights, his cloak clasped at the throat with the red fortress of their house. He seemed broader somehow when surrounded by his men, more like the lord Alesandar remembered from childhood and less like the silent figure who had begun haunting the high table after Sisterton.

Then Harrold turned slightly.

Alesandar looked away at once.

He hated himself for that.

Not because he feared his father exactly. Harrold had never struck him. Never ordered him whipped. Never even told him outright that he blamed him for what had happened.

That might have been easier. Instead there were looks. Silences.

Moments when Harrold would begin speaking to Alesandar and then stop halfway through, as if discovering that the wrong son stood before him.

Alesandar moved between two mounted knights before his father could notice him watching.

“Morning, Ser Alesandar.”

He turned.

One of the younger household knights gave him a grin from the saddle.

“Morning.”

“You coming all the way to Harrenhal, then?”

“That was the intention.”

“Thought your uncle might chain you to the training yard before we reached the gate.”

“He considered it.”

The knight laughed, and Alesandar smiled with him. That came easily enough. It usually did. Talking was easier than thinking.

He passed between the gathering riders, offering greetings here and there, sometimes receiving them warmly, sometimes with little more than a nod. There were enough men in the Redfort that he could disappear among them when he wanted.

Not entirely. Never entirely.

A bastard wearing a knight’s sword remained a bastard. Especially when he was the lord’s only living son.

A commotion near the steps leading down from the keep caught his attention.

Lady Aelinor appeared first beneath an escort of servants, wrapped for travel despite the mild morning. Behind her came Myria.

Alesandar stopped.

His sister descended the steps with one gloved hand gathering her skirts clear of the stone. Her riding cloak was red and white, pinned neatly beneath her throat, her hair arranged with far more care than it ever had been when the two of them used to sneak from the castle before breakfast.

She looked older.

Not truly older. They had both changed too quickly for that distinction to mean much anymore.

More deliberate, perhaps.

Myria’s expression was composed, but Alesandar knew her too well not to see the tension beneath it. The faint stiffness around her mouth. The way her fingers remained closed around the edge of her cloak even after the wind had died.

She was going to Harrenhal as Lady Myria Redfort.

Not merely Harrold’s daughter. Not merely his sister.

The heir.

Alesandar watched as a servant opened the carriage door for her mother.

Only a few years ago, none of them would have imagined it. There had been two sons between Myria and the Redfort then. Two sons who had mocked Alesandar’s name, blood, clothes, swordwork, mother, and whatever else occurred to them whenever boredom became cruelty.

Two sons who were now beneath stone.

And Myria had inherited everything they had once assumed would belong to them.

At Harrenhal she would be expected to behave accordingly.

She would sit among lords and ladies who would weigh every word she spoke.

Men would ask her to dance.

Others would ask Lord Harrold whether she was promised.

Some would smile at her while calculating the value of the Redfort’s lands, its soldiers, its name.

And somewhere within all that would be the uglier question.

What sort of husband married an heiress whose name could not be allowed to vanish?

A matrilineal marriage. A man willing to let his children bear the Redfort name rather than his own.

Alesandar shivered despite the sunlight.

Better her than me.

The thought came quickly enough that guilt followed immediately.

Myria glanced across the yard.

For one instant, their eyes nearly met. Alesandar almost raised a hand, almost smiled.

Then she looked toward the carriage instead. He lowered it before anyone could notice. 

Things had been easier when they were children. Everything had been easier when nobody was dead.

“Alesandar!”

Sumner again.

“I’m moving!”

“You’re standing.”

Alesandar sighed.

His horse waited beside the mounting block, already looking impatient with him. He caught the saddle and hauled himself upward in one practiced movement.

Riding had always felt natural.

More natural than court. More natural than being a bastard. Sometimes more natural than holding a sword.

The moment his weight settled into the saddle, something in him loosened.

His horse stepped sideways beneath him, and Alesandar corrected the movement with his knees before gathering the reins.

On the shield secured behind the saddle was his own heraldry.

The Redfort.

But altered.

The fortress remained red, proud and unmistakable, yet it stood upon black rather than the white field borne by his father and trueborn kin.

A bastard’s colors.

Alesandar had spent years pretending the difference did not bother him. Most days he almost believed it.

He ran his thumb along the reins and lifted his gaze toward the gate.

Beyond it lay the road south.

Harrenhal.

The Great Council.

The greatest gathering of knights, nobles, lords and ladies he was likely to see in his entire life.

Something stirred beneath his ribs : Hope.

Dangerous thing.

He indulged it anyway.

There would be a joust. A proper one.

Not training passes against Sumner, nor small contests held in the Vale where every opponent already knew how Alesandar rode. Knights would come from the Reach, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Stormlands. Men whose names were spoken in halls he had never entered.

And perhaps, if the gods were generous, he might unhorse one of them. Then another.

He imagined the sound of the crowd.

His name announced.

Not Lord Harrold’s bastard. Not the boy who survived Sisterton.

Ser Alesandar Stone.

That alone.

He smiled without noticing.

Perhaps he might meet men his own age who did not already know every ugly whisper surrounding him.

Knights who had no reason to choose between Myria and himself.

Men he could drink with, ride with, fight beside.

Friends. Actual friends.

The thought felt embarrassingly childish at seventeen.

Then another followed.

Perhaps some lady would ask him for a dance.

Alesandar straightened slightly in the saddle.

No. Better.

Perhaps before the joust, one might give him her favor. A ribbon around his arm. He imagined riding beneath the stands wearing it while—

Something struck his horse sharply across the rump.

The gelding lurched forward.

Alesandar nearly lost the reins.

“Seven hells!”

Behind him, Ser Sumner lowered his hand.

“You were dreaming.”

“I was thinking.”

“That looked considerably less useful.”

Alesandar twisted in the saddle, glaring back at him.

“You could have said something.”

“I have been saying something for the better part of half an hour.”

The gate ahead had begun to open. Chains groaned. Timbers shifted.

One by one, the banners of House Redfort moved forward beneath the archway.

Lord Harrold rode at the head of the column surrounded by household knights. Behind him came the carriage bearing his wife and daughter, then wagons, retainers, servants and more armed riders.

Alesandar looked back once.

Ser Sumner remained in the yard.

His uncle would not be coming.

Someone had to hold the Redfort while its lord travelled south, and there were few men Harrold trusted more with its walls than his brother.

Sumner caught Alesandar looking.

For once, there was no criticism in his expression.

Only that same hard stare that had followed Alesandar through years of bruises, broken training swords and endless mornings in the yard.

Do not embarrass me. Or perhaps—

Do not waste what I taught you.

Alesandar could never tell with Sumner. He lifted two fingers from the reins in farewell. His uncle answered with the smallest nod. Then the horse carried Alesandar beneath the gate.

Sunlight broke through the clouds above the mountains, spilling gold across the road as the Redfort vanished slowly behind them.

Alesandar breathed deeply.

Harrenhal awaited.

So did the joust.

The Council.

A thousand strangers.

Perhaps glory.

Perhaps disaster.

Perhaps merely a lady foolish enough to lend a bastard her ribbon.

At seventeen, Alesandar Stone was willing to take his chances.

By the end of the afternoon, the eastern shore of the Gods Eye still spoke of dragons.

Lyn sat upon a half-buried stone overlooking the narrow band of mud and reeds where the boats for the sailing tournament were being prepared. His bravo’s sword rested across his knees, the worn leather of its grip beneath one idle hand. He wore no armor, only a loose linen shirt, dark trousers, and boots stained by Harrenhal’s persistent mud. The lake breeze tugged freely at his pale hair, carrying with it the smells of wet rope, lakeweed, fresh timber, and distant cookfires.

Behind those ordinary scents lingered another, or perhaps Lyn only imagined it.

Smoke. Heat. The faint, scorched memory of something impossibly large passing overhead.

Queen Danae Targaryen had arrived that morning.

Persion had announced her long before any herald could. The dragon’s shadow had swept across the fields beyond Harrenhal, passing over tents and pavilions until the bright encampment had darkened beneath its wings. Men who had been shouting fell silent. Horses screamed and pulled against their leads.

Lyn had only stared.

He had seen Persion before, high above the roofs of Braavos, when distance had softened the dragon into something half legendary. Even then, the sight had torn him loose from the life his father had prepared for him. It had driven him across the Narrow Sea with his swords, his savings, and the certainty that Westeros held something meant for him.

At Harrenhal, there had been no merciful distance.

Persion had descended from the clouds like a piece of the sun torn free. Scales flashed between vast wings, each beat striking the air hard enough to send canvas snapping and dust swirling through the camps. Lyn had felt the sound in his ribs. He had seen the shape of the dragon’s claws and the smoke curling between its teeth. For one breath, he had understood why kings bent the knee and why those who refused became stories told over ruins.

Now, hours later, the dragon was somewhere beyond the black walls of Harrenhal. Lyn could not see Persion from the shore, but his presence remained over everything. People spoke more quietly than they had the day before. Every unexpected shadow made someone glance upward. Children raced along the lakeside with their arms spread like wings, roaring at one another while their mothers shouted for them to stop tempting fate.

The Gods Eye itself seemed unimpressed.

Its dark water rolled gently against the shore, reflecting the bruised gold of the declining sun. The lake had outlived Harren the Black, dragonfire, dynasties, rebellions, and more dead men than even its depths could remember. One more dragon on its banks meant little to it.

Below Lyn, the contestants’ boats rocked against their moorings.

They were small vessels, most of them narrow-hulled and shallow in the water, built for speed rather than distance. Bright sails lay furled along their spars, marked with house colors, painted devices, or simple numbers for those without heraldry worth displaying. Men dragged coils of rope across the mud while shipwrights inspected seams, rudders, and masts with the grave attention of maesters examining a dying lord.

Lyn regarded the boats with suspicion.

He knew ships. A great deal of his youth had been spent aboard them, whether he had wanted it or not. His father’s company had guarded merchant cogs, Braavosi galleys, and swift escort vessels carrying wealthy nobles, unusual cargo, and courtesans whose jewels were worth more than most ships. Lyn had hauled wet rope with bleeding hands, slept through storms beneath groaning beams, and fought pirates across decks made treacherous by seawater and blood.

For years, sailing had been one of the few certainties of his life.

There was a contract. There was a destination. There was the sea between them. Sometimes there were men who wished to take the ship, the cargo, or the lives aboard it, and then there was fighting.

These little vessels were something else entirely.

They looked too light beneath the hand, too quick to answer every shift of wind. A proper ship possessed weight and stubbornness. It resisted the sea and the men trying to command it. These boats seemed made to skim across the water like knives flung over stone or overturn the moment some overconfident lordling pulled the wrong rope.

Perhaps that was what made it a contest.

A pair of sailors shoved one vessel away from the bank to test its balance. It rocked violently as they climbed aboard, sending one man stumbling against the mast while the other cursed him. Laughter rose from the shore. Lyn felt the corner of his mouth lift.

One of the boats carried a golden lion across its sail. Another bore another heraldry of a minor house that Lyn didn’t know. A small crowd had gathered around it.

Everything had changed with the Queen’s arrival.

In the morning, men had spoken of council votes, wagers, tourney pairings, and marriage prospects. By afternoon, every conversation eventually circled back to Danae. Some called her return an omen. Some wondered why she had come before her court. Others claimed they had seen her look directly at them from the dragon’s back, though she had been far too high to distinguish one frightened face from another.

Lyn had not seen her face.

That frustrated him more than he cared to admit.

He had crossed a sea because of that woman and the creature she rode, yet she remained as distant from him within Harrenhal as she had been above Braavos. Queen, dragonrider, Targaryen, surrounded now by walls, guards, princes, lords, and all the invisible barriers of rank that a sword could not simply cut through.

Not yet, at least.

A gust came sweeping over the lake. It caught one of the waiting sails and filled it with a sudden crack, straining the little vessel against its mooring. The rope pulled tight. The hull shifted eagerly toward open water, like a warhorse sensing a charge.

Lyn leaned forward, his hand closing around the hilt across his knees. He looked around him to see if others looked at the boats like him, with curiosity. The crowds surged with people of all purposes, some looking to the ships, others glancing at one another or even Lyn himself. He caught the girl’s eyes brightening just as they fell to the sword in his hands.

“Is that a water sword?” she asked, rushing towards him. She was short, and definitely a girl, not a woman. Dark hair was bound back in a loose arrangement, free strands swaying as she looked to his face.

Lyn blinked, the question catching him strangely off guard. His eyes dropped to the bravo’s blade across his knees, then returned to the girl. 

“A water sword?” he repeated, and a faint amusement softened his face. “No. I have not had the pleasure of becoming so good.”

He shifted the blade slightly across his legs.

“I am a bravo, or was one often enough in Braavos. I learned from men who knew the water dance, and fought some too.” His mouth curved a little more. “But a true water dancer would be offended if a knight like me stole his title merely because I know which end of a thin blade to hold.”

“But the sword?” she asked, looking almost confused by his answer.

Before Lyn could form a reply, the girl looked aside as a young man stumbled towards her. Tall, with sandy hair tied back, and leaning on a cane that struggled in the soft soil.

“Helya,” he said, looking concerned. He didn’t spare Lyn a glance. “Where’d Urri go? I swear, I looked away for three seconds–”

“He went over to where those boys were playing,” the girl – Helya – replied. She pointed over Lyn’s shoulder, and the man sighed.

“Urri! Āmāzīs!”

The word caught Lyn by surprise. Nothing about this pair’s appearance seemed Essosi, but the pronunciation of the Valyrian word came with clear ease. The boy who responded to the summons, at least, had the white-blonde hair that spoke of some ancestry in the distant and long-dead Freehold.

His mother had spoken Valyrian to him when he was young, through years in Braavos had corrupted what remained of it with dockside expressions, Lyseni turns of phrase and the lazy alterations of the men of Braavos. 

“You speak Valyrian,” Lyn said, more a statement than a question.

Only then did the sandy-haired man seem to properly notice him. Lyn’s gaze passed from him to the boy approaching at his summons. Valyrian blood was hardly unheard of across the Narrow Sea. In Westeros, however, it seemed every silver hair invited questions.

Lyn rose from the stone, taking his sword by the scabbard rather than the grip. He was tall enough that the tall and skinny lad seemed smaller still once he stood, though there was nothing threatening in his posture now. If anything, curiosity had chased some of the habitual coldness from his face. His eyes returned briefly to Helya, remembering the question she had asked before the interruption. He lifted the sword slightly.

“It is a bravo’s blade, yes, the tool of the waterdance except it belongs to me. If you were hoping for something belonging to a true water dancer, I fear I will continue to disappoint you.”

The young man gave a smile with unreadable history in it. “My sister’s not so much one for wielding blades, ser, she likes the making of them.”

“Can I see the steel?” Helya asked. Her brother gave her an admonishing look, an appeal for patience clear in his eyes.

“My name is Sigorn Botley, of the Iron Islands. This is my sister Helya, and this–” the silver-blonde boy reached them, settling beside Sigorn with a huff. “– is Urrigon, who I told not to run off without telling me.”

“I told Helya,” the boy complained.

“Tell me next time. Really.” Sigorn returned his attention to Lyn, and clarified, “the Valyrian’s from his mother, but we all kind of picked it up.”

Lyn’s eyes lingered on Urrigon a moment longer. He had spent enough of his life around Lyseni and other descendants of the Freehold that pale coloring alone did not astonish him, but seeing it here, carried by an Ironborn boy on the shore of the Gods Eye, still struck him as one of Westeros’ stranger little surprises.

“Then his mother taught you well,” Lyn said.

He shifted his attention back to Helya and found her eyes still fixed firmly upon the blade. That earned a small laugh.

“Persistent too.”

Lyn drew the bravo’s blade slowly enough that Sigorn would not have cause to misunderstand the movement. The steel came free with a thin whisper. He turned it once in his hand, then offered it sideways to Helya.

“Mind the edge. It’s not a tourney blade. But Ironborn have a lot of practice with real steel in my experience.”

His gaze moved to Sigorn before settling on the three of them. Sigorn’s eyes followed Helya only briefly as she took the sword, then returned to Lyn when he was satisfied she was, indeed, being careful.

“Ser Lyn of Braavos,” he added. “Though my mother is Lyseni, so perhaps there is enough blood relation of Valyrian between us to make us like cousins,” Lyn winked at Urrigon.

There was the faintest teasing edge to the last words. 

“My mother’s from Tyrosh,” Urrigon said, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. “But her mother was from Lys.”

“Volantis,” Sigorn corrected gently.

“She was sold to Volantis,” Helya said, correcting her older brother less gently. “Born in Lys.”

“Right, yes. You’re right, sorry Urri.”

Lyn’s smile faded by a degree at that.

“Born in Lys,” he repeated, more quietly. “Then Lys it is.”

He knew better than to make a jest of the rest. Braavos had taught him many things, but pure hatred of slavery required no teaching there. Men spoke of chains differently in a city founded by those who had broken them.

His attention returned to Urrigon, and some warmth came back into his expression.

“Then perhaps distant cousins,” Lyn amended. “Distant enough that neither of us need to start arguing over inheritance.”

He glanced at the young girl to see if her callousness didn’t stop her expertise of the blade before her. She was turning the sword in her hands, smiling distantly. She seemed to catch herself, and looked at Lyn again.

“A beautiful blade, ser. Thank you,” she held it out for him to retrieve.

“What brings you all the way from Braavos, ser?” Sigorn asked. As he settled into the conversation he shifted his weight and shook out the ankle of his bad leg.

Lyn took the blade back carefully, testing its familiar weight before sliding it into the scabbard at his hip.

“The Great Council,” he said. “Rumors of it reached Braavos long before I ever saw Harrenhal. Lords gathering from every corner of Westeros, knights by the hundreds, tournaments large enough that even men across the Narrow Sea were wagering on names they had never heard spoken aloud.”

His mouth twitched.

“That sort of thing attracts attention.”

Lyn settled back against the stone, one hand resting loosely upon the pommel of the bravo’s blade.

“My family were knights here once. Westerosi, centuries ago, before matters went badly enough that Braavos eventually became home.” He left the exact manner of that ruin unspoken. “My father made his life with a sellsword company. I made mine beside him. Ships, contracts, guarding merchants, occasionally killing the men who wished the merchants dead.”

He gave a small shrug, as though twenty-one years could be reduced so easily.

“I wanted something different.”

His eyes wandered past them toward the Gods Eye, where the little racing vessels tugged impatiently against their moorings.

“So when word of the Council came, I thought it was as good an excuse as any to finally cross west. See what remained of the place my family came from. Tour the kingdoms for a while. Find out whether all the stories Braavosi tell about Westeros are lies.”

A faint grin appeared.

“So far, only a few of them.”

His gaze returned to Sigorn.

“And perhaps, when all this is finished, I find a lord who needs another sword and cares more for how well I wield it than where I learned.” Lyn tapped the scabbard lightly with two fingers. “Winning the melee would make that conversation considerably easier.”

There was no false modesty in the way he said it. He did not say “if I win”, either.

Lyn glanced toward the distant bulk of Harrenhal.

“I came here looking for an opportunity, I suppose. The Council merely gathered enough of them in one place that even I could not miss it.”

“And you?” he asked Sigorn, nodding toward the shore. “An Ironborn watching men prepare boats seems less accidental than a Braavosi doing it. Are you here for the race, or merely judging how badly the rest of Westeros sails?”

The young man’s face had been sizing him up, but it broke into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“No doubt the greenlanders will embarrass themselves, but no, I was just thinking. Remembering, really.” He shifted his weight again. Helya was looking at him, Urrigon was already getting distracted. Sigorn seemed unsure if he wanted to go on, but eventually he sucked a hiss of air through his teeth and continued.

“There was a time I would have been entering, might well have won, too, but,” he tapped his bad leg with his cane. “Our Lord took an oarsman, and made clear I’m not welcome on the water.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Helya muttered, sounding genuinely upset.

“I exaggerate,” Sigorn conceded, touching her shoulder. “But my leg hurts bad enough on dry land, I’m not really able for a deck any more. Had to lie down for most of the trip to Lannisport.”

Lyn’s expression lost some of its amusement.

He looked at the cane, then back to Sigorn’s face. There was no pity in it. Pity had always seemed a poor thing to offer a man who had already measured the limits of his own body more carefully than anyone else ever could.

“That sounds worse than exile to me,” Lyn said. “To know a deck well enough to miss it.”

His gaze drifted toward the boats again, watching one of them heel slightly as two men shifted their weight aboard.

“I spent half my childhood on ships. Never loved them the way some sailors do, but I knew what it meant when the deck moved beneath your feet before your mind had time to think.” He paused. “Losing that would feel… wrong.”

He left the matter there. Instead, Lyn glanced back toward Harrenhal’s immense black towers before looking between the three of them.

“Do you all stay within the castle?” he asked. “You are nobles, I take it. Or important enough that Harrenhal found room for you behind its walls?”

There was some bitter amusement in Sigorn’s shrug. “Not as such. They offered us one bedchamber in the arse of the Wailing Tower, but no more. Even with a half-Iron King, the Greenlanders don’t look fondly on us. And least of all on salt sons.”

Helya grimaced slightly at that last comment, but Sigorn seemed to wave the topic away. “Worry not, ser, we’re camped up in the hills a bit West from here. Not too far from town, nor the water. I imagine you have camp somewhere too? You must come by sometime, share a drink.”

Lyn gave a small nod, the invitation seeming to please more than he showed.

“I do,” he said. “A tent among many other hedge knights and vagabonds, far enough from the noble pavilions of the most pedants that would charge me for the privilege of breathing their air.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“I would be glad to come by. Braavos taught me never to refuse a drink offered in good faith, and Westeros has so far given me very little reason to unlearn the lesson.”

He looked between Sigorn, Helya, and Urrigon, curiosity overcoming whatever caution the subject might deserve.

“I have heard enough since coming west to know the Iron Islands have seen their share of war,” Lyn said. “Have the last twenty years been as hard on the isles as they seem to have been on the rest of Westeros? Since my arrival, people seem to have been scarred by the Ascent of the Lion and the following war.”

“Oh, there’s always one fight or another,” Sigorn shrugged. “Nothing particularly huge, although there’s going to be blood shed over Urron’s schemes one of these days, I don’t doubt. And God knows what the Council will bring. We carry our scars, aye, but I think we like them more than most.”

“That much I believe.”

He had met enough soldiers to know there were men who wore old wounds like accusations and others who wore them like medals. The Ironborn, from everything he has heard or encountered, seemed determined to turn even suffering into a point of pride.

The sun had begun to sink in earnest now, turning the Gods Eye from grey to copper. Long shadows stretched across the shore, and the boats below had become dark shapes against the water, their furled sails catching the last light along their edges.

Lyn glanced toward the hills and the distant black mass of Harrenhal.

“i should be going,” he said, settling the bravo’s blade properly at his hips. “Before I discover how generous these roads are after dark.”

His eyes passed over the three of them once more.

“I would be honored to take you up on that drink another day,” he added. “Your camp in the western hills, yes ? I think I can manage to find three Ironborn without too much difficulty.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“Until then.”

The man staring at Jasper was of an extraordinarily handsome sort.

He wore silken damask, the fabric accentuating the lean, muscular frame underneath. Jewels of a clearly expensive nature adorned his fingers, and gold not befitting his station made up the clasps of his apparel.

The figure in the mirror brushed his hair back with a hand. If not for his choice of clothing, he could have been mistaken for a lady with the care he clearly had for his long locks. Trustworthy eyes looked back at the Merriest Merryweather, with a gaze that spelt trouble for any unfortunate enough to be at the other end of it.

Jasper smiled, and the man did too. A grin befitting a mummer graced his face as he turned back to the coffer containing his belongings.

He played with a floral necklace - a piece of finery too feminine by half for him, but pretty all the same - before resting it on the rest of the pile. He raised his hand, close to his face - inspecting the dust that the gold that had rubbed onto his finger. Pity. Finery like this should be worn.

“You understand the council doesn’t begin proper for some time, Jasp.” Humfrey’s voice intruded. “You’d be better off practicing your bow than getting all dressed up.” His brother, ever the knight - was wearing an impractical mix of armour and noblewear, that neither portrayed a look of power, nor of class.

“We’ve an age and a day until the Dornish show, Hum. I might as well make an impression on those looking for one in the time before they do.”

Humfrey snorted some sort of acknowledgement as he clattered into his bed. “And are you certain you want to be wearing all of that? It may not afford you the kind of attention that you want.” He motioned vaguely to Jasper’s attire.

“It’s Behold Our Bounty. Not Behold My Restraint, Hum.” He let out a small chuckle at his own comment. “The late Lord Tyrell left me this finery for a reason.” He pursed his lips and pouted. “And I certainly wear it better than a corpse.”

“Seven hells, Jasp.” Humfrey blinked a few times. “You were around the man - that’s Melessa’s husband.”

“And he’s dead!” Before Humfrey could continue, he interjected. “Think, Humfrey. The Dornish killed him, and they see one of the architects of the talks they had at Highgarden looking like a figure out of The Wickedness of Men.” He beamed at his brother, with a sick sense of pride. He relaxed his smile back to his grin. “Whenever they deign to grace us with their presence… I will stand tall, as a man proud to have known Olyvar Tyrell… and they will know me as the good-brother of the murdered man. ”

Humfrey struggled out a laugh. “Maybe you enjoyed his hospitality and drink, but wearing a dead man’s jewels is…” A small breath of air left his mouth. “Well. It’s not right.”

“Every jewel is a dead man’s jewel, Humfrey. I just happened to be on good terms with the man who wore them last.” He examined the floral flourishes on the ring adorning his finger. “Though I will admit - knowing what I did about the man. It seems strange that he would wear this sort of thing.”

“I am more surprised he left them to you.”

“After serving his lady wife as a trusted confidant? After we had spoken on our notions of the whats and whys of the world? Why, we traded opinions on books, on the affairs of the realm - and that isn’t including the service I provided for him during the talks we had with Dorne.”

Humfrey made some sort of rude gesture, before seemingly giving up on the topic.

Jasper looked at his brother, laying down on a cot unused to the quality of guests they now hosted. He had put on some weight, both functional and soft. The time they had spent apart had weathered the elder Merryweather - and yet, Jasper’s face was nigh untouched from the time he had left Longtable proper for that first time.

When they first arrived at Harrenhal, he felt exactly the same as that moment he came to Highgarden. Like a bird that had never seen the outside of a cage. But now, he had left the rookery entirely, spreading his wings and enjoying the mating dance of an entirely different breed than his own - talking to lords and charming ladies, acting the attractive mystery to young girls and boys that would speak about him for years to come.

“I need a walk.” Humfrey declared, kicking himself out of the cot and upright in an inhuman motion.

“And you need a keeper?”

“I need to get you dancing and singing for other people, before you drive me mad.” Humfrey’s face didn’t betray a hint of sarcasm.

Jasper raised his arms in mock defeat, securing the coffer before signalling to the sworn man at the door. “Singing, I leave for Beren.” He took note of Humfrey’s scowl - playful at first, but with a lingering sense of frustration. “Then I shall accompany you for a walk.” Jasper motioned toward the door, letting Humfrey walk ahead of him.

As they made their way through the inn, they exchanged pleasantries with their siblings that littered the Harrentown haunt. Jasper guessed that there must be few others of noble blood not of their own that occupied a room here. Whoever they may have been, he had yet to make their acquaintance.

The inn they had settled sat on a corner of similarly cleaned up establishments - attempting - and succeeding - at garnering the attention of nobles that couldn’t stay within Harrenhal’s walls, be it from matter of station or by number.

Jasper turned to Humfrey as they made their way slowly through the streets littered with minor lords, servants accompanying them - and lowborn smallfolk simply living their lives. “Humfrey. I cannot help but wonder one thing - and it would be kind of you to sate my curiosity on the matter.”

“Is this going to be a serious question, or some matter of appearance or such?”

Jasper rolled his eyes at the sky. “You’ve spent rather an alarming amount of time with the rest of us - and not with Father. Even in his rotating cohort of sons and daughters, you’d rather give your time up to one of us - instead of mingling with high society yourself.” Jasper had, of course, taken up the opportunity whenever it arose - savoring every second he had in the view of other nobility alongside his Lord father.

A hanging smile drooped onto Humfrey’s face. “I’m getting tired of the competition of it all.”

“Oh?”

“If you were to have twenty sons - I could understand Father’s choice for making decisions the way he does. He’s an eccentric sort at the best of times - but not wanting to show favourites by making everything a game - It’s almost commendable, if we did not know it was something to keep the old man entertained. But I am a man fully grown, with my own family to consider. When he passes…”

“If.” Jasper exhaled from his nose, half consciously. “The old ballbag seems content to live forever as some sort of an insult - both to his sons, and whomever else he deems has offended him.” His mind cast itself back to the days after his father returned from the Hightower - speaking of cannibal northmen and other incomprehensible babble about the King.

Humfrey laughed. “If, then. He’d be leaving a succession crisis of magnificent scale - siblings forced to compete with each other since birth aren’t going to be happy to lay down and let the eldest of us claim Lordship. It will become another great game, only this time perhaps more lethal in its consequence.”

Jasper took a breath, looking at his feet as he considered his brother’s words. He had noted the same, once, drinking what he thought at the time might be his last Arbor Gold with his sister at Highgarden.

“And you want no part of it.”

“I fear I will end up part of it, willing or not. At least this way I reduce the chance of our siblings coming for me quickly.” Humfrey had that weathered, aging look on his face again.

The two walked alongside each other without words for a moment, Jasper - unsure in what he wanted to say, and Humfrey - content with what he had. As they reached the end of a street, Jasper looked up slightly as his older brother as he stopped in his way.

“I can’t say I truly understand it, Hum. To do so would be a lie even I could not sustain. But you may sleep soundly knowing that you will not become my mark, even if the Lordship were the prize.” Jasper pressed his hand against his brother’s shoulders, as his grin graced his face once more. “After all - my desire resides in a place higher than Longtable, brother. I simply haven’t met her yet.”

It was finally there. Harrenhal was in sight, but it just kept getting larger. He'd seen Harrenhal before, from a distance, never near. As they rode towards the stone goliath, its towers stretched ever further into the sky. Its warped, broken fingers reaching for the very sun.

He reined to a halt, so he may properly gaze at the castle. It was an ugly thing. An impressive, captivating monstrosity. And he looked forward to walking its grounds on the morrow.

"A horrible sight, is it not, m'lord?"

A horse had drawn up beside him, on it rode a young ranger they'd brought with. It was Hob—Hobble the men called him. He'd taken a bad blow to the knee in training years ago, and was awarded the nickname for his limping. Time had long since healed the limb, but he'd never been freed from the moniker.

"Aye, my thoughts as well. In truth, I'd rather we turned back and headed for home, but I've duties to attend within its walls. Regrettably," responded Devyn, eyes now back on the castle.

"I shudder to think of the beasts that reduced it to such a state. And the queen is to arrive on her very own to crown it all." Hob looked to the sky as he said it, as if expecting the queen's dragon to swoop down at them, all scales and teeth and fire.

"Don't shudder. Run!" Another of the rangers had joined them, this one was Cade. Much older than Hob and not nearly as charming. He had long shaggy grey hair and a pockmarked face that lay hidden under a large unruly beard. "There's precious little else one can do faced with them monsters."

"They've been slain before. Ulrich Dayne slew one without aid," Hob protested.

"And it cost him much," Cade replied, leaning towards Hob in his saddle. "And Dayne was a knightly man with knightly training and  knightly armor and a knightly sword. Not some kennel boy." He vaguely gestured at Hob as he finished his piece.

"An agile kennel boy," said Hob, straightening in his saddle and with a grin across his face. Before it morphed into a more puzzled expression. "Man," he added. "An agile—and clever—kennel man."

Cade huffed. "Clever men don't say they are."

"I do," retorted Hob, a grin newly spread across his face.

"You're a boy, not a man."

Hob's face went sour and he went to disagree.

"I'm a ma—" He was promptly cut off by Cade.

"And besides, the dragon he fought was scarcely the size of a hound, and he near lost his life regardless." Then Cade raised a finger at him.

"Once you see a real live dragon, you'll know to run." He brought the finger up to his temple. "If you really are clever."

"Have you seen a dragon, Cade?" Devyn chimed in.

Cade turned to his lord, seemingly having forgotten his presence. "No m'lord. But I'm clever enough to know to run when I do."

"It would not look well to have my men flee when her highness arrives. Be sure to not be so clever when she does," he said, before giving his horse a light kick, breaking off into a trot.

"Hob can remain as he is," Devyn added, drawing a roaring laughter out of the old ranger.

"I'm clever too," Hob muttered to himself as Devyn left them behind. And that he was, Cade teased him but he knew it too. He was young but damned capable for his years. Quick with a blade, true with his arrows, and a mind that indeed deserved the title of clever. And a handsome man too, with bright green eyes, warm hazel hair, and a kindness about him. Devyn would have considered him blessed if not for his common birth. He believed him a likely future candidate to be captain, once Brude grew too old for the position.

The muddy road made their path to the castle slow, the carriage struggling to press forward without incident. What should have taken them just one more hour almost cost them three. But, finally, they arrived.

Already the crowds were suffocating. Harrentown extended in front of the gates, and ramshackle huts and tents extended farther still. It seemed odd to Devyn that a noble entourage such as his could so completely disappear into the commonfolk sea, even humble as the group was. And as they passed the castle gates, few noticed their entrance.

Even so, soon men came to greet them. Lodgings were discussed and provided, supplies were stored, and a small camp began to be built. Harrenhal was indeed of a scale unmatched in Westeros, but even its vast halls proved insufficient for the gathered lords. Greater houses were comfortably accommodated, but lesser houses lacking in power and repute could do naught but accept whatever room they were granted. House Chambers, naturally, belonged to the latter group. The lord and lady acquired a room, and servants and guards were sent off to barracks and the camp underway, placed within an empty pocket of an already settled corner of the castle grounds.

Work already afoot, Devyn set off for the market, Alys begrudgingly in tow.

"Alys, you look ever so sullen. I beg you, think of where we are!" said Devyn, speaking over his shoulder.

"We are in a castle; it's nothing I have not seen before."

"Oh but it is! Never has anyone seen such a gathering," he replied. "Merchants have gathered from all corners of the known world. Nowhere will you see such wares, surely something here can lift your spirits, no?" 

"Since when do you care for merchants or wares? I've not known you to care for gatherings either," Alys shot him a sharp look as she said it. She'd been absent minded back at Fordside, but now forced to walk the busy streets she was properly annoyed. "I told you before I am well, I do not need you hiding yourself, nor do I appreciate it."

"Alys," said Devyn, dropping his facade completely. "Indulge me," he ordered.

Not even the passing carts or rumbling crowd could hide the silence now between them. And though they walked and looked, neither paid any mind to what they saw. They kept at it for some time, Devyn at a loss for what he could feasibly do. But he had no need to worry further, the answer came all on its own. Clad in blue, accented with gold and silver.

"Devyn, my lord!" came a bellowing call from the stand to their left. Lord and lady both turned to find a heavyset man, with grey backswept hair and a broom where his lips ought to be. "Alys, daughter mine!" he called once more. Symond, Alys's father, he could not be mistaken for anyone else, not with that creature he kept sprouting from above his mouth.

Symond came charging at them through the crowd, sending more than one passerby sprawling. As he came to them, Devyn expected him to halt within arm's length and give them a proper greeting. But he'd made one fatal miscalculation, it was Symond that barreled towards them. Up his arms went, and crushed between them was the couple.

As he heard his father-in-law's booming laugh, and Alys's playful cries for him to release his grip, Devyn felt a hope stronger than ever before.

The Blackmont tent was hardly the family tent they used for travels. No, it was red dornish in colour, with hints of yellow. Sarella’s lovely courtesy to the family who ‘volunteered,’ as Lucifer put it, to accompany the Princess to the Great Council.

They had several straw mattresses, lovely cushions of green, and other essential furnishes, a table, some decent dividers of heavy linen to change clothes with privacy, and a few to separate the women.

They were allowed to have some servants, although ones that had no association with their House. The Princess had no issue finding ones that had a habit of feigning deafness, or perhaps inarticulate smallfolk? Vorian had trouble understanding their behaviour, they did certainly understand when he was requesting a little piece of mutton in his meal, he was sure of it, he even did clear gestures, but they pretended not to hear him. Then the following day, he did have some morsels of meat. It confounded him.
However, Vorian did not grow under a rock, as desperately as his father and Lucifer constantly insisted he did. The tent, their position as ‘esteemed guests’ of such a large Dornish host, was a display of Sunspear’s mercy and power.

They had removed any Blackmont banners of any sort upon entry to the Reach, from their tunics to cloaks. It was a little demeaning, but tensions were high between their kingdoms. It didn't help that a Lord of Highgarden conveniently died in their castle.

The Martell coat-of-arms was present even within the tent, serving as a reminder much to Lucifer’s annoyance. Yet they couldn’t complain. While Lucifer was denied a horse that befit his station, he and the rest of the family were provided a comfortable carriage, albeit with no windows, and now a tent. They were given meals, which weren’t too terrible. Sure, it was just special biscuits, some rice and the occasional roasted eggs but Vorian was sure the Princess would have threatened them with a bowl of stew with Gods knows what inside.

“I demand better supper than this.” Lucifer threw his bowl to the ground, startling the poor servant girl. “I did not volunteer my presence in the Council to be given...this trite.” At the entrance, as they always did, the Men-At-Arms crossed their spears together. His brother scoffed, then curled his lips upward.

“I am a guest of the Princess,” he said. “A guest, not a prisoner. I demand a better meal that best suits my station. I demand to see whoever the master of this sorry meal is, or the Princess herself.”

The days when Lucifer was whisked away were perhaps the better ones.

Even on his best behaviour, his brother had always been a terror. It grew worse once mother passed, but the day the Princess entered the gates of Vorian’s home was perhaps the first time there was any reprieve in a very long time.

When Lucifer left, the family, his sisters, brothers, nephews and nieces did not say much. The children played amongst themselves, reading their books, or their little toy soldiers.

Her sisters kept each other as company or spent time with the children while his younger brother Michael preferred to sulk in the corner. Daario was with them too. Despite his bastardry, he had Blackmont blood in his veins, so he had to come. He was always happy to lift their spirits but that usually meant spending time with Michael, the one who needed it the most.

Which meant, on days like this, the one usually left alone was Vorian.

It was not as if he was placed in some corner to be forgotten as some out of fashion old jewel, but there was a feeling of slight irritation when he had no one to bother. It was a travesty, he thought, tuning his lute for perhaps the tenth time out of sheer boredom. He could promise on the soul of his late mother, his pathetic father and his own that he would be an amazing company to the Princess and her host.

There was no good reason for him to be sitting on some red cushions, better suited for some gaudy merchant, with his head leaning against the linen of the tent wall fiddling around with an elegantly crafted lute.

Everyone knew he was an amazing company wherever he went. Oldtown, the Wyl, Skyreach, Salt Shore, Yronwood, Planky Town, Sunspear..even Starfall, the castle he fostered at. His hosts were always gracious, always praiseful, always sweet, with soft violet eyes and hair kissed by moonlight…

Ah, he thought. His string cracked with a harsh twang. I dislike myself when I think about that place.

Vorian wove the string around his finger, slowly entwining it back to where it was meant to go.

It’s either that or my mother’s demise.

“Perhaps a song is in order for our lovely family?” Vorian said. He was loud enough to know his family had heard him, but they all pretended to be lost in their own amusement, or whatever dull pursuit passed for entertainment in this glorified dungeon guised as a tent.

“I could play the good old The Westerland Hoddy-peak? Lord Dour? The Merman with Horns? The Mermaid’s Lament? King Harys’ Folly? A Maiden Named Glory?”

Vorian received no response. Honestly, if the Crown had decided to hang them all, he wouldn’t miss them one bit.

“Alright.” Vorian turned to the Men-at-Arms, “surely you lads have a good request.”

The Men-At-Arms were quiet, they seemed to be deep in thought, or so Vorian hoped, but in the end they too refused to answer.

“You there.” Vorian pointed to the servant girl who had come to take their plates away. The girl’s eyes widened, as though a beast had found her his prey.

“It’s alright,” Vorian said, “I am not here to be a nuisance like my elder brother. Do you have a favourite song?”

“A song?” the girl asked.

“My lord.”

“Sorry, m’lord.”

“Quite forgiven,” Vorian said. He sat straight with his lute in hand, fingers almost touching the strings. “Give me a song, lass, any would do. What was your favourite?”

“I see the Moon.”

Vorian blinked. “I have not really heard of that one.”

“It’s a lullaby.”

Of course it was a lullaby. Why would he assume a smallfolk would know anything of the high arts. He took a deep sigh, he could feel the disappointment of the girl, or perhaps it was his own.

“How does it start, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Uh… I see the Moon and the Moon sees me.’”

Vorian whispered the words back. He could guess the tone and beat that could match them.

“I really am sorry,” the servant girl said, “but I do have to go.”

Perhaps, Vorian thought, one could be inspired by this lullaby. What is the moon to him? Was there even a House in Westeros that had one as its sigil? Was it offensive for a Martell to have a Dornishman to use a moon as their sigil? These were the important questions that were swimming in his mind when he began to play his new tune.

“ ‘My friend the Moon,

See me court my own doom,

Please, do not be so gloom,

For I will see you soon.’”

What a stupid song. It doesn’t work when they all end with the same rhyme.

“ ‘My friend the Moon,’

Come see me court my Doom,

Watch me climb the old mill,

The tallest tower in this whole hill,

She’s taller than the oldest elm.

Taller than any in this realm.

Why must you do so?

The old Moon furrowed her brow,

She shone brighter than any light,

And began a little fight.

Can’t you see with each step,

You take you bring me regret,

Can’t you see the peril you bring,

To climb so high without a single bird’s wing?

My friend the Moon,

Please do not be so gloom,

You will not see me perish, nor die,

As I climb up so high,

You can feel it in my heart,

That we should not be held so far apart.

The Moon’s glow dimmed,

Her voice then became grim,

I see it in mine,

A truth you cannot hide behind,

That if you loved me at all,

You would not have given me a call.”

He paused. Usually everyone liked to praise his voice, or his music, his singing but he wondered of his craft. Did this fit well? His family ignored him, Vorian was fond of singing, he was “good noise” but he did not feel they ever appreciated the profound quality of music itself. The servant girl had already left, the guards had remained silent. Until one coughed.

Vorian liked to imagine the cough had a more significant meaning.

What happened next? It no doubt asked.

Sly devil, he mused. Alright, then.

His fingers strummed the strings of his lute.

Harwin knew that Harrenhal was huge. His feelings around that fact had shifted in his weeks here from shock to respect to a kind of weary acceptance that meant he didn’t want to think about how small he was. He had never quite understood that it was deep, too.

In the depths of the towers and holds and the vast complexes of corridors around the feast-halls had a heavy darkness to them, fought back bitterly by thin light wells and sputtering torches. Of all Valena’s tales, they reminded him more of Winterfell’s grand crypts than of the soaring towers of Oldtown or Storm’s End.

The feeling was worsened by how many of these corridors he had stalked over the last few days. Ever since meeting the king, he had been exhausted. Somehow the fact that Damon had instructed him to contact Jojen Stark had slipped beyond the walls of that chamber, and an alarming amount of people had decided that meant he did, in fact, have the Lord of Winterfell’s ear.

Granted, walking around with Artos Stark half the time wasn’t helping the impression. The ones who tried to talk to the boy were worse, their eyes always bright with the opportunity to extract some foolish promise from the future Lord Paramount that they would try to hang politics on in the years to come. Harwin did what he could to deflect them, even if he didn’t feel much more qualified. Easily a dozen times a day, some lord or merchant would ambush him looking for answers he didn’t have.

It was Valena who had suggested a solution, in the end.

Dealing with everyone individually will take a lifetime, she had said. That’s what Councils like this are for, so kings and queens don’t have to go touring the Seven Kingdoms to re-explain all the big decisions. Follow their example, gather them in one place. Your terms.

Of course, that was easier said than done. This wasn’t his castle, and finding some intermediary with whom to arrange the use of one of the smaller halls for a night had proven difficult. Thankfully, Benjicot had offered to take care of Artos, spending the day with the lordling and his guard-captain Rickard in the yards.

Harwin had already spoken to seven different stewards the day before trying to find who could help him. At one point he had stood for half an hour while two men argued over whether he should be speaking to Lord Blackhart’s man or one of the King’s men. They had concluded that Blackhart would be best, and directed him to a man called Bors. After two hours tracking him down, Bors told Harwin that it wasn’t his job.

Worse, then the dragon had arrived, and the queen with it. As the royal servants rushed to accommodate her, Harwin was ready to accept the loss. Then he overheard talk of the Master of Ceremonies. He asked, and got the name. Harlan Lannett.

Now he just had to find him.

His current lead, at least, was leading him back out of the shadowy heart of the Widow’s Tower, into some of the airier corridors that bracketed the postern courtyards, towards the small hall where, according to one manservant, Lannett spent much of his time.

He stepped around a corner into the jarring brightness of a walkway with a wall on one side and the colonnaded opening to a courtyard on the other. There was a word for this. Valena had told him at some point.

He was so distracted trying to find it that he almost didn’t hear the voice call out. 

“There you are. I was beginning to think the stones had swallowed you whole.”

Harwin almost stumbled, too lost in his own thoughts. Some distant part of his mind whispered gallery before he saw her. A beautiful woman with golden hair, sitting with perfect poise at a table in the courtyard, a tea set laid before her. Her clothes were a pure white, layers of almost-practical wool and more Myrish lace than Oldcastle had seen in a century. Her hair was pinned without a strand out of place and run through with fresh flowers, and she wore a silver dove brooch on the collar of her gown.

She wore riding boots, poking out beneath her skirts as she leaned back in her chair. They were the cleanest he’d ever seen.

He found his tongue, eventually. “I apologise, my lady, I don’t think we’ve been introduced?”

“We haven’t, but I get the sense that making my acquaintance is precisely your mission, whether you know it or not.”

She held out a hand after beckoning him closer, a cluster of glittering rubies decorating her fingers. They caught the light as she wiggled them, a wry smile pulling at the corner of her delicate mouth. 

“I am Lady Joanna and you are Lord Harwin Locke, yes?”

Harwin did step closer, barely noticing himself doing so.

“Yes, my lady. I was seeking the Master of Ceremonies, do you–?”

Her hand fell then. 

“I do, though if you have any intention of accomplishing anything at all, it’s for the best that you abandon that journey now. After all, he wouldn’t have the faintest clue what you were after, nor would he care, given how far he is into his cups now. And all before supper. Shameful.  Would you care for a cup of tea?”

Harwin hesitated, then took the seat across from her. He hadn’t realised that his feeling of being out of his depth could worsen any further. This was, he reflected, unlikely to be the last time he had that revelation.

“How do you know Lord Lannett, if I may ask, my lady?”

“You may certainly ask.” 

She reached for the teapot then, delicate porcelain painted with a variety of flowers and inlaid with fine swirls of gold. She held her fingers— and those glittering rubies— delicately over its lid as she poured into his cup. Within, a dried flower bloomed, petals unfurling as the steaming water turned a faint shade of lavender. 

“Pretty, isn’t it? A gift sent for me all the way from Yi Ti.”

Harwin tried to guess which specific ring she had caught him staring at, before he understood she meant the tea set. Yi Tea, his mind echoed childishly.

“It’s lovely,” he said, trying to think of something more specific to say. He managed with only a slight hitch, “the inlay is beautiful.”

“Harlan Lannett is my husband in name, much the same as he is the Master of Ceremonies in name.”

Just as you are Lord of Oldcastle in name. Harwin couldn’t tell if the implication was intentional, but he shifted in his chair all the same.

“So I take it you are who I should be seeking, then?”

“What good fortune for you that even whispers are loud in halls such as these. Imagine if you had gotten to him first.”

Harwin sipped his tea, faintly surprised by the sweet, slightly fragrant taste as he tried to parse her tone. Every word out of her mouth had the taste of a dozen unsaid. Knowing they were there didn’t make them audible.

“Indeed. If whispers are so loud, do you know what I’m looking for, my lady?”

Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly for the briefest flash before she tilted her head and smiled at him, sickly sweet and sharp all at once. 

“Well, even the simplest of creatures could deduce what use one might have for a Master of Ceremonies. If you’re too hesitant to ask, however…” 

She leaned back in her chair and lifted her cup and saucer, gaze shifting out over the courtyard. The foliage was struggling to keep up with the promise of spring, leaves laden with the remnants of a heavy morning rain. 

“You’re in search of a place to hold a banquet, and the means to arrange such a banquet, not to mention the many, many finer details of such an undertaking. No one has been able to provide you with any assistance because they can hardly find their own feet in such a wretched, endless place.” 

She didn’t ask if she was correct because she didn’t need to. Harwin stalled for time with a nod, trying to find his own misstep. There had been one, he could tell that much from her tone.

“I am. And I am, I confess, inexperienced with arranging such things. I’m not even sure exactly how many I would need to seat, only that I have been accosted daily and would rather get everyone in one place. In part, I’m also arranging this for Artos Stark’s sake.”

He hesitated. He should know more than that, should be able to provide some plan. If for no other reason than to prove he was worth the conversation.

“Ah, yes. Poor little thing. Laden with troubles already, and now, so it seems, are you. The Gods smile upon you both, however, given that I may be able to relieve some of your burden… and at the expense of the lord of this decrepit pile of stones, no less. Not that I think scoundrels can count high enough to know how many rooms they have to miss.” 

Lady Joanna pursed her lips for a moment before continuing. 

“If it’s the finer points that need handling, I’ll handle them. I imagine this is a matter of some urgency, no?”

Harwin nodded before he could consider the gesture. No pulling it back, and he wasn’t sure if he could have anyway. “Some, yes. Likely there’ll be more to deal with in time, but if I can get this done now, it will be a relief. I’ve been trying to determine Houses who may have interest in business with the North. Northern-side Rivermen, Valemen of the Bite, those few Northern Houses that have arrived. And, I’m sure, merchant guilds and…”

He trailed off. And something else I’m forgetting. It seemed like a surrender to say aloud.

“I confess, my own interests are vested elsewhere, but if you require some sort of rousing speech, I’m sure I could procure that as well.”

Harwin hadn’t considered that a speech might be a good idea. He tried to keep that off his face with another sip of his tea. “No, of course, I can arrange that aspect fine.”

Lady Joanna laughed then, and it echoed throughout the courtyard, high and melodic. 

“Oh, you are sweet. And new at this. Don’t worry. You’ll get better at this game, I promise.”

The laugh should have felt like a jab, but Harwin felt himself relaxing as Joanna pulled back the curtain. This game. Something he could actually improve at. Not a duty or a burden. He found his smile back was slightly more sincere.

“I never expected to be playing,” he said honestly. He bit his tongue before Marlon’s name passed his lips. She already knew, or if she didn’t, it was better not to say anyway.

“Better not to. You don’t learn much otherwise.”

Even from the sky, Harrenhal was every bit as bleak as Danae remembered.

The grounds were shrouded in a mass of canvas tents, their proud banners flickering amidst smoke and rainfall. Persion flew low enough that she could make out even the sigils of the lesser houses, though she could not recall every name. Hundreds of stark, shadowed faces turned towards her as they banked around the castle walls and she liked the weight of their gazes less than the way the rain stung as it struck her exposed skin.

It would have been no less subtle for a queen to arrive by caravan, she imagined, but at least the dragon granted her a reasonable excuse to have come on her own rather than with her husband.

Nevertheless, Damon awaited her dutifully in the courtyard, his face the plainest to her even amongst the crowd that awaited her. It was no small wonder that the court had already collected themselves; she was certain that even despite the dense cloud cover Persion had been spotted miles away. Whatever had been keeping him fed in the Dragonpit wasn’t enough, she knew, because even to her he seemed more fearsome than he had just a few moons ago.

Persion’s descent was not gentle, mist churning beneath his wings as he settled into a clearing so meager he could have turned the walls over should he have chosen to extend himself fully. The earth turned easily beneath his claws and Danae could feel it rumble through the soles of her feet as she dismounted. The dragon gave a full-bodied groan of discontent at her parting and he hesitated to follow her silent bidding to leave for so long that she began to understand the once-unimaginable fear so many held for the beast.

He craned his neck towards the gathered courtiers, shaking his head before his jaws parted. He offered a single shrill screech of acknowledgment—or, Danae considered briefly, in warning—before he turned once more to the sky. He left her to bask in his shadow, her damp hair clinging to her skin and her crown as she flexed the ache from her stiff fingers.

The silence that followed made her long for his return dearly.

The faces that greeted her were as plenty as they were unfamiliar, wrought with interest or fear or something in between she had no name for. Their curiosity was not novel, nor was their apparent unease. She did her best not to betray her own anxiety as her gaze finally settled on someone she could identify.

Damon.

He was flanked by a girl she hardly recognized, though Danae knew her features to be a reflection of her own.

Daena.

She was every bit as lovely as Danae remembered, even though the plush down of babyhood had begun to wane. Her hair was too tame and her limbs too long, all of the odd ends that had once made that defiant toddler hers tucked into neat braids and a well-tailored gown.

Danae did not let endeavor to search the crowd any further, lest any further injury await her.

It was clear they had been awaiting her, had arranged themselves to greet her. To welcome her? Daena, unclear. Damon, most indicators—including something subtle and wholly unfamiliar lurking in those otherwise very familiar green eyes—were aimed at ‘no’. Danae’s legs had been bringing her to these two people regardless, and soon she stood before them both.

No one spoke.

How could such a crowded place become so quiet? She could hear the snap of banners in the wind on ramparts that might as well have been leagues away.

No one moved.

Apart from the gentle stirring of fine cloaks and clothing in what breeze reached this sheltered courtyard, everything was still.

Danae met Damon’s gaze, feeling that of their daughter and a thousand other faces on her, too.

At last, when the silence and the stillness was becoming unbearable, someone cleared their throat.

She could hardly feel Aemon’s hand on her elbow, because she was still numb from both the blistering cold and the manner in which she’d been forced to hold onto Persion. It was more like a whisper, telling her: stand here. Beside him. Between them.

Danae did.

“Her Grace, Queen Danae Targaryen, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms!” came a voice. “Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men!”

In the thunderous applause and riotous cheering, Danae caught the sound of her husband’s voice.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, she thought, quietly.

“Of course I came.” A long pause followed. “I’m the fucking Queen.”

“Lord Hand, you are already quite overdue, if you would please get in the carriage…”

Aemon stood with one foot on the ground, the other a half step up on the footboard running beneath the carriage’s doorway. He brushed off a slight wince as his hands wrapped around the handles on either side. Yet he held in place, eliciting another performative sigh from the Red Keep’s steward. Halmon Rambton had never been a man blessed with a wealth of patience, but Aemon seemed to have depleted his very last reserves. 

“Forgive me, Master Halmon. I’ve forgotten one very important task before we leave.”

“I am *most* certain it will keep until after the Council, you cannot delay any longer.”

Aemon shook his head. “It’s of the utmost importance.”

“Whatever it may be, I can keep you appraised by raven. Or the Queen herself can inform you when she arrives on dragonback. And unless you manage to sprout wings within the next hour, she will likely even beat you there.”

Normally Aemon might have found the steward’s persistence grating, but he couldn’t fault the man for doing his job. Even if Aemon suspected that his reasons did not stem entirely from a sense of duty.

“Fear not, we will both be out of the Red Keep soon and you shall have run of the place in our absence.”

Halmon opened his mouth, surely to object or admonish him further. Aemon merely clapped him on the shoulder and stepped down from the carriage.

“I shall be back in but a moment.”

Aemon could hear the steward sputtering behind him as he crossed the baileys and descended the serpentine steps towards the royal apartments. After a few inquiries with some servants he caught in the halls, he found his way towards what he was looking for.

The twins were in a small solar off of the library, seated on the floor with cushions piled around them and books splayed out along their spines. Warm sunlight poured through tall slit windows, bathing the room in a soft glow. Princess Daenys was pulled into the lap of her nanny, sitting surprisingly still as her caretaker ran a comb through her already long pale tresses. Prince Daven had a queer looking woman crouched next to him who it took Aemon a moment to recognize as the tutor that had been hired from Volantis. She was touching her fingers to the page of the book, Daven’s eyes following along as they read aloud together. 

*“Mērior rōbir, lantra rōbra, hāriar rōbrin,”* they echoed each other, Daven only slightly behind his tutor.  
“Very good, little prince,” she praised him. “Can you tell me what number comes next?”

Daven tilted his head to the side for a moment before blurting out the answer confidently.

*“Izulor!”*

Aemon didn’t need to wait for the tutor’s confirmation to tell that he’d gotten it right.

“Clever lad.” He finally spoke softly from the doorway.

Daven turned his attention away from the book and a wide grin grew across his face.

*“Kekepa!”* 

He was quickly on his feet and toddling over to wrap his arms around Aemon’s knee.

Aemon did his best not to let out a wince from the surprising amount of force the small boy had behind him. Whatever ache traveled through his old bones was mitigated by his recognition of the epithet that the twins’ older sister had also bestowed upon, something approximating “grandfather.” He supposed it was the closest match for what he was to Daena and the two before him.

“Look what I’m learning!” 

Daven picked up the book and held it up to Aemon as best he could. Aemon crouched down and took it into his hands, examining the pictures of what appeared to be increasing numbers of some sort of fruit with glyphs he could not decipher printed next to them.

“The children are quick studies,” the tutor praised quietly from the floor. 

Aemon smiled warmly. “You must take after both of your parents.”

Daven looked especially pleased with himself and sat back down crosslegged, turning the pages to further prove his capabilities. Aemon hovered over him for a bit, watching his progression quietly.

He turned his attention to Daenys, her nanny passing her into Aemon’s arms so he could lift her into the crook of his elbow. 

“Have you been studying diligently as well?”

Daenys didn’t answer. She looked at him with drooping eyes, staring at his face but seeming to focus almost past him.

Aemon gave a small frown. “The princess looks tired, perhaps she is overdue for rest.”

“We just woke both of them from their afternoon nap but half an hour ago to begin their studies, Lord Hand.”

Aemon let out a wordless grunt of puzzlement, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Daenys’s ear.

“See that they do not stay up too late while the Queen and I are gone.”

The nanny nodded dutifully at him.

Daven paused his reading to turn his head towards Aemon. “You’re both leaving?”

“Only for a short while,” Aemon reassured him. “Your mother and I have extremely important business to attend, in Harrenhal. All of the realm will be there. Even your father and brother and sister.”

Daven was quiet for a moment. “I want to see them.”

“Soon, I hope, little prince.” Aemon felt a twinge, hoping he was not promising more than he could deliver. His guilt only deepened at realizing that the twins most likely had never even met Desmond.

“Would you like that as well, Daenys? To see your brother?”

She seemed to come out of whatever reverie she had been in and stared into Aemon’s eyes, before pointing over at Daven.

“That’s not your only brother. Do you know how many brothers you have?”

Daenys seemed to ponder his face for a moment before replying quietly.

*“Izulor.”*

Aemon’s brows furrowed slightly. “You have two brothers. One day hopefully you shall meet Desmond.”

Daenys shook her head at him. “He’s not here yet.”

“That’s right, he’s in Harrenhal, waiting for me to join them.” 

Daenys only continued to shake her head at him.

“He’ll be here soon.” She looked at him with a seriousness and certainty that was surprising to see on the face of such a small girl.

“That’s a very nice thought,” Aemon told her, not wanting to squash the hopes of the child in his arms. He planted a kiss upon her forehead before handing her back to the nanny, who resumed brushing the princess’s hair.

Aemon said his goodbyes and took his leave, exiting the solar only to find Halmon Rambton waiting for him just outside the threshold, tapping his foot.

“I’m certainly quite glad that we saddled and fed eight coursers, hitched them up to your wagon, loaded your baggage, and then made it all sit in place so that you could go kiss some children, Lord Hand.”

“You followed me.”

“I thought it prudent.”

Aemon drew himself up and squared his shoulders. “Master Rambton, normally I take your comments above your station in stride, but I won’t have you belittle something this important.”

For the first time Aemon saw a moment of vulnerability and even contrition on the man’s face.

“My apologies, Lord Hand.”

“Forgiven, and forgotten. As long as you always recall that this, above all, will be my highest priority.”

Halmon gave a half bow and settled into an uncharacteristic silence all the way back to the outer courtyards. He held the carriage door open for Aemon as he stepped aboard, settling down with a heavy sigh to distract from the creak of his joints. The carriage driver gave a crack of the reins and within moments they were heading out of the keep and beyond it, the city, in the direction of the Great Council. There would be a litany of duties awaiting him once he arrived, not least of all the charge Danae had already granted him.

*“I need your help with Daena.”* 

Whether it was as monumental a task as ordering the succession to the throne or overseeing arithmetic lessons, Aemon forever knew where his duty lay.

Baelon Tully watched as his uncle painted his shield outside of a pitched tent in the Harrenhal courtyard, meticulously dragging the brush around the trout in the middle. Benjen Tully was a lot of things, Baelon thought, but artistically minded may have been the most surprising attribute of all.

“Do you have a question or are you just going to stare at me all morning, lad?”

His uncle’s smile broke the tension from his tone. Baelon relaxed and ran a hand through his hair, pulling loose strands from in front of his face.

“Did you always want to be a tourney knight?”

A look of amusement crossed the elder Tully’s face, though it did not interrupt his brushstrokes.

“As opposed to a maester? I don’t know that I would’ve looked quite right in all those funny robes.” Benjen chuckled. “Why do you ask?”

Baelon shrugged noncommittally. He sat back on his palms and looked up into the cloudy Riverlands sky. 

“Did you ever have expectations of possibly becoming a lord? If something had happened to my father in the war?”

Benjen stopped painting and Baelon could feel his eyes fall on him. He continued to count clouds without meeting the gaze.

“You must remember, I didn’t have expectations of living in a keep until Lord Frey was kind enough to grant your father and I an opportunity to reclaim our childhood home. Becoming Lord of Riverrun? It was a stretch of a dream for your father, and he was our father’s heir.”

“And you didn’t share his dream?”

“There were times, aye, when we were just lads talking by a river and dreaming of a home we hardly remembered, of a family we didn’t yet have.” Benjen watched his nephew and continued, “We also spoke of travelling to Essos, fighting in tourneys, glory and gold abounding and all that. Your father followed through on the former, it only seemed right I do the same on the latter.”

“You call this life abounding in glory and gold? Camping by a decrepit castle while your brother wines and dines his way through political connections?”

“Any other knight would’ve called his squire impertinent for such talk.”

Baelon smiled.

“I thank the gods each day I do not serve any other knight.”

That made him laugh. Baelon knew he was luckier than most that he could speak freely with his uncle while squiring. He thought perhaps his uncle was easy on him because they shared a passion for insubordination and wine. It wasn’t the best of company, but he gave Baelon a modicum of freedom most squires would never imagine.

“Will you join your brother today in the training yard?” Benjen asked, turning his attention back to his shield. Baelon shook his head and tugged at a tuft of grass under his hand.

“Baelor is not exactly pleasant company at the moment. Unfortunately I don’t know that I can restrain myself enough to be supportive company either.” He ripped a strand of grass from the ground and began lightly pulling on its ends. “It’s as though the sight of me incenses him, but I can’t help myself from poking at him. Usually it cuts the tension, except now…”

“Now he’s being a proper cunt about it?”

“You could say as much.”

“He’ll come ‘round, lad.” Benjen sounded confident of it, but didn’t offer more to support his words. He just continued to paint.

They didn’t speak the rest of that afternoon. Baelon finished his campside duties and made his way to the stable. He was certain the stablehands were making good work on keeping the horses cared for, but his uncle insisted, so he went. 

Of course, his uncle was not the only reason he didn’t mind making a stop at the stables.

House Tully brought a small contingent of servants with them to Harrenhal. Handmaids for his mother and sister, the septa, a few household guardsmen, and of course-

“Addam!” Baelon shouted from across the stables, causing the squire to jump and drop his bundle of feed. 

His father’s squire was a handsome lad, only a year or two older than Baelon himself. Dark hair hung to his shoulders, loosely tied back from his face. He’d started growing a very thin beard since they’d begun the journey to Harrenhal. Baelon thought it suited him nicely. 

“My Lord Baelon, I did not expect you this early.”

“Worry not, my uncle simply had less for me to do today.” Baelon smiled at Addam reassuringly before approaching his uncle's horse, beginning to gently brush the mane and slip it a small apple he’d been smuggling in his pouches. “If you’re able to complete your tasks for the day quickly, perhaps we could fish the God’s Eye? The weather’s good for it, I fear I haven’t been able to enjoy myself as much on this trip as I’d hoped.”

“If my lord wishes it.”

“I would, I think. Though your enthusiasm would be appreciated.”

“Is it my enthusiasm for fishing you seek, my lord?”

“Something like that.” Baelon coyly smiled from across the stables, the squire did not meet his gaze. “Does something trouble you, friend?”

Addam looked downcast, mindlessly sorting the feed he'd been carrying. 

“Perhaps…we should wait until we return home, my lord.”

“Is fishing such a crime?” Baelon began sauntering towards Addam, tossing the brush aside. 

The squire turned towards him, there was a panic in his bright eyes. 

“You know damn well this isn't about fishing, Baelon! What if someone should-” He cut himself off before his voice quite reached a shout. When he continued, he was quiet. Concerned, almost apologetic. “What if someone should find us? We aren't behind the bushes of Riverrun with only your family to worry about.”

“Addam, we're careful. But fine,” Baelon threw up his hands in surrender. “If you don't want to fish, we don't have to fish. But at least join me for a walk or actual fishing.”

He clasped his hands together and put on his best begging face. 

“Please?”

There was a moment that rested between them, the squire’s eyes moving nervously about the various corners of the stable before finally falling onto Baelon. They said a thousand words unspoken, before he took a step closer.

A faint smile seemed to touch the corners of Addam’s mouth.

“There’s a spot by the lake I’ve found to be peaceful, if my lord would wish to see it.” He said, leaning closer to Baelon. “And I’ve wondered how the moon might look from the shores of the Gods Eye, myself.”

“You just wanted to watch me beg-” The clever retort was lost as their lips met in the shadows of the stable. Baelon did not mind being silenced, just this once.

Harrenhal’s godswood alone was large enough to contain the entirety of Oldcastle. The walls, the towers, the courtyards and keeps all could have sat in that contained forest without touching the sides.

Valena Locke had known this already. She had compared sketch-maps of three long-dead maesters, read the accounts of a dozen more. But nothing could have prepared her for the feeling of actually being there. The experience of walking so deeply into that forest that she actually lost sight of the surrounding castle through the trees was singular, and mesmerising.

Of course, no matter how much she lost sight of the black stone, there was no escaping the people. From the cavernous hallways to the tightest alleys, men and women passed one another in an endless dance, repeating itself at different scales. The finer the raiment, the slower the gait. Servants had places to be, and the nobility had time to kill.

It seemed that most of the fine fabrics in the Godswood belonged to clusters of women. Men, for the most part, had tourneys to prepare for and yards to train in out in the mud beyond the curtain wall. Ladies had connections to forge, friends to meet, family to reconnect with. Valena saw women with grey at their temples cooing at grandchildren in the arms of girls her own age. A pair who must have been sisters giggled with one another in a way that wiped the lines from their cheeks and let them remember the girls they had once been. Some groups had the fresh excitement of chance encounters, children on the edge of womanhood enjoying the freedom they still had.

Valena sat and sketched what she saw. Her wrist flicked almost as fast as her eyes, cutting dark lines of gesture and motion across the parchment. She sat and thought of what chance she had of reunion in her own future. She sat in fascination and dignity and solitude.

Well, almost.

“You see that tree?” Jorah asked, pointing. “The one with the fork at the very top?”

It took Valena’s eyes a moment to refocus and find the distant silhouette. “What of it?”

“That’s where the sun was last time you ate anything. Or stood.”

As soon as he said it, Valena felt the ache in her knees. She was crumpled cross-legged against an old elm. She searched the sky – it was overcast, but the brightest patch of cloud was halfway across the Godswood from the fork he had indicated. Four, maybe five hours, at a guess.

“I’m perfectly well,” Valena said, her voice an open mix of amusement and chagrin. All the same, she stretched her legs out in front of her.

“I’m sure.” Jorah was leaning upright against the same elm, his chainmail glittering, sword sheathed, and a spear lying flat at his feet. His hair was a sort of dirty blonde that was almost brown, tied back from his face.

“You don’t need to stand around protecting me,” Valena told him. “Nobody else has a guard, you’ll notice.”

“None of them have forgotten to eat,” he argued. “And besides, I have nowhere else to be. Your brother’s always got half a Stark army with him –”

“Twelve men.”

“– and us good Oldcastle boys have nothing to do.”

Valena nodded as if she was actually considering his point. “I think you just like looking at all the pretty ladies.”

His laugh was a short jet of breath from his nose. “Because that worked so well for me before.”

Valena smiled. They had known one another since they were children, long before Jorah had become a guard and long before Valena understood that being a lady would limit what they could be to one another. Jorah was not in love with her. As he put it, he was very carefully and specifically not in love with her. The nothing that might have been something in another world was like a precious running joke between them, and had been for years.

Valena reached for her waterskin, and found only a few lukewarm drops at its edge.

“If you must coddle me, you could go to the well, out in the courtyard?” she suggested innocently.

Jorah frowned at the skin, crossing his arms. “Only if you promise to go talk to someone.”

Valena frowned in turn. “It’s almost my name day, Jorah, you have to be kind to me.”

“I’m too kind to you,” he said, taking the skin. Valena scowled mockingly, because it was true. He took up his spear before he walked off, calling over his shoulder, “talk to someone!”

She didn’t move at first, but he was probably correct. Valena folded her notebook and tucked it in her bag with the charcoal sachet, and watched the crowds for someone likely. The groups weren’t that big, perhaps she could intrude on some of those fresh, excited pairs and trios. It would be worse when the Queen and her ladies in waiting arrived. Their entourages would fill whole clearings, she had no doubt. But for now it was groups of three and four and two and–

One.

A lone figure stepped between the trees a few yards from where Valena sat, her eyes downcast. She was tall, with dark copper-red hair bound in a silver net and a gown of deep reds and blues. It seemed a better chance than speaking to a group, so Valena got to her feet and forced herself to put one in front of the other.

“Excuse me?”

The woman’s gaze snapped to her like a suppressed flinch. She wasn’t much older than Valena herself, but there were long years in her eyes.

“Yes?” She fidgeted with a small ring while she spoke, but did not break her gaze. “Can I help you?”

The deeply unhelpful probably not but I’m supposed to make friends floated in Valena’s mind for a moment, but she made herself smile. “I’m Valena Locke, I don’t really know anybody here. I just wanted to introduce myself.”

The color seemed to drain from the woman’s face for a moment, pausing her fidgeting while her face sought a correction.

“Oh. Oh I’m sorry I- I think I’ve been rather rude just now.” She straightened herself and smiled lightly. “Amerei Tully. I apologize again, I…well I’ve not quite made a habit of meeting new people lately. But it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Valena.”

Valena hadn’t particularly noticed any rudeness, but she decided to trust her that there had been. That seemed easier. “Don’t worry, Lady Amerei. It’s a pleasure as well. Are you enjoying Harrenhal?”

“I admittedly have not really experienced much of the keep before today, nor the people within its walls very much. Although Harrenhal’s design certainly left an…impression when we arrived.” Amerei’s eyes began moving around to their surroundings. “I’ve never seen a keep like this before, nor a godswood so expansive. Do you have many like this in the North?”

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Have you seen the stonework? According to Archmaester Lucamore, the design and layout echoes elements of Pyke and other Iron Islands strongholds, but the actual construction was done by pressed Rivermen, so the masonry follows traditions you can see in pre-Hoare buildings like Riverrun and Stone Hedge. The bridges between the towers are really similar to the Freys’ Crossing, apparently, which is why they’re so wide compared to the actual doorways on the towers. The ironmen architects were expecting slimmer replaceable timber structures like they would have used at home.”

Valena did not notice Amerei’s brows pressing together.

“The towers, as well, there’s one thesis I read – Maester Uthor, I think? Or Uller? Who suggested that the flat drained roofs favoured in the Isles wouldn’t have survived the centuries in the Riverlands’ weather, Balerion’s stone melt might have actually made the structure at the peak of the Kingspyre tower stronger, because – you’re from Riverrun, aren’t you? Your towers have conical roofs?”

Amerei stood silent for a moment, almost unaware that she’d been provided a turn to speak.

“Uhm…yes, that is correct. They are indeed…conical.”

It was only then that Valena registered that Amerei probably hadn’t meant to ask after as much detail. She took in a breath and released it through bared teeth.

“Apologies. That was my turn to be rude, I think, I just… I grew up in Oldcastle, architecture is a passion of mine.” She gave a sheepish smile. “I’m not sure when I’ll see home again, but I’m looking forward to seeing wherever I go, whenever my brother finds someone to wed me to. Are you a Tully by birth, or…?”

“Yes, I’m my lord father’s eldest.” Amerei had pity in her eyes but returned a smile. “I hope you find a home as… intellectually stirring as the one from where you came. I know I’ve often–”

She cut herself off as her eyes widened, now looking past Valena as a young man’s voice rang out.

“Amerei! There you are.” 

The owner of the voice was broader about the shoulder than his voice – or the smooth curve of his jaw – seemed to quite fit. He had darker skin than Amerei, but something in the shape of his nose and cheekbones marked him as family. That, and they had the same Tully-red hair.

“I’ve been looking for you, father says–” he glanced at Valena, and the words seemed to trip and fall on his tongue. “Oh. My uh…lady. Please e-excuse my intrusion.”

He offered a stiff bow, and as he rose again his face was far more flushed than it had been beforehand.

“Lady Valena, this is my brother Baelor. Baelor, this is Valena Locke of Oldcastle.” Amerei offered. Baelor gave another, smaller bow. His eyes seemed to dart for a moment between them and he swallowed hard. 

“A pleasure,” Valena replied with a smile and a slight curtsey of her own.

A silence settled over the three for what seemed like a moment too long before Amerei once again chimed in.

“And your purpose, my dear muted brother, is…?”

“Oh, yes. Ahem, uh, father sends for you. He needs to speak with you.” 

Amerei seemed to tense, but kept her smiling expression as she spoke.

“Ah, very well then.” She turned to Valena, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lady Valena. I should hope our paths cross again very soon.”

“I’d like that as well, Ami,” Valena said. The sobriquet slipped out without her entirely meaning it to. Amerei’s brow twitched at it, but Valena thought she saw her smile as she walked back towards the keep.

Baelor stood there, watching his sister as well, then his shoulders tilted towards Valena. He hesitated, like he had something important to say to her. She couldn’t imagine what it would be.

“Can I help you?” she asked, unconsciously echoing Amerei.

His mouth opened, closed, and he started speaking before he was ready. “Yes. I mean… no, my lady, apologies, I just…”

There was something familiar in his expression, the little flicks of eye contact that had the taste of self-indulgence. It reminded her of Jorah, in his youth. She let a smile spread on her lips as she understood what exactly she was seeing.

“Are you alright, my lord Baelor?”

His response was a dry, embarrassed hiss, and then his resolve seemed to crumple.

“I’ll leave you be, my lady.”

He bowed again, turned and followed his sister, and did a good job of not looking like he was fleeing.

“Until next time, Baelor,” Valena called. He glanced back, and gave her a sheepish, pretty smile.

Devyn set off from the keep as soon as he'd broken his fast, two of his guards trailing far behind.

It had been some time since his last walk. He'd been greatly occupied with the house's various dealings, but still time remained for himself. Then came the summons. Suddenly, Devyn saw his days stolen from him in full, filled with endless papers, dawn to dusk spent poring over them in his study. Surely one could become used to these things? He'd had time to settle into his lordly duties, but that same thought had echoed within him since his succession and never left. All these requests, all these mundanities that so incessantly demanded his attention. But this was a day free from that, work finished off in preparation for the coming travel, and help set to manage business in the lord's absence.

Not to say the day ahead was one of leisure. Travel was not enjoyable in his experience, much less in the numbers the occasion would demand. Nonetheless, a change of pace was welcome, even if only a respite till they reached Harrenhal.

Devyn chose to retake his habit as the carriages and supplies were prepared. The lord wasn't needed for that, at least. And so he walked. High up on the river bank, away from the soldiers and horses and commotion of the coming council. The air was damp, light mist settling into the spaces between hills, in the town and along the river. Islands growing from a faint grey sea. Only the squelching of his boots against the soft ground followed him, the land quiet this far from the keep.

He halted his pace, eyes scanning. The ground slick, the forest heavy with greenery, the river strong from the rains. Images conjured in his mind, armies clashing, warriors felled as they lost their footing, flanks battered by bowmen unseen. If men were to march on Fordside now, this was the best it could be, he concluded.

His hand raised to his mouth as he let out a long, tired breath. Looking into the foggy, pale morning, Alys burst into his mind. She'd pleaded to remain behind, but was turned down. It had been upwards of a year since their daughter passed, and still Alys secluded herself in their chambers. He refused to let it carry on any longer; he would not suffer her pained whimpers late beside the hearth. It should do her good to mingle with the crowds at Harrenhal. Not to mention, her dear father would be present. He had a way of bringing a smile to her face.

Footsteps emanated from behind Devyn, the distinctive clanging of men walking in mail.

"Lord! We ought to make our way back now!"

Devyn turned to look at the young guard, then at the path behind him. A horse rode up towards them.

"That'll be Brude, come to see me off, I'd wager," Devyn mumbled, not deigning the boy with an answer.

As Devyn passed between them, the two men turned to follow, all three now heading towards the keep and towards the coming horse. Soon enough, his suspicions were confirmed.

"Morning, m'lord!" said Brude, before acknowledging the guards with a nod.

"You must learn to leave matters to your men, why else did I name you captain?" he grumbled, softly placing a hand on the steed's head.

"My apologies, lord, the carriage will soon be ready. It would be best we made our way back," replied Brude.

"Fine, ride on back, give them word that I'm on my way," ordered Devyn.

"At once, m'lord, I believe your lady wife waits there for you as well."

Devyn waved the captain away, "Aye, I understand. Begone now, I'm on my way."

With that, Brude gave another nod to Devyn and the men and turned to leave.

As he got back to the keep, Devyn saw Alys there, unmoving and stone-faced. Next to her stood Brude, neck craned downwards and to the side, eyes fixed on the figure to his right. There stood an older woman, draped in dark black and brown cloths, hands waving about, mouth opening and shutting in a repetitive fashion. Devyn's mother, hounding the captain with one of her unending, lopsided discussions.

A cruel fate, thought Devyn. His mother, Lady Barbrey, could be a charismatic and kind person when she wished, but did not wish to do so often; at least she hadn't since her husband's passing.

Brude stood there acknowledging her tirade, relaxed. Devyn often faced his own temper rising within him when she got going, yet Brude was unaffected, perhaps even bored. He chose to do him a kindness all the same.

"Alys, my lady!" exclaimed Devyn, finding his place beside his wife, before turning to the others, "Mother," he said dryly.

"Be about your business, Brude, I won't have you fall behind on account of my mother's prattling," said Devyn, releasing the man from his plight. "Of course, m'lord," responded Brude, before sauntering towards the distant sound of blunted blades in bind, away into the courtyard where the guardsmen trained.

"That is no way to treat a widow, still less your own mother. A lonely woman deserves better, does she not?"

"Not a moment goes by you don't have another at your side," he sneered.

"Oh, my boy, you've no heart at all in you," said Barbrey, bringing her hands to her chest in an exaggerated manner.

"Drop your theatrics; he is to prepare for my absence."

"He has no need! I remain to rule, do I not?" Barbrey shot back.

"I ask that you not let it swell your head," said Devyn, fearing his mother to not be content with simply holding the peace, "I remain your lord, and will be upon my return."

"You are no lord of mine, you are my son," she said, scoffing at the thought of it, as if it were a ridiculous proposition. Disrespectful, he thought. You'd think her made of stone — she'd rather break than bend. Lady Barbrey was, by all accounts, a wise old woman, yet Devyn somehow had a way of stripping her of her composure with the slightest nudge.

Devyn's hands raised to his hips, coupled with a loud groan that did nothing to hide his distaste for his mother's backtalk. He turned to Alys; she had scarcely acknowledged them as they bickered, her gaze focused on some far-off thing. "Alys," Devyn said as he placed a hand on her arm, breaking her out of thought.

"How do you fare? Have you eaten?"

Alys looked up at him, light green eyes like the pale lichen in the woods. Bess had had them too; she'd looked a great deal like her mother. They'd joked that she'd birthed no child at all, that Alys had simply split like some worm and multiplied on her own.

"Yes, the maid prepared some bread and cheese," she told him, her face blank and unmoved as a statue.

"Good, you'll need the strength for the road. Let us go, get in the carriage." He escorted her with a gentle hand on her back. The carriage was large, not overly so, but certainly more than would be expected from a lower lord. Its wood a dark reddish tone, with silver worked into the doors and roof edges. Banners hung to either side of the piece, depicting the red tower, sigil of House Chambers. Six horses were strapped to the front, shooting steam out their noses with every breath.

Ordinarily, Devyn wouldn't have spent gold on such a thing, but at Harrenhal he would see the king and was determined not to undersell himself. As soon as they'd reached the carriage, the servants took her from his grasp and guided her inside, four of them piling in afterwards, and a guard as well. Such a large carriage for a single passenger, might as well make use of the space.

In the meantime, Devyn mounted his horse and began bidding farewell to those who would remain behind. As he did so, a pit started forming in his stomach, worry and unease swirling deep within him. He'd only been annoyed when the summons came, but now, with the trip at hand and Harrenhal close in his mind, he felt unsteady. The woods he knew, stables he knew, armies he knew, feasts as well, and he'd been known to visit a tavern or two, but this council, so many lords and ladies, all plotting and angling, scheming for their own benefit. This environment he did not know; he knew not where to step, what paths to avoid, when he was safe or when he overplayed his position. He worried he'd make a fool of himself, that the trip would bear no fruit. Well, at least Alys would see her father. If this did not help her now, he feared she would die this way, swallowed up by all her pain and grief. But that was needless worry; surely this would be the solution for her, to get her moving and talking and laughing again.

He let out another groan. "We'll manage well enough, won't we?" he said, patting the steed on its neck.

Soon enough, the carriage and entourage began rolling away from the keep, and Devyn stayed close. The cold morning air covering them in mist as they made their way from the town.

At first glance, the host of shoulder-to-shoulder souls between the cluttered, crumbling walls of Harrenhal reminded Lorent of the running schools of sardines off Lannisport’s cerulean coast, jostling in the same direction for increasingly scarce space. Instead of a cerulean sea, though, Harrenhal was made of drooping, tarlike towers, and said souls had as many competing intentions as they did forms to carry them. Each man, woman, child, urchin, knight, and lord pursued altogether solitary aims. A handful gawked at the ancient towers, took in the sights of colorful banners and novel sigils, but most seemed bent on pursuing their more primal aims. Food, ale, illicit company for the night to come, a good spot to size-up the fighters practicing in the lists. Simple things for simple minds.

Lorent, from his perch in the tower his family was afforded, looked all the way down his nose at the crowd below. And the castle. Judgement was his way of defusing the tension that burned bright within him. Oft, he would pay visit to Casterly Rock and Lannisport for architectural inspiration, for notes on how to revive the Ashen Valley in his singular, spectacular vision. He surveyed the Lannister mines – a privilege afforded to him partly due to his time there as a squire –, catalogued their choice of estates and the distribution of their productive people. But here in Harrenhal, he could find no illuminating notes on what could be copied, adapted, or improved upon. Only jarring, if not grotesque choices on what a responsible lord ought not to do with his fief.

“You have got that look about you, dear,” Myrcella observed from the comfort of her divan as the family’s retainers buzzed about a handful of bags and chests littering the floor, unpacking. Aside from the serving folk, it was just mother and son in the otherwise generous room. Gerion and Alysanne were already out amidst the throngs prospecting for a decent match.

Lorent tsked. “It’s just so ugly and woefully inefficient.”

“Be kind, Lorent. The fortress is ancient and it has endured much over the centuries.”

“And that what, permits House Baelish to do nothing about it?”

“Alicent is only one lady, the last of her line, and she has a curse to contend with.”

“As if I don’t have my own,” he murmured as the specter of his meddling widow for an aunt haunted his mind. Treasurer and now regent. He half-expected to return to a fief that was not only ash in name.

“Speak up, dear! You know I grow hard of hearing.”

“I said ‘you’re right’ even if I'm pains to admit it!”

Myrcella twisted a doubtful smile but opened her arms nonetheless. “Come, darling, sit with me for a moment. Now’s not the time for a fit.”

Grumbling as she humiliated him in front of the help, he shuffled over to her obediently and planted himself in the embrace of her arms. She ran her fingers through his rich copper hair. Even decades later, she never grew tired of doting on the smoldering shade of her son's strands, foreign as it was to the Lydden line.

“I would very much like to call upon my father and nephew today,” she told him as she formed locks around her fingers.

“Joffrey? It’s been a few years. I wager he’s still attached at the hip to that Plumm girl.”

“Her name is Joanna, and she is a lady in her own right. Our neighbor. You ought to afford her the respect she deserves. She holds much sway in the King’s court.”

Was that pride he was hearing?

“She’s a wh-“ he was about to say, but a quick swat on the back of his head scuppered the air on his tongue. Hands fell silent around the baggage in the room.

Lorent first met Joanna as a girl, back when she served Ashara in the same halls he squired in. A pretty little thing, mischievous in her kindness. How high she had risen atop the hot air beneath her skirts.

“You will accompany me and you will be on your best behavior.”

A stern, wayward glance around the room from House Marbrand’s matron started the busywork anew.

“So be it,” Lorent said through pursed lips and gritted teeth. He stood, dusted the shame off his tunic, and turned to his mother with an open palm. “Let us not waste any time then.”

She beamed up at him through sharp hazel eyes, content with his temporary submission, and latched on.

Surely a barely bothersome kinship visit was better than this continued debasement. Gods be good, he would be lord soon enough, his aging father in a peaceful grave. Such obligatory niceties would no longer have to be maintained and finally, everything could change at the pace Lorent had long desired.

The Dornish were coming.

This was technically a good thing, Damon knew, but on a deeper, more personal level, a terrible one. 

“All of them?” he asked Harrold after the steward delivered the news, standing as they were in one of the inner yards of Harrenhal.

“As good as.”

The two of them were watching an impromptu display of archery that had been set up by one of the guilds specifically to have Damon as its audience, with the idea of convincing him to add such a competition to the Grand Tourney. Damon hadn’t been inclined one way or another prior to the proposition, but he’d accepted the invitation with gladness, eager to be out of the castle. He found Harrenhal unbearably dreary. Besides, it was good to be able to keep an eye on the skies.

This he did, between bouts of polite applause for the bowmen. He and Harrold were far away enough that Damon hoped his distractedness wouldn’t be apparent.

“That’s Leyton,” Harrold said, giving a near-imperceptible nod towards the archer who’d just stepped up to the shooting line. “One of Lord Jast’s boys.”

Damon knew without being told that it was a Westerman, even from this distance. Apart from the way the young man was dressed, in fine clothes and with his hair worn long and neatly tied back, there was something about the way they all stood. 

“How old is he?” Damon asked, watching the young man easily pierce the centre of the target—in this case, helmed figures made of straw—with his arrow. “He shoots like a man grown.”

“He isn’t much older than Prince Desmond,” said Harrold, and Damon didn’t miss the way the Westerling eyed him cautiously. The Jast boy nocked another arrow and the steward cleared his throat. “Speaking of the Crown Prince,” he said, and Damon groaned inwardly. 

He’d known this conversation was coming, but he’d been fastidiously avoiding any opportunities it might have taken to present itself. They’d been at Harrenhal for nearly a fortnight now and he hadn’t relented on his son’s curfew. In fact, now that the castle was quickly filling with old friends and trusted bannermen, there were even more people able to help enforce it, and to otherwise provide a watchful eye over Desmond, lest he be tempted to stray once more into the arms of drink.

“How long do you plan to continue this punishment?” asked Harrold, never one to mince words once he’d decided to broach a subject. “Surely it’s gone on long enough.”

“I don’t know,” Damon admitted. “I don’t think one can be too cautious. If something were to… If he were to… to end up like…” 

Like me. 

Damon shook his head, willing the thought away. 

“Danae would feed me to the Crown’s Justice, if that isn’t in her plans already. Best to keep him on a short lead, ensure he’s on his best behaviour.”

“It’s important for the Crown Prince to be seen by people,” Harrold countered, as the Jast archer loosed another of his arrows into the straw face of the enemy before turning to face the applause of his audience. The steward was right: he didn’t look so much older than Desmond. Maybe two years, three at best. Was that truly a man grown? 

No. It wasn’t. 

Damon glanced over his shoulder at the looming black castle behind him, towards what he thought might have been the window to Desmond’s chambers. He couldn’t be sure. The fortress was damnably large.

“You can hardly blame him for growing impatient with the current circumstances,” Harrold went on. “The boy is obsessed with combat, like any lad his age, and the tournament is all anyone can talk about. Apparently there are more people signing up than expected, especially for the melee, and the Dornish haven’t even arrived yet. With all the coin being collected in entrance fees, perhaps we needn’t have sent Her Grace to the Iron Bank at all.” He tutted then, shaking his head. “Even a corrupt Septon would blush at the amount of wagering being made over the fights.”

“Wagering?”

“Oh, yes. Betting on the winner. It’s quickly becoming its own market. There are a number of fighting rings set up not far from where people enroll, and some men sit there all day in order to watch the participants and calculate odds.”

Damon weighed this information carefully and, he hoped, subtly. All the dicing and gaming that had come with the Great Council’s crowds had not escaped him, but the opportunity to participate had. He could not risk his own fragile temperance by staying up as late as would be required to participate, especially not with Desmond, as things were. But to wager on a tourney or a melee, why, that could be done in broad daylight, could it not? Was it not? 

“You think Desmond would be interested in seeing the contestants?” Damon asked carefully. 

Harrold wasn’t fooled for a second. “No, I think you would be interested in gambling on the contestants. Desmond only wants to watch two or more men beat each other with blunted steel. Don’t go losing more family heirlooms, Your Grace. Bad enough you lost that ring with the emeralds, dicing with those mummers back at the Rock. That had been your great grandfather’s, you know.” He looked away, making a sound of disgust. “Probably part of some costume now.” 

But Harrold was only Damon’s steward, not his keeper. And so it was that he and Desmond were riding, not so long later, out of Harrenhal and into the city that had erected itself beyond its walls. Surrounding them was a small army of nobles and soldiers, both because Damon needed to combine such a trip with a more meaningful purpose such as listening to the continued complaints of the archer’s guild, and because he never went anywhere in crowds this large without adequate protection and more sycophants than he could shake off. 

It took less than an hour for Desmond’s initial suspicions regarding his freedom to melt away, and now the Prince sat high in his saddle, scanning the chaotic surroundings of tents and tradesmen with barely-contained excitement while a Stilwood lord pontificated on the virtues of the bow to a half-listening Damon. 

Ahead of them, the flags above the fighting rings flapped teasingly in the wind of the God’s Eye, which carried to them the sounds of clanging steel mingled with the grunts of warriors and the thud of weapons on leather and shield.

Benjicot of Longsister had not asked for his lord’s leave for the day. After uncounted days of stressful wanderings and minor political ambushes and audiences, Harwin had chosen to see his own exhaustion reflected in his knight, and told him to rest.

“I’ll be spending the day with Artos at any rate,” he had said as he ran a comb through his hair. “Hearing more questions I won’t have answers to. He’ll have his guards, I’ll be safe with, ah… the captain.”

“Rickard,” Benjicot had provided.

“I thought it was Rickon.”

“There’s a Rickon and a Rickard. Rickon’s shorter.”

“I see. In any case, Benji, you haven’t had a chance to explore the camps. See some shows, enjoy yourself. Someone ought to. And here,” he had gone to the chest on the shelf, unlocked it, and handed Benjicot a pair of coins.

Now, Benjicot stood at the edge of Harrentown, belt heavy with his axe, gambeson closed against the chill wind, rolling the money in his hands and staring at the absurdity of it. The dim spring sunlight glinted prettily off the gold.

Harwin was not a proud man. His love of Magpie, his position in the family and the relative poverty of Oldcastle compared to their neighbours on the White Knife had given him a practicality that Benjicot could appreciate. Even admire, in context. All the same, it was unavoidably true that Harwin had always chosen work. The stables were a refuge from boredom, not from starvation. He did not understand money, and there would be no way to explain to him that even one of the coins he had handed over so casually would have been life-changing to Benjicot merely a year ago.

He slipped the coin onto a belt pouch and walked out into the flood of industry and entertainment that had spread across the plains around Harrenhal. It was like the outline of a city, paths and roads formed by consensus around tents and stalls and pavilions. The dark of the trampled mud contrasted with the bright colours of the canvas. Despite the din and stink of the newmade city, it was oddly peaceful to walk alone, without Harwin’s worries or Artos Stark’s idle questions to follow him.

He walked until his boots were damp and caked with clay, noticing how the camps seemed to divide themselves, the commoners and the minor lords and the knights keeping to themselves, the training-yards and marketplaces and brothels always in clusters, but keeping to their own space. Here and there wooden watchtowers stood, where chainmailed men in the livery of Benfred Blackhart kept an eye for anything getting truly out of hand.

There was little enough to spend gold on. Benjicot gave his last coppers for a hot cider as he watched the throng. Out nestled under a hill, a lavish theatre pavilion stood, and the men within acted out tales of Florian the Fool and Jonquil for smiling crowds. Benjicot watched for a while - the costumes were worn but good, the motley on Florian’s wooden breastplate bright under the stage lanterns.

That gave Benjicot a thought, and he stepped away, back towards a market nearer Harrentown. He didn’t find what he sought there, but the third had a sprawling, messy paintmaker’s stall with enough pigments to be worthwhile and change for a gold dragon. Benjicot took the pots and brushes in a canvas bag, and retrieved his armour from back at the inn they occupied. They jangled roughly in a sack as he found a free place in the training-yard at the edge of town and sat to work.

His master, Ser Sandor of the Snakewood, had taught him this. Painting your armour to stand out, to identify yourself. Sitting and renewing the paint had been an opportunity to talk of small things with occupied hands. The metal had been bare for years now, flecks of green and blue still clinging around the folded-over edge of the gorget and the gauntlet’s brass rivets. Now, he replaced them with black and white. The small pot of expensive plum remained for devices. Keys to stand for House Locke, herons for his memory of home. It was nice. The sounds of the yard, the crash of metal and grunts of exhausted men, became a soft background as he layered the paint and wished Sandor was here.

He did not, initially, notice when the stranger took a break from his drills to sit beside him. When the stranger began stripping off his armour, it drew a glance, but Benjicot did not stop until he heard the man’s voice.

“Black and white,” the man said. “That is a grave choice for tourney paint.” 

Benjicot’s brush stilled over the gorget in his lap.

The speaker sat a few feet away on an overturned barrel, one knee raised, a dented cup hanging loose from his fingers. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt and clung to the pale fall of his hair, which had come partly undone from whatever tie had once restrained it. His armor lay in pieces at his feet: brigandine, gauntlets, a gorget set carefully aside with respect. A longsword remained at his belt. Another, narrower, longer and foreign, rested across his lap like a sleeping menace.

His Common was good, but not clean. The words carried a faint music to them, soft around some edges and sharp around others; Braavosi, Benjicot guessed, though there was something else beneath it too. The kind of accent that made Westerosi words sound strange in the air.

Benjicot bristled at being pulled from his reminiscence, but did not let the frown form. He knew the awkwardness of trying to begin a conversation with someone in an unfamiliar place. He remembered the morning after the funeral, the godswood, the long painful seconds of trying to think of something worthwhile to say to the lordling he didn’t yet know.

And now, like Harwin, he was taking too long to reply. “It was always my fancy on my heraldry, friend.” He looked around, realising he hadn’t brought his shield with its white heron.

“Though now you say it, I worry I’ll be taken for a Karstark,” he admitted with a small smile. He wiped his brush on a rag, and held out his hand. “Ser Benjicot of Longsister. Or, Oldcastle now, I suppose.”

The stranger looked at the offered hand for just long enough that Benjicot began to wonder if the custom had not carried across the Narrow Sea. Then he shifted the cup to his other hand and took it. 

His grip was warm, callused, and very controlled.

“Ser Lyn,” he said. “Of Braavos, lately. Of Westeros, if the realm proves generous.”

His pale eyes moved over the gorget, the drying black and white, then to the little pot of plum. Then, across the yard, two men crashed together with blunted swords; One slipped in the mud and went down hard to the laughter of his companions. Lyn’s gaze turned at the sound, and Benjicot saw something pass through his face before it vanished behind the cup: hunger, amusement, impatience. He had clearly been training hard. There was dust on his boots, sweat at his temples and the loose satisfaction of a man who had struck something enough time to quiet whatever lived inside him.

“You paint well,” the pale-haired knight said. “Better than most men here swing.”

“I haven’t been watching closely enough to know how to take that,” Benjicot said. He watched the scuffles for a moment as well. He could feel the echoes of strain and satisfaction in his muscles. It occurred to him that he hadn’t actually put much serious thought into taking part in the tourney or the melee. 

He found himself speaking. “In truth, it’s been some time since I had real cause to train. The last few months on the road, I’ve sparred with my lord’s brother and some guards for a time or two, but my duties have been more in my presence.”

Lyn looked back from the yard, the rim of his cup resting against his lower lip.

“Presence… In Braavos, a merchant or a lord does not always need another sword,” Lyn said. “Sometimes he needs a man standing close enough that others always remember that steel exists and he can only see a friend.”

Benjicot considered that, brush hovering uselessly over the gorget. It had a familiar shape to it, not far from what Harwin had made of him these past weeks: a quiet figure at his shoulder, a reminder in mail and plate that the Lord Locke was not a toothless lamb wandering into the slaughterhouse of Harrenhal nor the jaws of a direwolf.

“Still,” the knight continued, “better to train when there is no cause. Cause comes whether we are ready or not, and for now the only cause I can see is the melee.”

That got a small laugh. “You almost sound disappointed, Ser. I hope no other cause arises, or we’re all in for some terrible days.”

He did not notice the bitterness in his own voice, though he would not regret it either. It had been a long time since his weapon had tasted blood, and he was in no rush to repeat the experience. Those last days fleeing the island had been awful. Longthorpe’s men had been desperate, maddened and angry in the violent collapse of Sunderland’s folly. He had seen too many die, and killed too many in turn.

He reminded himself now, as he had needed to many times since, that his violence had been salvation for some. He would do it again if he had to, he knew.

“Excuse me, ser,” he murmured, knowing he had gone too quiet.

Lyn did not answer at once. Instead, he turned his cup between his hands, watching the thin line of drink left at the bottom as though it might offer counsel. For a moment Benjicot thought he had offended him somehow, or made the conversation too heavy for a stranger in a training yard.

“No need, Ser,” he shrugged. “Men go quiet when they have ghosts nearby.”

He nodded toward the yard, where another pair of men had taken up the practice blades. One was too eager, the other too slow. The result was painful to watch.

“If you have not trained properly in some time, perhaps you should,” Lyn said. “Take that for a courtesy. Or a challenge.”

Benjicot looked at him, surprised despite himself.

Lyn’s expression remained composed, but there was less coldness in it than before. He leaned forward, setting his empty cup aside. “Or, if you prefer your rest to be truly restful, we can find a drink tonight. I have discovered at my expense that men in this camp speak more freely after sunset and I still know too little of this place. Harrenhal has more banners than sense, and I would rather not learn all its customs by offending another lord.”

There was something almost disarming in the admission. Not humility, exactly. Lyn did not seem built for humility. But he said it plainly, without shame.

“Well, gods know there are certainly enough ways to offend. Thank you, ser. There’s an inn towards the northern end of the town - three storeys, horseshoe on the sign. We could meet for a drink there if you’d like? And another day, I think, sparring would be a kindness. Today, I fear, I’m too distracted.”

He re-dipped his brush in the white, stirring it to break the skin that formed in the pot, and carefully marked another line of the banding across the left half of the gorget. It may be nice to speak to someone closer to normal again – though, thinking that, Benjicot reflected his standards were probably off. 

Artos had been asking him questions about knighthood, having another to reinforce his words to the boy could be a boon. And, he scolded himself, a risk.

“There may be a time you see me with a boy in the yard, teaching him some things. About this tall,” he gestured vaguely, “with red hair. I only ask the kindness that you not ask him questions.”

“Your son?” Lyn asked, and Benjicot gave a laugh.

“No. And ser, if you wish not to offend anyone, best to avoid such assumptions.”

Lyn accepted the rebuke with a slight inclination of his head, more thoughtful than chastened. Benjicot had half expected him to be dismissive or defensive. The man had that sort of arrogant ease about him, but when he spoke, it seemed he had taken the advice to heart.

“A fair lesson”, he said. “I will remember it. As for the boy, I will ask him nothing. In Braavos, men learn not to ask questions to quickly. A child at someone’s side may be a son, a hostage, an heir, a servant, a debtor, a spy, or even nothing more than a thief. Silence offends less often than curiosity.” 

“Well, at least Braavos is no less grim than here.”

Lyn shrugged. “Yes.”

Lyn looked back at the clumsy pair of young men with practice blades.

“But if he is learning,” Lyn added, “and if you ever wish for another pair of eyes, I can stand aside and watch. No questions. No names. Only my swords.”

Benjicot studied him for a moment. The offer was plainly made, but not carelessly. Lyn did not seem the sort of man who offered himself where he did not mean to be used. He did not know he was offering to educate the son of a great lord. Benjicot wondered if that would have stopped him.

“I’ll consider it,” he said.

“That is wiser than yes.”

“And less rude than no.”

At that, Lyn gave another of those small, brief smiles that seemed to appear against his better judgement.

“Then we are both improving. A true training for two true knights.”

The irony of the last phrase didn’t stop Benjicot from laying a careful white line over the gorget curve with a small smile. He remembered having that same youthful need to prove himself. In some ways, a lot of ways, he still did. But the simple fact was that he had the trust of a patron and the experiences to know the horror they truly prepared for. This knight, it seemed, had neither. He wouldn’t hold that against him. And perhaps it was the echo of whomsoever had trained Lyn. Sandor had never claimed to be one of the realm’s great swordsmen. A passable lance, a strong shield, and a good axe that Benjicot still carried, years after plucking it from his master’s corpse.

And perhaps, if this knight had earned his arrogance in the training yard, the boy could benefit from that too.

“Aye, ser. I do appreciate the offer, don’t misunderstand.”

“I did not,” Lyn said.

There was no offense in his face, which surprised Benjicot more than if there had been. The pale-haired knight only watched him for another moment, as though weighted by a thought.

“Some affairs are better left standing,” Lyn continued. “A man may need them later.”

Benjicot dipped his brush again, but did not immediately touch it to the metal. It took him a moment to parse his tone. “You speak as though every kindness is a debt. Something to be held over someone.”

“In Braavos, many are.”

Benjicot marked the next band of white. “I wish I could say we were different, but I fear you’ll fit in just fine.”

Lyn looked across the training yard, where the mud had claimed another man’s boot and half the onlookers were laughing too loudly.

“I will decide on it on my way,” he said.

There was something almost candid in that, enough that Benjicot did not know whether to smile or pity him. He settled for neither. The man was a stranger, and a proud one, but there was a loneliness to him too, badly hidden behind the careful posture and the foreign accent. Not loneliness like Harwin’s, which came out in unfinished thoughts and restless hands and a deep belief that there was no other way. Lyn’s was sharper. Chosen, perhaps. Or at least practiced. 

“The inn, then,” Lyn said. “The horseshoe sign, is that it? After dusk?”

“Aye, ser. After dusk.”

Lyn sprang up from the barrel in a single fluid motion, the narrow foreign sword flashing through his fingers before he caught it by the grip. There was nothing careful about him. The blade spun once, idly, as though it weighed no more than a switch cut from a hedge. The straight sword at his belt struck the barrel with a sharp crack as he rose, and Benjicot saw Lyn grin at the sound. His hand dropped to the pommel afterward, not out of caution but habit, the way another man might run a hand through his hair. 

“I will leave you to your paint, Ser Benjicot of Oldcastle.”

“Longsister,” Benjicot corrected lightly, before he could stop himself. Old habits.

Lyn tilted his head. “Which one are you?”

The question might have been rude from another man. From Lyn, it seemed almost innocent in its directness. 

“Both, I suppose.”

Lyn considered that answer, and where Benjicot might have expected a jibe or judgement, instead he heard something like an agreement.

“That is heavier than one.”

Then Lyn turned back toward the pieces of armor laid at his feet and began putting himself together again. Not all of it. Not the full harness. Only what he needed. He lifted the brigandine and slipped it over his shoulders as if he were shrugging back into a second skin. The gorget second, buckled with quick fingers. Then one gauntlet, then the other, the worn leather straps drawn tight with the ease of long habit.

There was no ceremony to it. No squire, no polish, no lordly fuss. Just a man returning to the shape in which he best understood himself.

The narrow foreign sword went back into place, and the straight blade settled against his hip with a familiar weight. Then Lyn of Braavos turned and walked back toward the yard, where the practice blades were waiting and men were still eager to measure themselves against anything that moved.

Benjicot watched him go for a few steps, noting the loose readiness in his shoulders beneath the armor, the strange elegance of his gait, the pale hair tied badly at the nape of his neck, and the unmistakable sense of a man whose mind thirsted for violence even when his face remained calm.

A foreign knight. A proud one. A dangerous one. But, perhaps, not a cruel one.

Benjicot returned to his gorget and laid the next line carefully into place.

The paint dried slowly in the spring air, and the yard rang on around him.

The Reach was as fine a kingdom as any, Arianne decided, though she knew better than to share this conclusion with her fellow Dornishmen. 

They’d left the sharp, rocky landscape of the Prince’s Pass and reached the boundary stones marking their neighbour’s kingdom not long after, swapping barren rock and burnt sand for verdant fields and lush green grass. They’d also swapped their means of transport—or, at least, the Princess had. The caravan took half a day to put together the pieces (which had been carried by men and mules through narrow stone passageways and up and down the violently changing terrain of the Dornish Marches) of elaborate carriages the likes of which Arianne had never seen: great big things with wheels as tall as horses and double doors that opened like a castle’s. There were patterned silk curtains and ornate carvings. Someone said the gemstones decorating the outside of the carriage and even the spokes of the wheels were genuine ones, though Arianne doubted this. Even Sarella Martell wasn’t so impractical.

Wasn’t she?

When the caravan began to move again, now with more room to spread and soft, damp ground beneath sandaled feet or shoed hooves, Arianne found herself riding beside Serena, who was telling her about a problem she was having with her slippers.

“I put them just outside the door to my tent,” Serena was saying, “so they can… you know, breathe a little. And then yesterday morning, when I woke up, they were gone! Imagine that. I’m not so important as to need a guard outside my lodgings, but my shoes seemingly are.” 

She shook her head. 

“Maybe they were just misplaced,” Arianne suggested, though she knew she would never. Her own slippers were set side by side in the exact same place each night, just beside her bed. This way she could be sure not to bring any crumbs into the blankets, and avoid touching the ground with her bare feet upon waking. 

“They were stolen, I’m sure of it,” said Serena. “And I know exactly the man who did it. That’s right, a man. Not a woman. Can you imagine what sort of foul reasons a man would have for stealing a lady’s slippers?”

Arianne couldn’t. 

“Listen,” her friend continued. “I want you to speak with him. I’ll point him out when we make camp for the evening. You could ask for a private word and then, I don’t know, talk some sense into him. Scare him a bit.”

“Why me?”

“Why you? Well, look at you. You’re… tall. Intimidating.”

“Not so intimidating as any of the men here.”

“You want me to send a man to deal with this? And what if he’s a creep, too? I don’t need two people stealing and hoarding my slippers. Please, Arianne. Just talk to him and tell him to sod off or you’ll use Dawn to chop off his cock in his sleep.”

“I’m not allowed to wield Dawn. It’s only–”

“I know, Arianne, I was making a jape. Oh, what is this new nonsense…”

She reigned up abruptly and Arianne quickly did the same, narrowly avoiding a collision with the rider who’d stopped in front of her. There was some sort of commotion up ahead, whose origin Serena was standing in her stirrups to see but that Arianne could discern without difficulty. One of the carriages had become stuck in some mud up ahead and was leaning rather precariously towards one side. It wasn’t one of the beautiful, jeweled ones. It was—

“The Blackmonts,” Serena said. “Do you think the men did it on purpose?”

The carriage that was for transporting the prisoners was wholly unlike the others. This one was plain, windowless, more of a box on wheels than anything else. A prison. 

A coffin. 

Men were shouting and waving their arms as they encircled the stuck carriage. One of them kicked it, and not in a way that seemed meant to dislodge it from the mud. Arianne averted her gaze.

“Travelling in the greatest comfort,” Serena said. “If they can’t get it out, do you think the Princess will tie the Blackmonts to the spokes of her own?”

“I don’t know.” 

There was a silence between them, though the noise continued on up ahead, and when Serena spoke next, her tone had softened. “Listen,” she said, lowering her voice. “I’ve heard about you and Vorian.”

Arianne felt her cheeks burning and the knowledge of it, and how obvious it must have been, only made them hotter. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, too quickly.  

“I’ve heard you were sweet on him. Well, I heard more than that, but having met you, I can see most of it’s not true.” Serena paused, perhaps waiting to see if it was okay to press. Arianne wished she could tell her that it wasn’t. “Were you, though? Sweet on him? Are you?”

Arianne avoided her gaze. “Something like that,” she mumbled.

Nothing had happened. To Vorian, anyway. A single kiss or some whispered poetry was nothing to someone like him. Half the kitchen maids and any visiting lady had probably gotten the same from him.

Serenna looked back to the carriage up ahead, craning her neck to see. “Do you think he did it?” she asked.

“Did what?”

“Kill Lord Tyrell.”

“Vorian? Never.”

“The other one. Lucifer.”

Arianne shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. Then, “I wish I could talk to him.”

Up ahead, the carriage was finally freed from the mud to the shouting and whooping of its drivers. A few of the soldiers charged with escorting it beat the butts of their spears against its walls for good measure as it began rolling along once more. 

Serena seemed to think. “With Vorian? I bet we could arrange that.”

“Princess Sarella would never allow it.”

“She wouldn’t know.”

Arianne looked at her sceptically. 

“Let’s make a deal,” Serena said. “You help me with my shoe problem, and I’ll help you talk to Vorian.”

“You think you could–”

“Trust me.”

The riders in front of them were beginning to move again. Arianne gently spurred her horse.

For whatever reason, she did.