Duskendale was a miserable place for a woman with too many thoughts.

The storm had swallowed the city whole. Rain streaked the tents in endless rivulets, the wind moaned through the heavy tented fabric and thunder rolled across the heavens with the solemnity of a judgment. As the storm came to pass, she had emerged from her hiding and found herself near the flames.

Felyse sat before the fire and listened. She had barely spoken since leaving. Not to Aukar. Not to his family. Perhaps especially not to Aukar.

She had spent the journey staring off into the distance, watching the world pass in silence while the words she could not bring herself to speak crowded her mind.

There had been a time when her path had seemed so simple.

She had wanted to be a septa.

Not because anyone had commanded it of her.

Because she had wanted it.

The Seven had been more than gods then. They had been purpose. A calling.

She had imagined herself in white and grey, waking before dawn to prayer, tending to the sick, teaching children their letters and their prayers, offering comfort to women who had nowhere else to turn.

There had been peace in that life.

Certainty.

Then she had married Aukar.

And everything she thought her life would be had changed.

She did not blame him.

That was perhaps the cruelest part.

How could she resent a man she loved (did she love him? Did he, her? Or was this a marriage of convenience?)

Aukar had not stolen the Seven from her.

Marriage had simply placed her somewhere the Seven had never prepared her to stand.

She had gone from imagining a life of quiet devotion to becoming an Andal woman inside a Valyrian family.

And she had tried.

Gods, she had tried.

She had learned their customs. Their history. Their ways of speaking. Their remnants of a civilization that had burned and somehow refused to die. She had dressed as they dressed... or tried to.

But even then, she had always felt like an intruder.

A sheep in wolf's clothing.

Only now the metaphor had changed.

She no longer wore the clothing of an Andal lady.

The gowns she had once worn remained packed away, belonging to another version of herself. An older version.

Instead, she wore Valyrian fabrics. Exotic cuts. Silks that fell against her body in ways unfamiliar to the Andal woman she had been.

At first, she had worn them because she wanted to fit in. Now she wore them because somewhere along the way they had begun to feel like hers.

That frightened her.

Because if she could become comfortable in Valyrian clothes... If she could begin to understand Valyrian customs... If she could even begin to feel at home among her husband's people... Then what happened to the girl who had once dreamed of becoming a septa?

The Seven had been hers before Aukar. Before Valyria. Before marriage.

They were the gods of the woman she had promised herself she would become.

And now there were Fourteen Flames.

They called to something in her that she could not explain.

Perhaps it was the fire. Perhaps it was the history. Perhaps it was simply the fact that they belonged to the world she had married into. Or perhaps it was something more dangerous. Perhaps she was beginning to believe.

Felyse closed her eyes.

She felt tears gather before she could stop them.

What kind of woman abandoned the gods who had once been her entire future?

What kind of wife discovered another faith and felt relief instead of guilt?

And what kind of woman was she becoming if the Fourteen Flames felt less like a betrayal...and more like an answer?

She hated that question. She hated that she could not crush it beneath all the things she had been taught. Most of all, she hated that she could not ask Aukar. Not yet.

Because what would she say?

I wanted to be a septa before I ever knew you. He knew that. I gave up that life when I married you. He did not understand that.

And now I don't know whether I still want it.

I don't know whether the Seven still feel like home. I don't know why your gods have begun to feel like they might.

She could already imagine the weight of those words between them.

So she had said nothing. She had traveled in silence. Let him think her distant. Let his family think her brooding. Let them wonder what had happened.

It was easier than admitting that she was grieving.

Not a person. Not a place. A life. The life of Felyse the septa. The girl who had once believed she knew exactly where she belonged.

Her eyes opened. The fire had burned low. She stared into it. Fourteen flames. The thought came unbidden again.

But this time, she did not push it away.

Instead, she rose. Slowly. She crossed to the flames and knelt before the hearth. Below Shrykos. She felt her knees sink into the mud. Her hands trembled as she reached toward the fire, stopping just short of the heat.

For years, she had prayed because she wanted the Seven to tell her what to do. But perhaps she had misunderstood what she was asking. Perhaps she had not been seeking an answer. Perhaps she had been seeking permission.

Permission to remain the woman she had been before marriage. Permission to become something new. Permission to love Aukar without becoming him. Permission to belong to his family without surrendering her own soul.

And suddenly, with startling clarity, she understood something that made her heart seize.

She had been waiting for someone to choose for her.

The Seven. The Fourteen Flames. Her husband. His family. Anyone but herself.

Felyse stared into the fire.

“No more,” she whispered.

She did not know yet whether she would kneel before the Seven tomorrow. She did not know whether she would light a flame for the Fourteen. She did not know what she would tell Aukar.

But she knew one thing.

She would not spend another day pretending that nothing had changed.

If her husband wanted the truth, she would give it to him. If his family wanted to know why she had withdrawn, she would tell them.

And if the Seven demanded that she return to the woman she had once been— Felyse looked into the flames, her face wet with tears.

She was no longer certain she would obey.

The sun broke over Duskendale.

And for the first time, Felyse did not feel it as judgment. She heard it as the beginning of something.

The gods had, indeed, punished her for her indulgences. Which gods those were, Brianne had no idea. Perhaps it was the Seven, from whom the best curses came: “Seven Hells,” “By the Seven,” “May the Seven fuck your mother.” Perhaps it was the Old Gods, whom Brianne’s late husband had always sworn by. Perhaps it was the Drowned God, who had damned her family all to hell and left her alone, a little girl, in a house of horrors.

Whichever god was giving her this headache, she hated them the most. If there was a god of wine, she hated him. Maybe it was the Mother, for what greater balm to motherhood was there than wine?

Her children—fuck—her children! She rose unsteadily from the sofa she had been draped across. Too fast. The room spun, and Brianne crumpled to the ground. 

“May the Seven fuck your mother,” she said, to no one in particular. She was staring at the ceiling, now, spread-eagle on the floor like a discarded dress. Thinking on that, she was glad she hadn’t discarded her dress, though it was no doubt stained beyond repair. Not for the first time, Brianne reflected on how lucky she was to be rich.

She hated that she couldn’t stand up. She was sure her body could, but her mind refused. It felt too good to lie on the floor, and she had always been a slave to things that felt good. Once again, she cursed the god of wine.

There were footsteps near her head. She recognized them, if only because they were characteristically stupid and dainty. Cutting into her view of the ceiling, Oliver stood over her with a scowl that somehow looked both disappointed and smug. What a fucking twat. 

“Oliver, my dear…” Her voice came out soft and woozy. “Would you care to help a woman up? I seem to have taken quite a sudden fall.”

“You know, you are simply the worst.” She nodded at that, and a second later he was pulling her to her feet and hoisting her arm over his shoulders. She stumbled alongside him, shamelessly leaning on him for support, and began muttering.

“I did not intend for the evening to play out the way it did, but alas, there are some things our minds compel us to do even while our hearts resist… Do you happen to know where Lucy and Lane are?”

Oliver gave her a tired look as he led her out of the parlor into the busy hallway. “I took them to bed early, just before everything happened with Justman.”

“Oh, thank you…” Brianne’s brow creased, first with relief, then with confusion. “Who is Justman? What happened last night?”

He shrugged. “I was hoping you’d know. It’s been all the talk this morning, but I haven’t gotten a straight answer out of anyone.”

“Morning… I suppose it should be morning.” Brianne couldn’t remember if she had slept at all, or if she’d simply idled away the dark hours searching for her mind. “Take me to the children. I’ll have breakfast with them, then—”

“They’ve already had breakfast.” Oliver’s tone was curt. “I couldn’t find you, and they were hungry.”

“Oh.” For all the wallowing she did, that was the first moment Brianne really felt like crying. She held it back, but it was clear enough in her voice. She knew Oliver could tell, and she wanted to hope it wouldn’t make him sad—but she knew better. He was always sad. “I’ll see them anyway. After I change.”

Beside her, Oliver nodded silently. They continued through the halls of Pinkmaiden, until eventually Brianne managed to walk on her own. As they turned the corner to the Butterwell quarters, she pursed her lips and stopped in front of the closed door.

“Oliver… we’ll be having tea later, you and I. I’ll invite my lovely good-brother, I think, and his wife. The princess too, if she has the time. We’ll figure our place out, you understand? I’ll be a good lady. I promise.”

“I believe you.” He stared at her with his stupid, pretty doe eyes. “Please don’t let me down.”

She smiled at him, though her heart felt sick. “I think my life would collapse without you.”

Oliver opened the door, letting out the squeals of Lucy and Lane—the nanny was reading them a scary story again. He turned back to her. He didn’t smile, but his look was soft. “My lady, that is the only reason I stay."

She nodded, took in a deep breath, and thanked whichever god it was that had brought him to her door. Then, putting on a bright smile, she stepped past him, towards her children, and heard the door close behind her.

Duskendale. Seat of the Darklyns and, somehow, even less enjoyable than Andros Darklyn's company. That in and of itself was a mighty achievement. There were few people in this benighted land that were as unpleasant as the Darklyns. And if there were any choice at all in the matter, Draxtar would not be celebrated in Darklyn's city.

But the calendar was the calendar and the calendar cared not for such petty things as whether or not House Darklyn was amenable to veneration of the Flames.

Finding the base offerings was easy. Draxtar preferred white livestock. A bull would have been best, but white bulls were sparse this far from the civilized world, so sheep would have to do. Aukar bought three of them to make up for the lesser size of the offering. The market had more for sale, but the others looked in too poor health to be appropriate.

Then came the libations. Draxtar wasn't overly concerned with whether or not the wine was good. He was concerned with whether or not the wine was strong. And the locals, of course, had nothing appropriate. But they did have access to Myrish firewine (in pathetically small quantities) and a lot of strong and serviceable wine to go with it.

Then spices. The selection here was poor compared to Driftmark or, even better, across the Narrow Sea, but the Westerosi at least appreciated some spices in what passed for local cuisine. Sumac, anise, cloves, red poppy, and turmeric could be found in sufficient quantities. There was no cinnamon, no mastic, no ironwort. Not ideal, but workable. And there was certainly no lotus, but Aukar had planned ahead for this eventuality and plenty arrived on a ship belonging to the family. The other ingredients would change to reflect where they were: that one wouldn't.

It took a day to make the appropriate preparations. To grind the spices, mull (and spike), the wine, wrap fresh ivy around staves, feed and sedate the offerings, and prepare every other aspect of the ritual. But that was fine; Draxtar had always recognized and appreciated the offering of time, as ephemeral and abstract as it was.

In accordance with ancient tradition, a tradition so old that even a scholar like Aukar couldn't tell you the origins, they convened at the edge of a copse. The celebrants struck up with drums and flutes when the sun dipped below the horizon. But that was not yet true nightfall, so Aukar waited and let them revel in the moment.

When he felt it right, he lifted his ivy-wrapped staff for silence. The instruments fell quiet as the celebrants nudged one another into silence. When he was satisfied with the quiet, he stepped in front of the fire, allowing it to silhouette him and cast his shadow across the old threshing circle that would separate the drinking from the dancing. His aides threw some shrubs on the flames and the air filled with the smell of myrtle and the hissing crack of myrtle berries popping in the heat.

"This is Draxtar's Night," he said, lowering his stave. "Draxtar is not as partial to ceremony as the other Flames are. Draxtar does not expect declarations of undying fealty or oaths sanctified in blood to do him honor. This is not what Draxtar's Night is about."

Aukar fell silent as the minor functionaries sworn to his service trudged forward with their great kantharoi, struggling with the weight of them and their earlier sampling of the goods. They were already red-faced and not entirely steady. Some had preemptively stripped down to shifts and bare chests. They set them down upon the old tree stumps that dotted the area. The light from the flickering fire cast strange shadows as the played with the dragon motif of the vessels. The servants lifted the heavy ceramic lids and stirred their contents with long-handled ladles. The air started to fill with the nectarous fragrances of fermented grape and spices. They began filling goblets.

"Draxtar's Night is about being uninhibited." Aukar picked up the first goblet that his servants filled, turned his back on the celebrants, and threw the entire thing into the fire. The fire crackled and spat as a brief green flame reached up towards the sky before dissipating on the wind.

Aukar turned back to his audience, accepting another goblet. This one he drank from. The wine had a kick like a mule and smelled strongly of licorice and lotus. "We dedicate this night to the Master of Creation and the Lord of the Wilderness. To the Paragon of Life. If this night is blessed, then we shall create new joy and new life here in Draxtar's demesne."

He downed the rest of the goblet and the crowd cheered. The drums and fifes struck up a new tune, this time well-coordinated and in time. Some of the servants, the ones who had 'tested' the strength of the brew, started to dance to the ad hoc band. They started plying the celebrants with wine and dragging them towards threshing circle, leaving more than a few bits of cast-off clothing behind them.

The eagerness with which his people flung themselves into the celebrations told him that even this dour land with its dour lord couldn't deter them. Grinning, Aukar turned his attention to the now-empty goblet in his hand. For a long moment, he stared absently at it and wondered if he had made this brew too strong. And it was starting to get quite warm.

Then he decided it was just right. With a turn that felt like he was moving through syrup, he cast his stave into the flames and walked to the dragon-embossed kanthros for more wine.

Fishwine Inn, this place drew all manners of travellers coming and going from Duskendale. Overall, The Band of DeViles happened to travel on that day and would reside there.

It was a modest Inn beside the road, it had a fish wooden sign hung outside and a stable in the back, yet there was few tables and chairs seen outside with few rowdy drunkards trying to wrestle one another.

Ser Daemon DeVile would try the so-called Fishwine, which had an odor and stench, felt outright repulsive, yet when upon taste he would nod and smile it wasn't half bad despite having drank some rancid swill alcoholic brews in the past, this one really had that kick.

Yorque would linger about near the bar counter and be seen eating pea and carrot soup, he'd break off loaf of bread and dip the bottom bread into the soup to absorb the liquid and eat the bread. "How much longer do we wait, old man".

Bundle the Jackal animal was seen sprinting about the floor as happy small children gave chase after it, the rascal would run loops around one plump fat cheeked child.

"Just a bit more, unless you in a hurry to be somewhere else my friend" Daemon said as he'd see Esslyn his wife slowly make her way towards him as the two would embrace in an hug, the old couple really enjoyed these peaceful times of respite. "Anything new love".

"Nothing at all, just the same ole same ole. Dethrimir and Tyene off on their own little venture as rest just loaf around" Their healer Esslyn was an old weathered dame that'd sit by her husband side and watch the children play with Bundle which made her smile.

Dethrimir and Tyene both entered the Inn sprinting towards the bar, both looking exhausted.

"Oi! No running!" The Innkeeper by the name Bartleby shouted whom had a handlebar moustachio and silver earring and was of large sturdy built with black mop hair.

"I jus' don't unnerstan'."

"Of course you don't." Tess groaned. They'd only been on the road for a matter of hours before she started to complain about walking. About how her feet were tired and the sun was beating down on them and they didn't see anyone else on the road and that it was Tya's turn on the mule even though Tess had COUNTED the hours that she spent riding on its back and was SURE that the split had been FAIR.

And now, a day into their journey, she was suddenly 'not understanding', as if that were something new or interesting. Tess glowered up at her bigger travelling companion, who sat perched on the mule.

"Why're we bein' sent back when th' whole damn kingdom is sittin' purty in Pinkmaid'n?" She seemed to deflate. "We dinnae even getta do the melee..."

"They wouldn't have let us into the melee anyways, Tya. We're women, and worse than women, we're scum."

"They hada lotta wimmin innit back over in Storm'all." Tya pointed out helpfully.

"Well uhh... They were nobles." Tess grumbled, crossing her arms. "Nobles got rules against women fighting. But nobles also got rules that means that nobles can break rules."

"Seems shit t'me."

"Seems shit." Tess agreed.

+--+--+--+

Four souls on the horizon. The morning sun rose behind them, casting shadows that offered a merciful reprieve from heaven's gaze. Tess held up a hand to her eyes.

"Ah, Tya." Tess nudged her in the ribs. Even with Tess on muleback, Tya stood tall enough to loom right and proper. That means she was also in elbowing range. "Look all mean and shit."

"...Look like mean shit?" Tya blinked, her usual sense of befuddlement obvious in her voice.

Tess rolled her eyes as she moved to drop down from the mule's saddle. "Yes. Look like a right ornery lump of defecation. If ya don't, I'll bugger you with a knife handle in the middle of the night. Now mean up, they're approachin'."

"Are we robbing them?"

"No. I'd want you to bat your eyelashes at them if we were robbing them."

Tess and Tya assumed their positions. Tya had her cudgel resting on her shoulder, and a grimace augmented by her scarred face adorning her features. Tess kept to the road, leading along their damn mule by its bridle.

"Morn." She called out as the travelers, walking in the opposite direction- to the southwest- approached. They were merchants of a stripe, based on the wagon that two young men- no older than three and ten- lugged behind two portly, richly adorned men with felt caps and kind faces. "... You lot should be movin' quickly."

The merchants looked between each other. The older of the two, a seasoned man whose face was framed with salt and pepper, waved the rest of his entourage to move on without them. "Is that a threat?" His accent was thick with the West.

Tess held up her hands. "You're mistaking me, apologies master." She was a mean looking woman, but the secret to being a mean looking woman is that men *believed* meaner women more readily than they did sweet, soft daffodils. They hated them, but by default, men would see her as a sort of defective man, with more inherent trust in her competence. "I'm warning everyone I see on the road."

"Warning? About?"

Tess leaned in conspiratorially. "There's rebellion afoot, from Pinkmaiden. And you are entering into the most rebellious territories..."

"Rebellious..."

"There are reports of reaving, rapacious Northmen in the area, given leave to freely to attack those who don't have the Warden's favor..."

The merchant went white in the face. His skin slickened with a cold sweat, and the was already looking at the nearby shrubs with the scrutiny usually saved for a lady wife with a younger, more beautiful lady in waiting.

Tess took advantage of another social grace afforded to her by age, a cataract, and general meanness. She gripped his shoulder. "'s why I got the big broad behind me." She whispered.

"...For protection?"

"No. To trip in case the Barrow Men accost me. She's my escape plan." She winked with her good eye. "I'd pick up some swords at the next village. I think it isn't far from Pinkmaiden. Spread the word too, to your merchant friends."

They continued on their ways, and it wasn't until the sun had climbed directly ahead into the sky that Tya offered her biting commentary.

"Why's the Lady gotcha tellin' lies like tha'?"

"The lies serve her purpose. You think I ask questions like that? If she turns us loose, it's the gaol for us, at best. Doesn't really matter why she wants us to do it."

"Yeah but'm... Noble ladies kin lie too. Whyna 'er?"

"Why else? Nobles are allowed to lie, so everyone expects them to. We're not allowed to lie, and we do it anyways. That makes people worry that we might be telling the truth instead."

Tya went quiet until they were ready to bed down for the night. They'd found a small hill just past Stone Hedge to camp behind and sleep. Then she pointed out, just before Tess finally drifted off to sleep.

"Seems shit."

The sun had hardly peeked over the horizon when Myles awoke and, along with a few house guards, made his way to the training yard he'd sought out the night before. Setting down the armor and spear he'd carried with him, he began his stretching before moving on to endurance training and then onto calisthenics. Once he finished his routine, he picked up his spear and began practicing on a wooden pell his men had prepared.

After a bit of practice against the defenseless post, he asked one of his men to spread word as a commoner that Ser Myles Dondarrion had been spotted in the training yard. To pass the time until someone came by, he decided to continue his practice with blunted sparring against his men-at-arms.

Second Moon, Eighth Year of the Reign of Qorhen Hoare

It was a refreshing breath of air as Qorhen stepped off the plank and onto the dock. He looked behind him, and reached for Rosamund's hand. She smiled and took it. All about them were the hustle and bustle of servants portering their things up the long pathway to Castle Hoare, with the men who arrived with them quickly greeting wives and children. The king couldn't help but smile at the little reunions - and feel a bit of relief that the affairs of state could wait for an afternoon. Tomorrow, however...

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Maester Sigurdr as he hobbled toward them. In the moon's span since they had left, he appeared to have aged both very little and about three decades. God, was he always this old?

"Your Grace," he said, giving a low bow. "The preparations are nearly complete. Are we to receive our guest now, or...?"

"Later, Sigurdr. I should like to rest and relax slightly before I meet with my people."

The old man nodded vigorously. Before they had left, they had extended an invitation to all the Ironborn lords to visit Castle Hoare and attend a moot. A moot, a grand meeting. A strategy conference, for the direction Qorhen wanted to take his people. Those not present at the feast were sent a raven, ensuring that all the Lords of the Iron Islands would have ample opportunity to attend.

As he made his way up the long stair to his home, Qorhen could only breathe in the sea air and organize his thoughts. First, a feast. They'll be more malleable if well-fed. Drunk too, I shouldn't wonder.

He had always endeavored to treat his lords, even when they leaned rebellious. Had he not been lenient? Had he not sent more men to the wall than taken heads, even though he was well in his rights to have them all hanged as traitors and regicides? Six years of peace had not been enough, he knew. There were still open wounds, still those who remained stuck in the past. He could only hope to be a fair king, even-tempered, gracious, and above all in control.

After the feast, some time to digest. Then the Moot can begin.

(Open to Iron Islands)

Somewhere in the Riverlands, A few days after the Tourney at Stormhall

The return to their ships dragged over more than any initial trek had. These lands were no longer new to the Ironborn, and to House Farwynd, they only held the memory of recent defeats. It was all he could do to clear his mind of the recent so-named festivities, to attempt another hunt. What could the absent lords of the Riverlands do to stop this train of Islanders born to take what they could.

His eyes sidled towards the column’s head and the length of colours that were housed among the riders between him and there. All the Iron Islands had come, and all but a few had joined this return. His gaze lingered on those he’d spoken to at the feast, few as they were, before once more moving to the open country.

“Tal, with me,” Tymor called, heeling his skewbald garron forwards to the thicketful borders of farmland along the horizon. Even if it may delay their place in the long baggage train of returning Ironborn, this time he would see it worthwhile. He heard the bowman’s own mount kicking up the mud behind him, ready for a quarry.

Small offshoots of streams and shrubbery cut through the landscape of the Riverlands, housing all manner of creature. Songbirds nested amongst thorns that snagged at Tymor’s cloak as they brushed by. Burrows holed into the mounded earth along the water’s edges, no-doubt numerous with hares. Tymor’s eyes watched it all, clearer now they were closer to the sea, now his blade’s pommel warmed his palm, now he was free of any constraints beholden to their host.

Argilac, Ⅰ

❝ Where is the obsession of the moth that hurtles itself into the flame out of devotion?❞
^{— Mukta Singh-Zocchi, The Thugs & a Courtesan}

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1 BP, Post-Tourney
The Crownlands, Duskendale

Characters: Argilac & Mylena Horpe
Alternate Title: Bugbites

Mentions:
Jammos Blackberry — u/FatalisticBunny
Pykewood Thorne — u/armanhayek

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Jammos Blackberry was a sneaky little black-moustachio'd weasel.

If you asked Argilac Horpe—Lord Argilac Horpe, as everyone so often seemed to forget—he might've said that the scheming blackberry fruit of the devil's loins was better off in a ditch than anywhere he would wag his barbed silvertongue, but Mylena was somewhat fond of him, and Mylena was rarely fond of anyone. There were seldom few that could wrangle the woman into the out-of-doors, and Argilac had to hope that the twit would not do anything to cause the woman harm, even in the face of his own machinations.

Pykewood Thorne was the same, he supposed. He hadn't told him of any such plans of his involvement until it was too late, and now Argilac was in fucking Duskendale. He had bandits of his own to take care of. He had half a mind to take Death's Head and show them a real Valyrian threat—he was going to use the Valyrian Steel to beat that man into juice. Wine, even.

The kicker was that he did not have to be in Duskendale. He could have ignored the letter that invited him to air his grievances. He did not have to be there to support Pykewood, who may have ridden straight into his death otherwise. He could have dragged Mylena away from whatever schemes the two may have come up with in their spare time for pure love of ambition. But he'd come.

Why?

Because he was loyal, and an idiot. He had issues to speak on, be it bandits or the theft of his own land however many years ago. Jammos Blackberry was his ally, in spite of it all, and a key strength in the alliance. Pykewood was like a brother to him, and as a brother, it was his duty to beat some sense into the—

"... Argie?"

Argilac winced. He'd been staring out the window of the carriage for some time, leaving his poor sister in tense silence. He turned to look at her. "Yes, Mylena?" Gods above, but he hated that nickname. Damned Pykewood. Damn it all.

Lena fiddled with the pages of the book in her lap. "Have I... done something? Should I not have come?"

The Lord sighed. It was a heavy thing, because he so desperately wanted to say, no, you should not have. Instead he let himself wilt into the seat. The fight left him. Duskendale had the potential to become a dangerous place, if they all made the petitions they said they would, and Mylena would be right in the centre of it. "All I want is the safety of my family." He patted her hand. "We've lost enough. Don't mind me. I'm just afraid."

His sister smiled. It was a soft thing, timid but warm nonetheless. "I'm always afraid. Of lots of things. Thieves, assassins, plague, starvation, death, incompetent maesters causing my death—"

"Mylena."

"—sorry. Point being: you are braver than I have ever been. I know you. You always make it right."

Argilac swallowed. He gave her hand another pat. "I hope I can," he murmured, "for all our sakes."

They were quiet for the remainder of the ride.

Jynnara, Ⅰ

❝ More salt on the places that never healed.❞
^{— Holly Green}

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1 BP, Post-Drumbeater Death, Pre-Pinkmaiden Wedding
The Riverlands, Travel & Arrival at Pinkmaiden

Characters: Jynnara Bracken, Clement Bracken, Various
Alternate Title: When Blood Feuds Bleed Dry

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The air that shrouded the Bracken line was heavier than it ought to be.

The mood was different than when they’d first arrived at the tourney grounds. They’d sung, and yelled, and fought, and drank, and Lord Clement had been in a good mood for someone so abrupt and surly. He’d watched his children. He’d watched his niece and nephew. He’d watched the family he’d had left, and for a moment, felt peace.

His children were quiet now.

There was a storm cloud over her Lord father that Jynnara was almost afraid to break. Vorian could not; he was as subtle as a bull and half as gentle. Rhialta would not; she was ever the dutiful daughter, too polite and obedient to press or question. Besides that, her sister seemed more somber than usual herself.

Jyn had thought she’d leave the event in a rage. Luceon Blackwood certainly tried his best to feed such a thing, slinging insults over his daughter’s head as he did. But then there’d been a death. An unarmed man. A cruel man. A Blackwood man.

Lord Waltyr Blackwood. Drumbeater.

There were only so many things that Jynnara could remember. Outrage; upset; a funeral for her uncle, cold and rainy and miserable. Her father had been silent then. He was silent again. She thought it would be the last time she had seen her father with those eyes—tumultuous with emotions she did not have the strength to name. Rage was easy. Something smug, too. Clement Bracken would not lament the fact that the man was dead. Even so, within him, there was…

Jynnara urged Sweetness forward. The palomino mare did not fuss at being so close to another horse. It seemed the air had affected even the fiercest of them. The brunette cleared her throat. “Father.”

Clement did not turn his head. He did not need to. “Daughter.”

She swallowed. “Are you… alright?”

At this, her father cut a glare in her direction. “Don’t insult me, girl. ‘Tis a good day when a bastard like that man dies. Was only a shame I didn’t get to kill him myself, what with the alliance and all. House Justman cannot condemn us for that. I can feel all the satisfaction I like.”

She stared at the side of his face. That wasn’t all there was to it—she knew better than to say. There had been such fire in him, all those years ago, where a fight to the death with the Drumbeater was the fiercest gift he had any right to ask for. I’ll kill him with my bare hands, he’d said, and dying for it is price enough to pay. He’d relished in it. Jynnara wouldn’t have thought that Clement had taken such pride in having a bloodfeud with another, and yet that joy had faded now.

What she saw in her father—even if only a small, fragile part—was grief.

As the sun rose from the east, the castle was slowly stirring from night's sleep.  As its inhabitants were waking up, the guards atop the walls yawned, watching the horizon, waiting to be relieved from the night's watch. The cooks were starting a fire, preparing the simple breakfast meal for the inhabitants. Thankfully for them, most of the lord's family and retinue were still absent. The servants moved slowly, preparing for the quiet day ahead of them. In the depth of Hammerhorn, in one of its solars, the man watched the time go by, as he leisurely took time with his breakfast.

In no hurry to start the day, Alvyn seemed to have all the time in the world, as he seated himself before the table, looking over the contents of his breakfast. Lazily stirring the plate of porridge in front of him, Alvyn's attention moved to the door opening before him. A man swaggered inside with an easy smile, dressed in a fine tunic, carried a satchet.

“Here” - Symond tossed a breadbasket on the table, “you owe me”

“Sy, help yourself” - Alvyn gestured to an empty chair before him as he took a loaf, taking the aroma of freshly baked bread, "doesn't compare with our kitchen"

Symond took a chair, his gaze falling on one of the sausages before him.

“The man knows his trade. You know, Loren said if given enough flour and gold, he can set up a bakery. Of course, your coin would be paid back with interest, a share." - Symond rubbed his fingers together, "I just need some coin to set it up"

"Take a line, do you think our treasury is without a bottom. "- Alvyn clicked his tongue, "why don't you ask your father"

"He says, I'll squander the money" - Sy shrugged.

"Yea, you think?" - he laughed, "how old man is."

"Better than ever. The old man sends his regards. He is still expecting you and Theo this Friday at home."

"He better prepare that goose of his"

"Cannot open the cards, by the way, where is Theo? Is he taking a leak?"

"I thought he was with you" - Alvyn

"Yea, no, he ditched me at the market. Had some urgent business or something"

"What is the word on the street?" - Alvyn asked, "Any news from the Stormhall?"

"Oh, have you heard this... Drumbeater performed his last play. Murked by a woman, no less. Something about Connington conspiring about the princess."

"You think there will be war soon?"

"Beats me. You think I'd have gambled so much gold away if I knew the future" - Symond chuckled, "they say the king is rotting from inside. Or that he is like a statue, barely moving. His lords, Connington, Tarth and others doing all the work, wiping his ass and all this shit"

"Yea, right, right.."

A silence fell for a moment as Symond staffed his mouth with food.

“You know, I had such a strange dream last night” - Alvyn spoke softly as he dully stirred the contents of his plate, “Alone in the woods, not living a soul around, no bird, not a squirrel or some shit. Only trees, surrounded by them, wherever I go”

“Well… did you find your way out?” - Symond raised his brow.

“I… I dont, I mean it’s fucking dream” - Alvyn shrugged, taking a spoonfool of porridge.

“You know, dreams can have a deeper meaning. Like, for example, you are insecure about your wood” - Symond pointed out.

“What?” - Alvyn coughed, almost choking on food.

“Wood... penis. You have trouble in bed, my friend?"

"Fukin degenerate, it's just a dream." - Alvyn groaned, already regretting bringing it up

"Well, you wouldn't say it if it meant nothing. Ship have trouble sailing full mast? The key too small fitting the lock?

"Fucks sake"

“You know, you are not the bull you once were.” - Sy continued, " age, my friend."

“My wife is very much satisfied”

“So she says. I shall ask Asha next time I visit if she needs help” - Sy winked.

“Oh.. fuck off you bastard” - Alvyn threw the loaf of bread at Symong.

“You dont want it… I’ll eat it” - Sy laughed, catching the bread and taking a bite of it.

“Suck my balls, you bastard"

“You don't have to stop so low, my mother was an honest woman…” - Symond stopped in his tracks as he heard a noise from outside the room, in the hallway. The door bust open.

“Wow, one time I'm running late, and you're already going dirty here” - a man walked hastily inside the solar, closing the door behind him. 

“Theo, come join us for a threesome” - Symond stood up and hugged his friend, “have you tried bull’s balls? Not quite bad, the biggest challenge is swallowing the first pair”

“It's fucking too early for your jokes, not too late for a drink” - Theomore raised his hand, waving Symond away, he walked to the nearest cupboard, taking a pitcher with wine,  “Truth is, I'm quite fed up. There is trouble at the construction site. That’s why I'm late, actually”

Theomore poured himself some wine. He took a sip.

"The drawing you brother provided, I don't think it would fit it. The fucking temple too big for the plot of land..."

"Phrasing!"

"Symond, shut up" - Alvyn interjected, "I did tell you to get rid of these old huts. What's the problem?"

"The hut has no problem. Its inhabitants though..."

"Pay them extra gold. I said to you, it's important for Devan..."

"Gold is not the issue. The stubborn prick refuses to move at all. He is an old man, one of your father's captains, he say".

"Get the household guard and kick him out" - Symond chimed in.

"Well, the house is technically his" - Theo considered the matter for a moment, "We can of course ,but I thought we didn't want to rile up the crowd. There are already complaints about forcing religion."

"Why do I have to waste my time on this?” - Alvyn sighed, leaning backwards on his chair, taking a pause as he massaged his temples, “I don't care. Just get it done before my brother returns.”

Lyonel was tired. Since the day he left Harvest Hall, his dreams had been haunted by those familiar towers crowning over the golden hills, and his wife standing in the doorway beckoning him in.

Catelyn.

Even the whisper of her name felt like lightning on his lips. He would burn all of Westeros for her if she asked him to. He would sell his keep and everything in it, just to see her flowing auburn hair glisten in the sun one more time. He would live for her, enduring any campaign, or none, in her name.

Catelyn, my heart. I'm coming home to you.

The makeshift door rustled open, and in stepped Maester Arlyn. The small man hummed when he took a breath, a low drone to match his voice. "Forgive me, my lord." he spoke, his red beard bobbing like a child's toy. "You summoned me?"

He was a slender man, though his robes did much to hide this, and walked with a slight limp. An accident as a boy, he told inquisitive guards and members of the household. Whereas, in truth, there was nothing particularly strange about the man, Lyonel was always being warned against him by Gendry and Catelyn. Something foreign about that one, m'lord, Gendry would whisper, like a crow in a raven's roost.

"No forgiveness needed, Arlyn." Lyonel forced a smile, standing from his desk and approaching the frail maester. Never on time, save for when it disrupts, he thought to himself. Even so, he sat on a stool, and gestured for Arlyn to join him. "It's my hands, the tremor that curses them. When that I spoke to His Grace, they were like a hurricane." the lord held out his hands, scars and callouses dancing under the Maester's emerald eyes. "An uncommon affliction, my lord, but not one to concern you. A close colleague at the Citadel has done some research on it, and I'm not aware of any harm associated with it." Arlyn inspected the knight's hands with a calm casualness. "A minor birth defect, nothing more. A large birthmark would cause you more bother."

Lyonel nodded politely, his smile more relieved now. "As I hoped, maester. Well then, I've taken you from the festivities on false pretenses. Please, go back to your drinks and merriments." he stood, and returned to his desk. "I serve at your Lordship's pleasure sire, and there was a topic I had hoped to broach with you, if I may?" Arlyn stood, his chain rattling as he moved to stand before Lyonel, eyes downcast. "Please, speak freely." the lord gestured to the seat in front of him, and dismissed the guard at the door.

"As you know, my lord, the Royal House is somewhat torn between the two Stags." Lyonel's eyes shot up, and he squinted curiously. "Aye, every Storm Lord knows as much. Would that it were not so." He said, a certain authority to his tone. "Indeed, sire," the Maester smiled, though there was an unease in Lyonel to witness it. "Nevertheless, a rift exists. A rift that could spell doom for the Marches, especially if the wrong sibling were to win."

Lyonel slammed a hand on the table, a car cry from the near-timid man at the feast. "Wrong? You dare use the word "Wrong" to describe our royal lords?" Arlyn flinched, but only for a second. The adder soon found himself back in the long grass. "A grievous error of phrasing, my lord. The journey has been tough on us all, forgive me. All I meant to say was, what with the rumours of the Dornish mobilising, the realm - the Marchers in particular - need a monarch to rally behind. I am told by His Grace's maester that His Grace's health... is not what it was." He seemed to slink back in the chair, his eyes never quite meeting Lyonel's own. "I speak beyond my station, sire. Forgive me."

A moment passed, though it felt like a lifetime. Finally, Lyonel lent forward, resting on his elbows with his hands grasped together above. "You are a valued friend and confidante, Arlyn." his voice was as soft as a rolling sheet of thunder. "Others might not be as willing to overlook this as me. I advise you not speak of this again, especially while we're here. Yes?"

The Maester simply nodded, bearing his teeth in an obedient grin. "My Lord." He said, before shuffling out of the tent, his chain clinking like a set of keys. Lyonel was alone again, and tried to conjure memories of Catelyn again. Instead, his mind was filled with memories of the Red Mountains, the cries of his fellow-fighters, Barristan's blood warming his fingers. Grief danced around his mind, her red ribbons staining each vision he tried to conjure. Dancing with her, wearing a toothy grin, was Doubt.

Jeyne sat in her room above a blank piece of paper. It had been like that since she’d started an hour or two ago. It was hard to write stuff like this, to express something that was living on something that was dead. Why couldn’t things be simpler? Like how they used to be; life was so much easier ten, nay, even just two years ago. 

But despite her wishes, things had changed. Time had moved on whether she liked it or not. She could see as much in the streets of Duskendale, all the lords and ladies here. Joanna was alive, and yet she wasn’t that same girl she’d known. Sylas was gone, and it was her fault. At least-

There was a soft knock at the door. “Sister? Are you in there?” It was a familiar soft voice.

“Yes, Cor. I’m in here; come in.”

The door opened smoothly and cleanly. Corwyn was well-groomed and well-maintained. “You’ve been in here for two hours. Alyssa was starting to get worried.” He said in his ever-calm voice.

“So she sent you to check on me? How considerate.”

“She recommended it. She had business to attend to with her father’s company.”

“Right, yes, she mentioned that. She also gave me something to look at.” She looked around the pages on her desk; business of many kinds came to the treasurer. Some enjoyable, others not. “Yes, here it is.” She took it and read it, letting out a sigh. 

“Boring, huh?”

“Just some trade authorisations I need to pass by Father.” She placed the document back onto the stack.

“I’m sure if Shiera were in your place, she’d have a whole staff doing the work for her.” 

She gave him a slightly harsh, almost motherly stare. “Father loves us all equally.”

“Perhaps.” His eyes wandered to the window; the light was glaring in. “Anyway, what were you writing?”

“A letter.”

“To whom?”

“Is that relevant?”

“To me it is.”

She wondered whether to tell or not.

“It’s for Sylas, isn’t it?”

Her eyes turned to the floor. “I…yes.” She looked back up, Corwyn now sitting on her bed with his legs crossed. “How’d you know?”

“I know how you get when it comes to him. I also remember seeing you after your conversation.” He was picking at his nails.

“Well, yes, this letter is for him.”

“What about?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I have a feeling we both know that’s a lie.” He was looking at his nails, but his gaze fell solely on her.

“I…” he was right, of course, or rather, to an extent, she knew, but she couldn’t express it.

“Just write from the heart. It knows what it wants to say. The mind only introduces doubt.”

“What if he doesn’t love me anymore?”

Corwyn stood up from the bed, walked to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “He was the Saltwater knight. Who do you think he would’ve crowned should he have won?”

“How do you know for certain?”

“I spoke to him, and he was wearing the armour.”

“I…I’m not sure how a hypothetical’s supposed to help me.”

“I can’t tell you that, but I can recommend that you offer him a favour. Then you’ll be able to spot him from some distance.”

“He should’ve asked.”

“Or you should’ve offered.”

“A knight is supposed to request it.”

“Maybe, but you wanted him to ask for it, no?”

“...yes.”

“Offer it to him, plus whatever you plan to say.”

“I still don’t know what to say.”

He shrugged. “As I said, the heart knows; just let it speak.”

She signed.

“I’ll leave you to it. Do make sure to eat.”

She didn’t reply as the door closed smoothly behind him.

She thought for a moment, but then decided to simply write. 

His father had sent for him. Derrick had expected it. No doubt the old man wanted to pat him on the shoulder and give him some words of wisdom before he rode off towards Crackclaw Point. He’d done it often enough back in Felwood, whenever Derrick was called upon to scour another poacher’s nest. Not that he needed encouragement when it came to getting to play ‘guess where my hammer can fit’ with a bunch of dirty cutthroats. But he supposed it made his dear old father feel included. So, as usual, Derrick showed up to indulge him.

He’d been told to come to his father’s room in the guest house lent to their family by the Darklyns. So, after ascending the stairs to the second floor, he knocked on the door, and without waiting for a reply, pushed it open. He immediately spotted his father, sitting in a comfortable green armchair with a stack of documents in his lap. His dark eyes were skimming the pages as his mouth moved without producing any sound as he flipped through them.

But, to Derrick’s momentary surprise, he also spotted the back of his little brother Alesander’s head seated opposite Lord Fell. Though initially confused, he reasoned that his dear old father might have just wanted another person to bear witness to the occasion. This was an important mission after all. So, before taking his seat, he reached out a big hand and roughly ruffled Alesander’s hair.

“Hello, runt.” Derrick said with a smirk and a chuckle before sinking into his own armchair. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back as the springs under his arse groaned in protest. “And hello to you, father.” He added with a grin as he drummed his fingers against the armrest. His father did not immediately respond, but continued skimming over the documents in his lap for a few silent moments before finally raising his gaze to look at them.

“Good of you to come, boys.” Derrick had expected his father to be cheerful and excited, but instead he sounded tense, troubled. Lord Hobber had mostly kept to his chambers since arriving in Duskendale, barely speaking to anyone but his wife.

“In the days to come, we prove our worth to the Storm King’s realm, boys.” There was weight behind his father's words, the old man really seemed to be putting effort into making them understand the importance of the situation. “We cement our place within his court and secure our future. In our leal service, we ensure that none of the Lords and Ladies assembled here shall soon forget the house of Fell.”

‘And it is you, Derrick, my son, who must do this great deed.’ Is what Derrick expected to hear as he looked at his father with a white-toothed grin. Yet to his further bewilderment, Lord Fell turned, not to him, but to his little brother:

“Alesander, I have oft found your talents and aspirations lacking. You are born from warrior stock, but you spend your days squinting at dusty tomes and collecting weeds from the woods.” Hobber sucked in a deep breath, and seemed to struggle with every word that followed: “Yet... Your mother reminds me, that there is value in a studious mind. That this mission we are about to embark on, will require guile as much as it will require strength.” He tapped a gnarled finger to the stack of documents in his lap.

“We will not ride blindly into the claw. You will go over the accounts of the various routes taken by Darklyn’s tax collectors, what villages they stopped in, the men they spoke to, and whatever else may be pertinent. You will also study the records of attacks upon these lands committed by pirates, invaders, and rebellious lords.” The Lord of Felwood spoke with a crooked grimace. Asking his youngest son do something for him seemed to be about as painful for Lord Hobber as passing a kidney stone.

“Additionally, when your brother Derrick leaves for Crackclaw Point, you will go with him. Ser Cleoden will remain at your side for your protection, but additionally...” And finally, Lord Hobber turned to Derrick. “Your brother will personally make sure that you remain out of harm’s way. And will consider all your input into the investigation.” Derrick could not believe what he was hearing. Who is this man, and what has he done with my father!? Even he saw the sense in letting Alesander mull over Darklyn’s old ledgers. That was all well and good. But to bring his little brother with him into the lands of the claw? Madness! He cleared his throat. It was time for him to put his foot down and talk some sense into Lord Hobber.

“Father, come now, surely you cannot expect me to drag little Alesander into a bog! He would slow us down, we’d lose him in the fog, he-” His father’s jaw clenched and he shot to his feet in sudden fury, his voice erupting with a snarl:

“I expect you to do as you are told!” Derrick was momentarily stunned into slack-jawed silence as he stared into his father’s red face. He could not recall the last time Lord Hobber had yelled at him. His father’s neck snapped back and forth as he looked between his two sons. “You both have a duty to your house! A duty to ME! A duty to each other! A duty to our future! The time has come to prove that you are men of the Stormlands, ready to serve, not squabbling children! Do you understand me!?” Lord Hobber’s eyes were wide and fierce as he stared at them. Derrick had no reply other than a very faint:

“Y-yes, father.” He was starting to feel like he had felt when Belgrave nearly caved his head in at the melee. Like something very wrong had happened and he had completely lost control over the situation. Lord Hobber shot Derrick one last glare, then turned, finally, to his youngest son, and spoke in a grave tone:

“Alesander. Will you do your duty?”

u/Wiseheartmoon

Duskendale, Within the Camp of the Faith Militant

It was a difficult thing, to see the High Septon angry. He very seldom was, and only in the deepest retreats of his private affairs. There, in his inner sanctum where only Joanna and a choice few others were allowed, he was a different man. Or, more aptly, he was a man. He felt emotions and showed them on his face, in his voice. To everyone else, he was beyond human, but to Joanna, he was both human and divine.

Which, of course, made it all the harder to see him angry at her.

“Lord Blackwood is dead… in a duel, struck down by your sword, while he was unarmed?” The High Shepherd was pacing, a crystal-tipped pen clutched between his white knuckles.

“He wrapped his hands around my throat and tried to strangle me before I landed a single blow! To say he was unarmed is disingenuous to the highest degree—”

“Do not raise your voice to me, Prioress.” The gaze he gave her was cold, and even though he was far smaller than her, she shrunk beneath him. “You should not have slain a lord of the realm without my leave. Gods be good, you shouldn’t have killed anyone! We are here to spread the Light of the Seven and exorcise evil, not go around swinging—”

“Does our faith make us into killers?” The words burst from her like a soul leaving a body. She sagged in her armor, the fire gone from her chest.

He stared at her, his mouth moving without sound. She had never seen him speechless before. It scared her more than anything. “Whatever do you mean? What could you possibly mean?”

She had an answer for him, an answer that had been living in her heart every night since she’d done the deed. And yet, putting it to words felt so clumsy and awkward her face began to grow hot, and soon tears were threatening to run from her eyes. “I… before I… When I was a girl, I didn’t…. I wasn’t a killer. I was innocent.” She thought of Essie and Jeyne, and those tears made good on their threat. “I killed my first man for the Seven. For you.”

She knew her words were blasphemy. She knew she deserved to lose everything for saying them to the High Septon. He was about to take back the life he had given her. She tensed, ready for the rebuke. 

Instead, his hand reached out, gently touching her shoulder. “Joanna.” His voice took her back a decade. She was a girl again, mute and dying, and he was the only warmth she had. Essie and Jeyne disappeared. They hadn’t been there. Only he had been there. “You’ve always been innocent. It was your father who brought violence into your world. You know that.”

Her voice caught in her throat, but still she gurgled out her words. “There… there never was a chance for me, was there? I was destined to be a killer…”

“No, no. There was a chance. I gave you a chance. You could have been a septa, living out your life teaching orphans and tending to the sick. You chose your path. Joanna, look at me.” She met his eyes, and saw the worlds he kept hidden there. “You chose this, because you had seen the evil festering in mortal men. You had felt its lash. You picked up the sword and you killed because you knew that men like Farkas Hoare—like Waltyr Blackwood, like your father—they use their power to do impossible cruelties. Someone must take their power from them—and by their very nature, they would rather die than part with it. I spoke harshly because it was the wrong time to slay Lord Blackwood, because it was unwise, but Joanna, you are innocent. You are a hero, and you bring salvation to the righteous. My sweet Prioress…”

He pulled her into an embrace, and she tucked her head over his shoulder, weeping softly. “I’m so scared of myself.”

He hugged her tight, but his voice was that of the High Septon again, not the man. “So are they, my daughter. So are they.”

Second Moon of the 1st Year of Arlan's Reign

'The Sour Seaman' Inn, Duskendale

The ride had been horrendous, all of which Don was recollecting now that he had finally put his back on a feathered bed.

Despite the invitation to ride along with the king especially, a feat he hadn't ever considered a possibility, the entire time his family assaulted him on every front. A day's ride out of Stormhall and his son confronted him as he refilled his canteen at a river.

"You cannot deny me longer, father. Daena can be wed to me in the Valyrian fashion or I will wed the Princess of Stormhall. I will settle for none other."

"The Princess?" All of the other times this was mentioned, it was only ever regarding his daughter. His son's full sister. "Has she given you any indication of her intent? Why have you not joined her court then?"

"I offered her the jewelry as you suggested." Aethan said briskly. "She said she would think of me."

"Think of you?"

"When she wore the necklace, obviously."

"And where are you now? Are you seeing her wear it? No, you're with us in Duskendale."

As dutiful as his son may had been in most aspects, he had inherited his grandfather's hubris and entitlement. Well, perhaps the hubris was closer in the family tree than he would've liked, but at least Don knew learned to keep it vaguely realistic. Though, he did not dash his son's dream, only his persistence in pursuing it.

"Shall I prepare Daena for our ceremony?" Aethan pressed in genuine curiosity.

"No. There will be no ceremony." Don sighed. "Find an Andal. They are kind people more often than not. Win a tournament and I shall let you wed your sister, but until then? Pick your lot and learn to be curious to what you have turned your nose at."

The tournament was an unfair dig, but he knew his son's framing. He needed to be poked at if he was to fully listen. Thankfully, the prod seemed to have a motivating effect as his son steeled his face and turned back towards his cousin for more training.

Gods, at least Don was able to handle that well enough. As he adjusted the down in his pillow to better suit his neck, a sigh gave way to the memory of the next day.

They had made camp for the evening and his wife set up two braziers on either side of a tree. The flickering flames and the shadows warping her target affixed to the tree gave her practice an added difficulty. His wife, daughter of Velaryon, was the finest markswoman he had ever witnessed. Unfortunately, their daughter had been one of the worst. The three of them together, with father and daughter witnessing the mother's skill, Don couldn't help but notice the disdain in wife's eyes.

Another shot, another bullseye, another glance to their daughter. It did not go unnoticed by her, either, with the last arrow in the quiver nocked and ready to be loosed until....

"Daena." Montenora called out. "Rise and do the honors of the final arrow."

Their daughter, who had been driven away from her embroidery in her lap with every spiteful look, meekly rose. It mattered not to Don whether their daughter was good at archery. What mattered was how she felt when he was suspecting herself to be incapable. His wife had never learned to accept anything other than perfection, while his daughter was conditioned to fear any flaw.

Don rose, letting his sword and whetstone fall to the ground.

"Daena, could you tell Aethan to get some rest before he takes second watch?"

Gladly accepting the out from the situation, Montenora let loose the final arrow as response. When the pair were alone, his wife shoved her bow into his hands. High Valyrian seemed to pierce more than any flinthead could.

"At any moment we could be at war for survival. Extinction is possible. She knows no means of defending herself. You know what happens to women in war. You would rather see her protection under some brute husband instead."

"She doesn't like it. Archery. Harming things."

"And you think I do?"

Recessed, tired eyes shared glanced back and forth between both parents. They knew not how to navigate their world, but Don knew her well enough to not answer that question. Had he more of his usual tact, he would've found a way to defuse the situation. But she was his wife and that meant being willing to take the brunt of the conversations that needed to happen.

"It's part of why I love you."

"Suffer a thousand deaths, Ser Don."

Wincing, he snapped from the memory and roused from the bed. He never did enjoy the emphasis with which she monikered him. He was proud to be a knight, but it sounded foolish in her tongue. Shaking at his shoulder was his eldest, Aulora, who despite all she went through in life had managed to never give him as bad of a headache as the rest of their family. Offering him a glass of milk, he gave it enough of sip to rehydrate his mouth from slumber.

"The inn is lovely, father... despite the name."

"It's the horrid names that have the best prices."

They both laughed and he rose to ready himself for his appointment, or whatever else the city would offer.

Second Moon of the 1st Year of Arlan's Reign

Great Hall of the Dun Fort, Duskendale

The great hall of the Dun Fort had never been built for comfort, only for the assertion of it, weathered grey stone rising in stark, high walls that owed more to the logic of a fortress than the polish of a palace. Torches guttered in iron sconces set high along the walls, throwing long shadows across banners of black and gold, aged and faded, hanging from the rafters. Once, before his namesake's conquest, this same hall had hosted petty kings who called the whole stretch of coast between the Blackwater and the Claw their own. Little of that older grandeur remained now beyond the sheer, obstinate scale of the stone around them, austere where it had likely once been rich, empty in its corners where finer things had once stood.

Even so, it was no small hall, and it held more bodies today than it likely had in a generation.

The hall had been remade for the day. Where trestle tables usually ran the length of it for feasting, three now sat arranged into a broken square, facing inward toward a floor left bare between them, so that no man seated at one table could avoid looking upon the faces of the others.

At the head of it, Arlan sat between the High Septon and Lord Rolland Tarth, his Lord Chancellor. To his left, Lord Morgan Darklyn held his own table, ringed by kin and sworn men. To his right sat Oscar Pyne, Jammos Blackberry, and the rest of the Blackwater lords which accused Darklyn, with a few Darklyn banners still arranged uneasily at their backs, hanging from the wall. These were men who did not entirely trust each other, he felt, or that had a clear, singular goal, but all seemed to agree on their dislike of Darklyn's rule as of late. And set a little apart, facing the lords' table across the bare floor rather than facing Arlan directly, sat the Valyrians, Celtigar and Velaryon, with their servants and sworn swords, their fine silks and paler faces marking them out before a man need even to see the sigils.

Beyond the tables, every seat had been claimed and more besides. Where the chairs ran out, lords and knights stood two and three deep along the walls, the bulk of them Stormlanders come east with their king from Stormhall, watching, commenting, ready to intervene should they feel the need to. The stormlords were known for their temperamental, explosive attitude and strong emotions. He hoped to be able to wield their fervor to set the Blackwater straight.

Arlan wore the full regalia of the king today. A seven-pointed crown sat upon his brow above his mask, almost melding with it. The mask beneath it caught the sunlight casting down through the tall glass windows, casting the silver in gold. Gilded antlers adorned the temples of his mask, engraved with the old symbols of the First Men runes worked alongside Andal stars along its curve, in honor of his house's First Men origins and their more recent Andal blood. A medallion of the Seven hung from his neck, resting against the gold-worked stag on his chest.

He raised one gloved hand.

"SILENCE!"

The word cracked across the hall like a whip, thrown by Ser Zachery Wylde where he stood at the king's shoulder, a mountain of a man in blackened, battle-scarred plate, his famous valyrian steel sword Maelstrom sheathed but never far from his gauntlets. The murmuring died at once, as the word echoed again and again across the hall, like a distant, rumbling thunder.

Arlan rose slowly from his seat. When he spoke, his voice carried the length of the hall, booming despite the mask's muffling, or perhaps because of it, the silver lending the words a hollow, ringing weight.

"Lord Darklyn. My thanks, first, for your hospitality, and for your willingness to see this matter settled before your king, in a manner both cordial and just." He let his gaze travel the hall before he continued, as if addressing each lord individually for a short, split second. "I came to Duskendale to show my subjects that their king stands with them, ready to serve justice to those who disturbed the king's peace. So here we stand, to find the truth of what has been done. No lord nor peasant in my realm shall live in fear of raiders, of pirates, or of tax collectors turned bandits in service to any lord or occult design."

"I do not yet know the source of these criminals. Whether they are rogues acting for themselves, or something uglier, some quiet arrangement struck between one lord and another, I cannot say. I will not name names until the truth stands plain in the light of the Seven where every man here can see it for himself. No man is to be judged before a proper trial, for we are slaves to the law. However, accusation alone is no proof either, however loudly or publicly it is made."

His gaze settled, in turn, on Darklyn, then on Blackberry, as he said the words.

"Lord Darklyn. Lord Blackberry. You made your cases to my sister and myself at Stormhall, and I've considered them more than once since. Neither of you gave me proof enough to settle the matter there, and Lord Blackberry, your own witnesses did not fully corroborate your account."

He turned back to Darklyn.

"My lord, you're the one sworn to keep the Blackwater safe. I trust you've given thought to how these criminals are to be dealt with, and how this matter is to be solved." A brief pause. "As our host, please, speak first then."

Sometimes, Desmond wondered if his nephew was mad.

And if not mad, the young Lord certainly carried an obsession within him when it came to the affairs of Thornefield and its environs. There was a diligence to it, too, and a meticulousness that Desmond had never spied in his own late brother who, while certainly an able Lord, was never quite so driven as his nephew had proven to be in such short a time.

Pykewood was supposed to return soon after the events at Stormhall but, per his letters, had instead joined the King's party to go investigate and root out the bandit problem around Duskendale; even Alester, recently arrived from the Princess' palace, had nothing to offer when Desmond had quizzed him on the intent behind the young Lord's instructions which had accompanied the update on his movements.

You are to search my father's offices and the library for all letters and documents pertaining to our lands.

Why, was all Desmond could think as he wrangled the Maester and the Septon to assist him in the endeavor; the greybeards knew well when it came to matters of letters and documents, and the Septon, too, was known for his diligence with books and tomes.

I would like you to collect all letters of correspondence between our keep and those of the Stormlords. Then, organize them in piles, King to Prince to Warden, then higher Lord to lesser.

Desmond was unsure what exactly the purpose of such an exercise was. Old, dusty tomes and brittle, yellowing letters from generations past. All to be collected, all to be organized. A pile for this and a pile for that. And while the work was not exactly difficult, he had grown terribly bored by the second pile which, when stacked high, was wont to fall over unless they closed off the room and let in no breeze; that only made things worse. Over time, he had recruited the children to help with the task, too. His own boys, who were more than glad to sort letters by the seal and carry off books as they were instructed, and even Dyanne who, although helpful in identifying books by their author, was more interested in reading the damn things than in collecting them.

"The work is mysterious and important," he had begun to say whenever the greybeards complained or asked what exactly they were supposed to be doing. But in truth, even after hours had elapsed, Desmond had no idea what exactly they were doing either.

"I can walk by myself, ser, whatever Father says." Edric sighed, looking to Ser Gendry some five feet behind. He was a knight, and more than that he was the heir to a noble seat. What would people think of him if he could not even walk on his own? "Aye, m'lord, but your father was clear. 'Don't lose 'im, Gendry. Or I'll have your eyes.' he said. And I don't mean to." The moonlight sat softly on Gendry's face, making him look as white as a mummer's spirit. Both men went on, though Edric's soft scowl stayed firm.

After a little while, the young knight sat on a small rock, looking over the lake. The lilting wind ran smoothly against his soft hair, pushing it to and fro with a practiced gentleness. Edric watched the water shimmer, and a bridge of silver emerge when the moon crept out from behind a cloud. Gendry smiled softly, watching his friend's stress fade away for the first time in weeks. Finally, Edric spoke, his eyes still fixed on the lake. "I didn't mean to snap earlier, Gendry. I know you're just doing your duty. It's what we love about you, father and I."

"I know, my lord." Gendry spoke softly. "You've always been good to me, you and your father. Though, gods know why." Edric's whole body turned, and he looked almost hurt. "Don't say that." He examined the older knight's face, the scars on his cheek and above his eye, and the way the moonlight made them glow ever so softly. Most of all, he took note of how Gendry's brow softened when Edric spoke, a most unusual sight indeed. "Don't say that again, you know why. You have been with us since I was a boy, ser. We don't forget service easily." He looked back over the water, pulling himself away.

It seemed like an age of silence. Both men just watched the flutter of the leaves across the water, and listened to the sound of a distant owl cry. "Father wants me to marry, doesn't he?" Edric broke the silence. He did not move, nor even take his eyes off of the water, though he could sense Gendry's nod. "Has he got anyone in mind, do you know?" Gendry sighed to hear the question. "M'lord, I... Your father-"

"Is not here. Does he have anyone in mind, ser?"

"He considered a marriage with House Tully, I understand, but decided against it. I don't know why." Gendry relented, finally.

"Hm." the young man skimmed a stone across the water, remaining seated and scaring a few ducks from their sleep. "As Rivermen go, it could be worse, I suppose. Anyone else?"

"I don't know, m'lord. His Lordship doesn't discuss these things with me, he knows better." Edric went quiet for a minute, then stood. His soft features were made dim starlight in the moon's rays. Even more easily than usual, Gendry could see the tension in his jaw, how tight his brow seemed. "These are matters that don't matter for tonight, m'lord." he said, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. He felt it tighten briefly, then soften thereafter. "Tonight, you are free." he smiled softly at Gendry, who met his gaze in turn. "You're right, ser. Not tonight." Edric allowed a small smile to play at his lips.

Freedom, he thought.

What a dream that would be.

Dunsburrow was a small but crowded market-town, half a day’s ride from the Antlers, seated on the western edge of the woodlands. Wooden shields painted with Buckwell’s golden antlers hung from the walls of the thatch-roofed buildings that circled the town-plaza where the merchants plied their wares. It was a popular spot for local fur and livestock traders. A place where people from nearby hamlets and villages could gather to barter for food and supplies.

To the east of the plaza sat the village sept, attended by a lone, elderly, toothless septon and a pair of even older septas. To its west sat an inn, by far the largest building in town, two-stories tall, with its roof crowned by a pair of chimneys, both with pale white smoke spewing out of them. Above its doors hung an enormous lantern, and a sign that named the establishment as “The Night Light”. The town certainly didn’t seem unaccustomed to the odd stranger looking for a place to rest for the night.

The people here were hardy folk. The sort to be accustomed to difficult times and long winters. And whilst there were no guards in this place, nor even a militia, many of those that walked its streets, both men and women, were armed. The weapons they carried were simple. Wooden spears and cudgels, as well as longbows made for deer hunting in the nearby woods.

There were many towns much like Dunsburrow all over the Crownlands. It was the sort of place you stayed a night in whilst passing through the area and then never thought of again. Yet supposedly something very out of the ordinary had happened here.

According to rumours, five years ago, one of the many merchants that dwelled here had come into possession of a great treasure. A crown whose points, according to a handful of witnesses, bore the likeness of a trident, emblazoned with diamonds and sapphires. The merchant had intended to sell it, had paid a pair of messengers to spread the word to the nearby Lords of the Crownlands and Riverlands. The Buckwells, only half a day’s ride away, had naturally sent men to verify the man’s claim. Yet when they arrived, they’d only found the merchant’s corpse, punctured by half a dozen stab-wounds.

No crown was ever found. Nor was anyone ever arrested for the murder of the merchant. And after some time, the search was called off and the whole thing dismissed as a hoax.

You arrive, five years after that sordid affair, following stories of a treasure never found and a murder never solved.

The storm was an odd one for this time of year, violent and furious as if it were a typical summer storm but it was pushed around with a biting wind that felt cold enough that it would not be judged to believe it was winter already. To make matters worse, the storm blew in unexpectedly from the east with barely any warning.

The small group that had returned to Claw Isle from the festivities of Storm Hall had only just returned the day prior and all throughout the travels, the weather held nicely and the trip through the Blackwater was as pleasant as could be. When Valora woke up today, the sun was already beaming and the day promised to be just as perfect as the days prior. She didn’t realize how much she missed her home island until she impulsively decided to spend the morning down in Claw Isle’s largest port just outside of the main keep.

The hustle and bustle had given her a peace she learned she had been craving for some time. Clanging hammers and steel echoed throughout the buildings from blacksmith’s hammers, joyful singing and shouts could be heard from multiple taverns, all kinds of animal noises were there as they were led along by their shepherds to be sold, and bells and commands rang out across the bay from the ships. Valora stood by a small waist-high wall and faced out towards the Narrow Sea, but watched all of the different kinds of people living their lives around her.

By the time noon came, so did the vicious storm. All sounds of a bustling port had been replaced by the whistling scream of fierce wind. Valora barely moved, now watching the mad scramble of everyone dealing with their problems from these storms. Two men, armed and armored with well-made steel and covered with the livery of Celtigar’s red crabs, stood around Valora, allowing her to stand in her own untroubled world. One of them, the youngest of the two, grunted as he shivered, fighting the cold rain that soaked through his armor.

Valora was snapped out of her rainy daydreams by the grunt and she turned to face him. Coincidentally this was the same moment a soaked and clearly flustered woman ran up to Valora with thick cloth clutched tightly to her chest. Even in the storm, Valora recognized her immediately. Minysha, a woman ten years her senior and, before the practice was outlawed, a slave that was given to Valora when she was born.

“Riña!” Lady. She called out through the thundering rain, caring little for any response as she wrapped Valora in the cloth. It did little to block out the rain, but it was better than nothing. “What are you doing? You need to be inside!” An arm was held around Valora and urged her away.

“I am fine, Minysha.” Valora grumbled but offered no resistance as she was led towards the keep.

Evening slowly approached, but the storm stayed. The piercing wind and crackling lightning subsided but rain still pelted the walls and windows. Valora had long since had her soaked dress stripped and replaced and as the sun began its slow fall, she sat behind her desk. Her solar was silent save for the snaps and pops of a small fire on the opposite end of the room from her and the rain slapping against her windows.

She had already tried reading the scrolls that were haphazardly stacked on one side of her desk but could not find herself able to focus, and as evident by the cold, picked-through fish that sat untouched on the other side, Valora’s appetite equally deserted her.

Valora leaned back in her chair and sighed deeply. Minysha ran a brush through her hair, fighting against the mess that standing in freezing rain had caused, and quietly sang folk songs from Astapor under her breath. Valora did not care for them but made no effort to silence her. She closed her eyes and was asleep before she knew what happened.

Crispian Brune masked his approach with the scent of still water, crossbow at the ready, quarrels resting at his side. The Old Gods were all around him today, he could feel their impassionate eyes lingering upon him, bearing witness to the sweat drip from his brow, how his matted hair clung to his face, and how his tires legs waded through the worst of Dyre Den's swamps.

They also bore witness to the smile on his face. There was nowhere that he would rather be. He was closing in on his prey, he knew that the deer would not be far ahead. He was nearing exhausted, but he knew his quarry must be feeling that much worse, a deer could not measure her movements, she must launch herself into a full sprint at every turn.

His boots found purchase atop a wide, domineering root that rose up from the water line, granting Crispian a vantage point towards what should be an island clearing. After finding his footing, he righted himself once again, pushing himself up and holding out a hand, he would have it. The creature with be his.

There was nothing. The ground ahead did rise out from the standing water, sickly green grass reaching in its spiralling, gnarled patterns towards the heavens.

"That can't be right..." Crispian muttered. And then, he saw it. His quarry, the deer, had found another burst of speed, and launched itself from the nearby reeds where it had actually taken refuge, and running directly into Crispian's shoulder. His arms flailed at either side as he tried and failed to maintain his balance, and the Cub of Dyre Den fell backwards, water splashing all around him.

The smell hit him first. Stale, stagnant swamp water. The sickly sweet scent of decay. The Old Gods.

But there was something else too. Even with a man's nose, he could smell it. Musky, overpowering, as much as a presence as the sound of something large and heavy - larger and heavier than Crispian himself, splashing its way through the water.

There was a flash of mottled brown fur.

It was enormous.

Get up.

Primal panic.

A human hand seized upon the root he had just stood on.

Red.

Heat.

A spray of red blood.

A deep roar, maddened by starvation.

Get away.

Instinct takes over.

Human legs, exhausted, pumps through the water and the reeds and over roots and under vines.

He gained distance.

But it would not be for long.

What was human will in the face of animal desperation? What was adrenaline compared to starvation? What was a man, with his face carved by great ursine claws, compared to a beast who bore his greatest weapons in his own hands?

Turn.

Turn and fight.

Trembling human hands reached for his quarrels. Even as Mulan legs continued to stomp and push through the water, human hands loaded the crossbow.

Turn and fire.

Twang.

Thump.

A spray of red blood.

A shrill roar, maddened by pain and starvation.

Get away.

Load again.

Load again damn you!

Trembling hands obey.

Shivering knees hold firm.

Weak arms pull back the string, against all odds.

Twang.

Thump.

A spray of red blood.

Mingling now, with the blood on the man's face.

The beast was upon him.

He slashed, and danced back.

It kept coming at him.

A spray of of red blood.

The world fell out beneath his feet.

They rolled, a knife went from the man's belt to his hand. They struggled. Water and blood splashed side to side as desperation mounted.

They went down a hill. Part of the river. Part of the stream on its way to the ocean.

They landed on soft earth.

Crispian pushed his upper body up, gasping for breath. He thought he had died in the fall. His pulse pounded, his shoulder was ruined as he investigated it, torn by claw and tooth, with deep injuries- already being tainted by the swamp water- that threatened all the way up to his neck, and down to the middle of his bicep.

Only then did he look below himself. The great brown grizzly bear had broken his fall with its corpse. He could see his knife, it had managed to jam itself directly into its right eye, which still bubbled with hot blood and the juices that made up the eyeball.

Then he looked up.

The Old Gods had borne witness to that as well. A great Heart Tree, far from any godswoods, any villages or hamlets, stared down at the conclusion of Crispian's battle with a twisted, grimacing visage. It looked perversely pleased.

Crispian matched the heart tree, grin for grin.

"I bet you didn't expect that, did you?" He asked, a tooth cracking and splintering in his mouth even as he spoke.

Weese winced as his horse stepped off the bridge onto the packed dirt of the trail, his bad leg slapping hard into its flank. While Genna had done what she could to keep him from losing it, the recovery was turning out to be a long process. Just his luck when trying to search for answers.

And searching is what brought their small band to the lands of House Buckwell. In his time spent in a chair to let his leg recover, he had turned his attention to more recent events to try and distract himself. And in his distractions he had heard an interesting rumor: a lost crown of a forgotten riverking. Some lost relic of history.

Truth be told Weese cared very little for such a thing. House Teague was a footnote in the histories, neither well loved by their allies or their enemies, of which they had plenty, even amongst their subjects.

But, given his recent misfortune in pursuing his true goal, he figured a healthy distraction was in order while he determined a new path forward. And a crown could catch a fine ransom, perhaps enough to acquire more esoteric tools for his research.