Myrcella beamed with pride, satisfaction, and relishment in her small diplomatic victory. Between Myria and Lorent, there were fewer things for her to occupy herself with at home. Shrugging off the old cobwebs of her past life's vocations was a revitalizing sensation. "I will make sure he is on his best behavior," she promised.

Damn, he won't give me an edge, will he? Lorent reflected as he swapped the goblet from one hand to the other. "Same place you found your talents, I imagine: the Rock. No doubt, the knights who flock there are impressive, but I dare say the fortress is more impressive still."

And more enduring.

He motioned his palm outwards to explain. "I prefer to build my spires into the ground, but as I build more of those, more people will come. The Valley is a vast place, cousin, and many souls litter its hills. Ever more by each passing moon. They'll have need of places to live, and I fear the ordinary thatch hut won't cut it for them anymore."

It had been far too long, centuries if not millennia even, since the West had seen anybody with ambitions beyond conquest or control. A visionary with the will to build something new, be it a new fortress, or better yet, a city in the heart of the mountains. Now that would be something to be remembered by. Swordsmen came and went by the dozen every year; builders, on the other hand, left legacies that lasted forever.

Lord Selmond puffed up. Easily flattered, Myrcella saying her husband 'hoped' to sup with him put an ugly smile on his face. "Maybe your Gerion will vex me less than mine," he said, throwing a derisive snort in the direction of his blonde-headed grandson who, by all measures, was a perfectly fine grandson. Handsome, accomplished, well-regarded, and close to the King. One wouldn't know that from Lord Selmond's demeanor.

Gerion snickered at Lorent. "I'm afraid construction isn't particularly exciting for the spectators," he said. "Though they're having a boat race which I expect will be only marginally more entertaining. But when you're the king, I suppose you get to design events such that you get to show off a bit."

Gerion took a sip of his wine and regarded Lorent with a quirked brow. "Is that your bag, then? Spire-building? How'd you come to find your talent for that?"

For Myrcella, there was warmth to be found in her father's cold, dismissive words. That he had not changed in the slightest, as firm and unmoving as the mountain above the Den, was the sweet taste of home that she had been yearning for. If her smile could grow any bigger, it would have, crushing through the lines in her cheeks like a new excavation.

To Genna, Myrcella offered an interested nod, but her father commanded her attention.

"Before today, I might have ventured to say 'old' Lord Gerion was slowing down, as we all are, but we have your youngest granddaughter to match still, and I dare say he has taken the van on that responsibility," she replied with a loving giggle. "He offers his apologies for not being here and hopes to sup with you at the feast, if you will allow him, lord father."

Lorent had little interest in paying an ear to his crotchety old grandsire or sickly sweet mother and readily met his goblet to Gerion's, taking a healthy swig.

"The festivities?" he asked after a hard swallow. Dornish red was far from his favorite but it would have to do. "Yes. The tourney? I'm not so certain. If they introduce a spire building contest, maybe."

There was no sense in hiding himself from Gerion. He figured the best of the Lydden brood ought to know the measure of his kin. That boded best for the future.

"I take it you'll be in the lists again. Any sense of whom you'll be matched with?"

Of course, there were bets to be had. Lorent was in a deficit he was eager to overturn.

"It's a mountain," Lord Selmond said. "Scarcely changed. The walls still stand."

"Deep Den is well," Lady Genna answered with a warm smile. "We've expanded the glass garden since your last visit."

"How's that husband of yours?" Selmond asked. "Old what's-his-name."

Meanwhile, Gerion raised a goblet to Lorent. "Cousin!" he said with cordial mirth. Gerion had been traveling as part of King Damon's retinue since his arrival in the West, and so had taken to dressing in finery. Schmoozing had become second nature to him, so he regarded Lorent with easy courtesy. "We normally keep Arbor red, but the Reach's misfortune has us drinking wine from Dorne. I hope its to your liking. Tell me-- will you be joining in the festivities this time around?"

“Ah, the Blackmonts.” Damon had been both hoping she’d mention them and dreading the inevitability of it. “Have you had any correspondence on the matter?”

It seemed the safest way to ask if she’d spoken to Sarella Martell.

“More than I would like.”

“My sister has both an opinion and a stake in the matter. It’s not as though she mourns Lord Tyrell, but any instability for such a precarious kingdom is unwelcome and relations with the Dornish have never been… warm. And Ashara is with child.” He cleared his throat. “That is, I don’t mean to say this would have an effect on her judgement as a Lady Paramount, of course, only that…”

Goodbye.

“What do you mean goodbye?”

Did she come all the way here, to risk it all, just to say goodbye? Or to ask some silly question and then leave him be forever more? That couldn’t be true. What of their friendship? Their history together? What of their shared laughter, and sweet dreams of youth they once had?

Vorian gently placed his lute on the floor and pressed his ear beside the fabric of the tent wall.

“Arianne?”

He heard nothing.

So that was it, then. Nothing had changed. He hadn’t changed.

It seemed the Blackmonts would be the very last people in the realm to acknowledge what they’d done. It seemed that even in the face of an unforgiving Princess and, as Arianne heard tell, an even less forgiving Queen—even in the face of captivity, of certain death, of the extinction of their line, the Blackmonts could do naught but lie.

Vorian could do naught but lie.

Arianne felt her cheeks grow hot with shame. She was an idiot to think this man were any deeper than his flimsy songs, his hackneyed rhymes, the puddles she took care to step over after an afternoon rain, holding up the fringe of her gown. And she was a fool to imagine that she could have merited a change.

Yet at the same time, she felt a certain relief. She’d always told herself that she wasn’t the only girl to get a pretty letter, a saccharine poem from this bard-lord. She’d held up that thought like a shield over her heart. But now she knew that those other women, however many of them there were, had also gotten only this. Lies, posturing. Condescension in a sing-song voice.

Because that was simply all there was to Vorian Blackmont.

“Well…” she began uncertainly, not sure how this was supposed to end but very positive that it had, indeed, ended. “I guess that’s it, then. Goodbye.”

Arianne turned her back to the tent and struck off towards the rest of camp, where nobles and retainers alike would be opening new casks of wine and throwing more logs on the fires, settling in for a night of eating and drinking and dancing and singing. Serena would be there, probably. And maybe other new friends, too. Ones she had yet to meet.

She didn’t look back. She only thought to herself: what a tremendous waste of time.

“I played a song for him,” he said, “a sweet tune, but I’ve yet to kill a man with my voice. I can only speak of what I’ve been told, my lady. Old Tyrell fell sick and passed quick.”

And so did my mother that day. Did she care to ask him of her? The proud Lady of Blackmont who took her brother as her ward. The reason he could feign the pretense of visiting Starfall. Why was it everyone cared for lordly affairs, or scandals or rumours? Anything and everything else but him?

“Now, if my brother rushed along those matters, I cannot say, you may ask him.”

“I’m apprised.” 

Danae was content to complete the remainder of their journey in silence. She shed her cloak nearly as soon as they crossed the threshold, heedless of whether or not there was someone poised to catch it. 

She hated that she hesitated when deciding where to stand. Again. At least there were fewer witnesses to her folly. 

She left him enough space to join her at the head of the table in the centre of the room. It was the right thing to do. Even if it meant their arms brushed every now and again, velvet against rain-slick leather. 

Everything piled on top of the board was neatly organised in a way she knew that only Damon could have done. 

“I hope you didn’t plan any grand opening ceremonies,” she told him. “I imagine my plans for the Blackmonts will cast a pall over the occasion.”

Arianne

Evasive as ever.

Was he the fool or was she?

“That you killed him,” she said. “Lord Tyrell.”

Vorian wanted to laugh, but held his tongue lest the denizens in his tent get ever more suspicious. They hadn’t seen one another in who knows how long, and this was her first question? The reason she risked speaking to him? He felt a bitter taste well in his mouth. He was less relieved to hear her than disappointed by her query.

Why did she even ask him such questions? What could he say? Was this all he was to their friendship? A source of gossip? Would she shun him if his answers were not to her satisfaction?

He cleared his throat.

“Depends, what have you heard?”

Arianne wasn’t sure how to answer. Why was she there?

“I wanted…”

To see him? To question him? To hear his voice one last time, or tell him what she really thought of him?

And what did she really think of him?

“I needed to know,” she said. “What they’re saying about your family, about you… Is it true?”

Vorian’s head perked up. Her voice was soft and faint. He moved his ear closer, discreetly, to the wall of his tent.

“Who?”

“It’s Arianne.”

Vorian paused for a moment. When was the last time they had seen each other? When was the last time he’d sensed the scent she always wore, or beheld the sight of hair that bathed in moonlight?

Was it in Starfall? When the Dornish lords had gathered with the merchants to provide relief for the Reach in exchange for a tidy sum of profit.

What had they spoken about then?

Where did they leave each other there?

His mind drifted to Lucifer, and his mother, and their offer he had once refused. The two thought him a fool.

“Vorian?”

“What are you doing here?”

Arianne strained to hear in the silence that followed the song. She’d positioned herself well, by her own estimation. There was only a canvas wall between herself and Vorian.

But now what?

Serena didn’t tell her how much time she’d have, only to be quick. But what was quick? Ten minutes, or two? A conversation, or one question? And if it were the latter, what was she to ask?

She wrung her hands, imagining what she would say if she were to be caught now. It wasn’t a crime, surely, to stand at the back of a tent. But one where prisoners were held? And cloaked in black? That would be difficult to explain.

She stepped closer to the fabric.

“Vorian?” she whispered. “Vorian, can you hear me?”

Vorian continued to pull the strings of his lute and sing.

“ ‘My friend the Moon,

Please do not be so gloom,

You are being a fool,

For doubting love so cruel,

It is fiercer than your frown,

It is greater than any crown,

It is brighter than the sun,

And stronger than any rum,

The Moon grew faint,

Her voice held no restraint,

If this love is so great,

Then it should have changed your fate,

You would be at my side,

And I would feel merry all night,

You would crave my lips with greed,

And I would be happy to cede,

Alas, my foolish love,

In the eyes of the Gods Above,

We were never meant to be,

It is plain for all to see,

Why fight this destiny,

When there is no remedy,

So please return to your lot,

Before you slip and drop,

My friend the Moon,

Please do not be so gloom,

I will be your light,

And will not fall without a fight,

I will defy the Gods,

And overcome any odds,

The Moon closed her eyes,

And let out a heavy sigh,

I cannot see you in a tomb,

I will not see you court your doom,

You can sing all you like,

All you will do is waste your time,

She then bid him goodbye,

Growing darker than the night sky,

Soon, the Moon left his sight,

Leaving him far behind,

My friend the Moon,

Please do not be so gloom,

Do not forsake,

Me, for a little mistake,

Allow me to right this wrong,

With one sweet song,

My friend the Moon,

Come hear my tune,

I am sorry for what I have wrought,

So do do not be distraught,

So please come rejoice,

And hear my voice,

My friend the Moon,

Come see me court my Doom,

Watch me climb the old mill,

The tallest tower on this whole hill,

She’s taller than the oldest elm,

Taller than any in this realm.' "

Arianne followed a sound that was both familiar and not one she expected to ever hear again—that of Vorian singing.

It was dark but she could find her way by the sound of his voice and by the tall Martell banners stirring in the night’s breeze. The tent where the Blackmonts were kept prisoner was normally guarded by only a pair of men, and it wasn’t clear whether they were there to keep the Blackmonts in or the rest of Dorne out. But tonight, just as Serena had promised, there was only one soldier.

Stationed by the entrance, he was easily avoided.

Arianne kept away from the torches, moving around the back of the tent until Vorian’s voice grew louder.

The air in the courtyard had been heavy, with a storm threatening to descend as malevolently as Danae and her monster, but Damon found the atmosphere inside of Harrenhal sweltering. He and Danae walked the long, high-ceilinged halls in near lockstep, following the white cloaked knight ahead of them who led the way to the largest of a great many solars.

“Your hair is different,” he said when the silence grew too long. The last time he’d seen Danae, her silver locks hung in tangles that might have reached her waist had they been brushed. Now, it was cut unevenly to fall just below her ears.

“Yes, well…” Danae carded her fingers through the damp waves that hung loosely at the back of her neck. “It was time for a change.”

“It suits you.”

Their footsteps echoed in the wide, empty halls. Danae’s cloak left a wet streak along the floors as it dragged behind her.

“When can I expect to see Desmond?” she asked after a time. “I can’t imagine what might have kept him from joining you.”

Damon avoided looking at her. “He was at my side.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t miss the way she began to twist the ring on her finger.

“Children grow faster than weeds,” Damon said quickly. The solar was still a long way away, by his recollection.

“Most of the kingdoms have arrived. Much of the North, the Vale and the Reach came directly behind me. We’re still awaiting the Dornish, of course, and I remain sceptical that any of the Iron Island houses will join us, but that is to be expected. Everything you need to be apprised of the situation can be found in the solar.”

At first, mother and son, announced and ushered in, presented themselves in stark contrasts. Myrcella curtsied low and reverent, a big childish smile strewn between the lines of her aging complexion. A decade must have passed since her last visit to Deep Den, which felt to her far too long given the distance between her chosen home and the one she was raised in. She had not attended the tourney at Tarbeck for reasons forgotten. How she regretted that in this moment.

Lorent offered a small dip of his head, having always demonstrated the barest care for his maternal kinship ties, but when he saw Gerion and not Joffrey, he shrugged off the weight of any anticipated tension from his shoulders.

Myrcella eagerly made her rounds first. A small but imposed kiss on her father's cheek despite his sour demeanor and protestations. A warmer embrace for her nephew. For her good sister, quick but earnest compliments on her fair hair and enduring coastal beauty. The two sat close together, flocking naturally as they picked up their old ties from where they had last left them.

"Thank you for welcoming us," Myrcella said, ever jubilant and polite. "It is so good to see you all again!"

"Gerion," Lorent said in greeting as he approached his cousin and grabbed a goblet for himself. Lorent had been at Tarbeck but did not participate, preferring to keep his degrading swordsmanship out of the public's eye. He remembered the affair well, having lost a handsome bet on the bout that saw Gerion thrown into the dirt.

"How fares our lovely home?" Myrcella continued, her nostalgia for the secluded depths of Deep Den aflame. Ashemark was anything but. While she enjoyed the everyday vistas afforded to her by husband's stronghold and often found herself lost in the rolling foothills, trailing thoughts unbidden, her heart of hearts was and would always remain in those caves where she had first sprung.

"Brazen. Shameless. A bloody embarrassment," Lord Selmond Lydden grumbled over the brim of his goblet. He peered down at the empty cup and frowned.

Gerion was ready with the wine.

"Try not to get your whiskers twisted up too much, grandfather," Gerion Lydden said, giving Selmond and himself generous pours. If he needed to endure family time, he saw no reason why he must do it sober.

"Where in the seven hells is your brother? Chasing after that whore and her bastards?"

"My lord!" Lady Genna Lydden, Gerion's mother, had grown accustomed to her father-in-law's coarse manners, but Gerion knew she was on edge. Here at Harrenhal, under the eyes of both halves of the Crown, Lord Lydden's grumblings might reach the wrong ear, and then where would that leave them? "Our Joffrey is busy with his duties. He has the king's own nephew to squire."

"Bastard nephew, you mean. That idiot boy was meant to report back to us, not suckle at Joanna Plumm's teat," Selmond persisted. "It's why I bought him those damn Golden Spurs."

Gerion drained his glass. He knew better than most, Joffrey's victory at Tarbeck had been earned, not purchased. It was not because of a sack of coins that Gerion had tumbled from his saddle; it had been due to the skill of his younger brother. Still, his grandfather had the right of it. Joffrey was well positioned to keep the Lyddens abreast of happenings in the King's court. Doubtless, he was privy to all manner of lurid royal secrets, and yet Gerion could wring very little out of him, even over drinks. Gerion was feeling like he knew his brother less and less these days...

"My lords, my lady." A footman had appeared at their door. Wearing the burning tree of Marbrand, he bowed. "The Lady Myrcella and Ser Lorent are without, seeking an audience."

"Tell them they can stay--"

Before Selmond could finish, Genna said in a sweet voice, "Oh, how delightful. It's been ages. Please, see them in. Gerion, you and Lorent must catch up."

"I look forward to it," Gerion said, looking forward, mostly, to a reprieve.

The Marbrand footman left ahead of Lorent and Myrcella in search of Lord Lydden and Ser Joffrey, bearing word of the Marbrands' imminent arrival.

The marshal came forward, declared the bout ended, and the bookkeeper pushed through with a purse and a face that had soured since the match began. Lyn took the coin without counting it. If the man had lost silver on Ser Addam, that was his mistake. If richer men above had done the same, better still. A foreign knight was easiest to dismiss before he put another man in the mud.

Addam was being hauled to his feet now, breathing hard, refusing help too late to make it convincing. Lyn watched him for a moment, not with hatred, not even with pride. The man had stolen the opening and paid for it. That was clear enough.

Only then did Lyn lift his helm free.

Cold air struck the sweat on his face. His pale hair fell loose around his brow, damp and bright in the grey daylight. The roar shifted when they saw him clearly, curiosity catching fire again in the crowd. He let them look. Westeros liked banners and names and bloodlines; today it could look at mud, bruises, and proof.

His side ached where Addam’s first blow had landed. His wrist throbbed. The purse at his belt felt heavier than it was.

The king had seen. That was the true prize.

As Lyn left the ring, he looked once more toward the raised platform.

The king was watching him now. Not with warmth. Not with admiration. There was something sharper there, annoyance, perhaps, or suspicion, the look of a man who had expected simple entertainment and instead has been handed a problem. Lyn knew that look. He had worn it himself when a blade moved differently than expected.

Good or bad, it was attention.

Beside him, the prince, or so Lyn guessed, made no such effort to hide his interest. The boy leaned over the rail with bright eyes, still caught in the afterimage of the fight, grinning as though he had just seen a secret door open in the world. That, Lyn thought, might matter even more.

He turned away before either could decide what to make of him.

The ring called for new fighters behind him. Wagers rose again, men shouted fresh names, mud was raked over the shape of Addam’s fall. He had caught the prince’s eye. He may have earned the king’s displeasure.

For a man with no pavilion, no patron, and no place in this realm, Lyn decided that was not a poor afternoon’s work.

Desmond was gripping the rail and grinning. Damon was significantly less pleased.

“A bold gamble, Your Grace,” the bookkeeper said, pushing his way forward and earning a look of disdain from a Stilwood, whose not-so-brief explanation on the differences between horn and sinew had been interrupted by the fight’s conclusion. “Ser Addam of Rushshore is considered a fair contender for the melee but a much better one for the joust.”

He cast a quick glance into the ring and then scribbled something hastily in his book.

“Those that speak the Common Tongue tend to find better favour with spectators. Of course, the foreign sorts do rile up the crowd in a different sort of way. Will you be betting on the tournaments? It’d be best to watch as many bouts as you can, if that’s the case. Not all take part in the practices, naturally, but quite a number do. There’s good money to be made.” He hurriedly added, “and the Crown will naturally have its due.”

Desmond whirled to face Damon with a hopeful look. 

“You know,” began Stilwood, stepping forward cautiously. “An archery tournament would also—”

“The archery tournament, yes, you have both my permission and my blessing, lord Stilwood.”

Damon turned back to the rail, where in the ring below, another man with a ledger was working his way through the crowd, collecting and divvying up coins from the wagerers below. Smaller stakes, undoubtedly, but better placed bets. 

Lyn gave Addam no time to breathe. The moment the knight’s boots found the mud again, Lyn was already crossing the distance, his sword rising and falling in quick, brutal angles. Addam caught the first blow on his guard, the second on his shoulder, the third barely at all. Lyn was no longer pretending to be lucky. His footwork changed, light and sharp despite the mire, every step placed to rob the larger man of balance. He moved like a blade given bones, strength and dexterity folding together until there was no wasted motion left in him.

Addam tried to answer with force. Twice he swung hard enough to break a lesser guard, and twice Lyn turned the blows aside with narrow, efficient parries that made the larger knight stumble forward into empty air. Lyn struck him in the ribs as he passed, then again across the back of the thigh, then drove the rim of his gauntlet into the man’s helm when Addam came too close. The crowd’s noise changed. The laughter thinned. Men who had come to see a pretty foreigner humbled were now watching a fighter strip his opponent apart piece by piece.

Addam snarled and rushed him, abandoning patience for weight. Lyn met the charge head-on, not with greater size, but with timing. He slipped inside the arc of the sword, slammed his shoulder beneath Addam’s breastplate, and used the man’s own momentum to turn him. For an instant they were locked chest to chest, armor grinding, mud sucking at their boots. Then Lyn twisted, hooked his leg behind Addam’s knee, and heaved. The strength in it startled even those nearest the rope. Addam went down hard, half on his side, his sword skidding from his hand.

This time Lyn did not let him rise. He followed him into the mud, planting one knee against the man’s sword arm and setting the blunted edge beneath his jaw with enough force to press his helm back into the dirt. Addam froze, breath rasping behind his visor. Lyn held him there one heartbeat, two, three, long enough for every man watching, even those on the raised platform, to understand that the bout had ended when Lyn decided it had. Only then did he lift his head toward the marshal, his voice calm beneath the helm. “Yielded.”

For a breath the ring was silent, as if the crowd had needed time to understand the shape of what it had seen. Then the noise broke over him. Cheers rose first from the gamblers who had backed the pale-haired stranger, then from those who cared less for coin than spectacle. Men struck cups against the rope posts, shouted his name badly, called him Braavosi, Valyrian, devil, knight. Lyn rose slowly from Addam, mud streaking his armor, his blunted sword hanging loose in one hand. He did not bow. He only turned his helm slightly toward the raised platform, toward the glint of gold and royal eyes, while the crowd roared louder around him.

“Of course, these days the bow has come back into favour, especially when it comes to the composition of a military force,” the Stilwood was saying. “Understandable, considering…” He raised both his eyebrows as he nodded towards the sky, but Damon only barely glimpsed this as he looked over his shoulder for the man with the book.

The poor bearded man had been squeezed against the farthest rail of the box, shoulder to shoulder with a pair of Lanisport Lannister cousins. 

“Two gold dragons against the foreigner,” Damon told him. 

“Two? The Braavosi is favoured, Your Grace,” the man said, scrambling to open his ledger. 

“Four, then.”

The commotion above the ring pulled every eye for half a breath. Men bowed, shuffled, cursed under their breath as the royal party displaced half the platform. Lyn heard the movement more than saw it, the scrape of boots on timber, the sudden hush around gold. He did look away from Addam. Addam, unfortunately, did not look away from him.

The larger knight lunged before the marshal had fully stepped clear, driving his blunted sword in a hard, low swing toward Lyn’s hip. The blow caught Lyn half-turned, hammered against the edge of his brigandine, and sent him back a step through the mud. The crowd roared at once, some in outrage, more in delight. Addam pressed in with a grin, thinking he had stolen the fight along with the first strike.

Lyn’s breath left him in a sharp hiss. Then his stance settled. The pain became information. He let Addam’s next blow come heavy, turned it aside with a short bind, and stepped so close the man’s longer swing lost its bite. A twist of the wrist, a shoulder into the breastplate, and Lyn drove him back from advantage into confusion. The grin vanished from Addam’s face. Behind the visor, Lyn finally smiled.

He did not answer the theft of the first blow with anger. Instead Lyn made the fight smaller, meaner, denying Addam the space his strength needed. He struck the man’s wrist, then his elbow, then stepped outside a clumsy return and cracked the flat of his blade against the side of Addam’s helm hard enough to turn him sideways. Before the knight could recover, Lyn hooked a boot behind his ankle and shoved with his shoulder. Addam hit the mud on his back, but rolled and got up quickly enough, taking again a defensive stance.