After The False Spring - The South

[badgate]

[Garlan Gunter]

THE LORD REAPER



His had been a life led long among warlike men. He had striven to excel among them, in deed, in cause, in repute, even in appearance. It had taken striving; for in truth the hard, barren ferocity of the dedicated warmonger had never animated him, even for as much as some drunken hour’s length.

If that truth were known, though, he would not sit here Lord of Pyke. Still less if another truth came to light, that the little robed man with the chain about his neck who had come to the Isles in his third rock wife’s retinue was by far the more belligerent of the two of them.

“You say Lord Piper awaits my answer?” Quellon asked wearily, though it still gave him a faint, guilty access of strength to watch the way all men paled and fawned at his voice, even now. “Why should he care for it either way? I am no liege of his. Let him await Lord Tully.”

“No liege, my lord,” Maester Korigan was insisting, “but something so much more. A good-son.” What did Korigan know of good-sons, and indeed of bloody sons themselves, Quellon thought with bitterness? The maester was a ludicrous looking fellow in truth, round faced and prone to sweat, a man to shout at servants and run out of breath, to trip on steps and wince at candle-flames. But he had proven himself far from incapable, the Lord Reaper admitted perforce, and his little black eyes glittered with forethought, as well as a motiveless violence the old lord secretly found just the wrong side of troubling. Who did Korigan truly represent, or for that matter resent? How had this worm of discord wriggled out from between the plump young paps of the third Lady Greyjoy?

“Lord Piper has not one high lord to think of, my lord,” Korigan persisted with that indecent zeal of a man who thought out wars but never swung a blade in them, “not even two, but three. Pinkmaiden’s lands abut the borders of Lord Tywin Lannister’s domains.” A good thought, Quellon conceded, and such pretty words. That was what one paid these mice for. He did not interrupt the bouncy little fellow’s flow as yet. “Should the Starks be driven to rise by this…should the Tullys stand with them…your good-father must wonder what exactly Lord Tywin, who seeks at all costs to regain the office of Hand, might do. He must wonder what his powerful good-father might risk to protect him…for what prospect of gain.”

Lord Quellon had a fairly shrewd log of the chart towards which the maester listed, but that did not make him like it the more. Nonetheless, this fevered scheming turned out to be far preferable to what followed it.

“Father!” came that predictable word, invested with all its old pride and petulance. His eldest son Balon had taken it to his curdled head to join them, already called by so many an eager fool Balon the Brave for climbing a cliff, cleaving a few poltroons on distant rocks and stealing a brace of their their pox-ridden women.

Nor had Balon been so very friendless on his journeyings so far. Quellon’s far-off kinsman on the distaff side Dagmer Cleftjaw, undoubtedly the most genuinely formidable as well as merely gruesome-looking fighter the Isles could presently boast, had accompanied him. Quellon liked Dagmer well enough; some krakens had a certain saucy wit about them, others were dour as a grotto’s pillar, and whoever Dagmer’s much boasted Greyjoy foremother had been, he at least was, it seemed, of the first kind. Dagmer was as loyal as he was deadly, and no drear company either.

Nonetheless, Lord Quellon’s son and heir Balon had somehow turned out to be of the dour-pillar variety, and two hungry for blood and blade-edges with it. Often Quellon wished his heir’s favoured companion could have been not the rugged and lethal Cleftjaw, but the sensible young Lord of Harlaw, Rodrik, whom the Ironborn with their uncouth lust for alliteration were already prone to dubbing in idleness ‘the Reader.’ Quellon himself read quite as much as any scythling pup, but he was scarce fool or oddity enough to do so where anyone could watch him, least of all his maseter, not even his wife, and never in a thousand winters his sons. At any rate, with such a friendship in mind Quellon had seen his heir wed to the young Harlaw’s sister Alannys, who seemed fairly high-spirited and intelligent into the bargain. But the hoped for friendship had scarce ensued, so Quellon was unsurprised when Dagmer, not Rodrik Harlaw, entered a few paces behind Balon, his head bowed whether in respect or sensitivity about his rather uncourtly visage.

Nor was Quellon unduly taken aback by Balon’s next words. “Father! What are you doing? Will you say nothing? Do you do naught but moon with the maester over potions of micelings day and night? There is to be war in Westeros!”

They were in the best Quellon could do by way of a fashionable castle solar by Pyke, and the fire beneath the tentacles was generously piled, yet to his annoyance, even his slight woe of foreboding, Quellon could feel the chill his son’s blazing words cast. To look at, there was no question where the authority lay in this room. Beside Lord Quellon even Dagmer looked like something of a trifler. Scarce one among the Ironborn could match their lord for the height of his stature, the power of his limbs, even yet, and Quellon knew well, too, he had a masterful stare that he could in no wise let up. But his son’s fury and fervour depressed him, not because of its substance – that, as usual, was nonsense – but because of what it stood for. A temper in the Isles moving towards his son, and that son’s road; a young, fierce folk yearning for a very Old Way.

“If we had wars in the realm every time you gave the word, my boy,” Quellon mused with deliberately slighting insouciance, “there’d be none of us left to fight ‘em. Nonetheless, I’ll not have you tell your friends I left you unheard. Whom would you have me slaughter today?”

The young, spare man glowered up, and up, at his sire, then looked away for now, beaten again for the moment, as he always had been yet, reddening as he redirected that hateful flintiness upon the maester. Balon had small liking for that order in general, and nothing but loathing for this one in particular, as for all creatures of his reviled step-mother, even his poor little brief, dead youngest brother Robin. Quellon actually chuckled aloud as he thought that his heir and his maester, who wasted so much pointless fiery air in worrying at each other’s counsels, in fact, in their different ways, would pursue courses leading to a mightily similar result. Only Dagmer noticed his lord’s laugh, and looked up curiously, showing off a fine view of that long-axe’s legacy. Few men ever laughed in Balon ‘the Brave’’s ambit, and Quellon felt younger and stronger for having demonstrated that he was still firmly among that few.

“Why is the question, not who,” Balon was haranguing away now at the maester, for want of a better ear. “Our, my people must fight for our freedom, our ways, when the opportunity falls ripely at hand. No more shall we waste long passages reaching burned strands in the East. We will reave where the Greyirons and Hoares reft.”

“Ah, the Hoares,” Quellon mused, as if just awoken from a pleasant light slumber. “They had a mighty fleet indeed, allies who sided with them for want of better, subdued beachheads, a plan, withal. Have you, my son?”

There was a light cough, lighter even than the old lord’s momentary laugh, and a younger Kraken entered, a flatterer bearing a horn sigil on either side of him. Ever since Balon took his Harlaw wife, Euron had been seen much among the Goodbrothers. His laughing blue eyes gleamed. Now he was a kraken with wit, not a pillar, Quellon had to admit. Too much hells-damned wit, and insolence with it.

“I do hope all is well here, father, brother? Someone might want to see what’s happened to our lady step-mother, or dear Alannys. They could be of use at the moment,” the little slitherer murmured with maladeptly covered glee. “Victarion seems to have knocked Urri out cold again. I couldn’t say exactly why…”

“Enough of that,” Balon cut in, leaving his father with mixed feelings. It was good that Balon bothered to look to his younger brother’s welfare, good, too, that he saw through Euron’s oozings, but it was Quellon’s place, not Balon’s to reprove him. “Where’s Aeron?”

“Our most amusing little brother?” Euron answered with a flash that maddening grin. “Why, I am afraid I have not the faintest idea…”

Balon let himself be drawn off by Euron to investigate. “Go with them,” Quellon ordered Dagmer briskly, practically the only blood he could trust in this sort of mess. “And you, maester, off back to the ravenry. I’ll see you again at dawn.” A short night’s sleep should mature fewer of these accursed plans in that greenlander’s sweat-seeping skull.

[badgate]

Jon Connington

The former Hand was late in arriving that morning. By mid-day his retinue finally poured into the courtyard at Griffin's Roost, and Lord Jon Connington made down from his study to greet the possible new ally.

"Insanity, plain and utter insanity!" Lord Merryweather bellowed. "His Grace has lost control of the situation, dismissing me and disinheriting our Prince!" Jon nodded calmly in agreement and ushered the lord indoors. "Come, my lord, the winter winds are particularly harsh today."

It was true King Aerys had overlooked the rising tide of houses hoping to depose him and Crown Prince Rhaegar, but Jon was surprised at how quickly and sufficiently the King had reacted to his prince's disappearance. Though he considered Rhaegar a true friend, Jon was at a loss for why he had apparently kidnapped Lady Stark.

True, Elia Martell had proved frail in her fertility. Jon had been in King's Landing at Aegon's birth, and seen for himself the Princess's brush with death in childbirth. He was of like mind with the Grand Maester's caution that a third child would kill her. Could Rhaegar hope that the lords of Westeros would accept him taking a second wife, like Aegon the Conquerer? Jon wondered. And even so, what could he be thinking choosing a lady betrothed in the light of the Seven to the Lord of Storm's End?

Inside, they met under scantly lit candles. Jon's servants poured a fine Arbor red and Lord Orton's rage seemed to subside bit by bit. They talked of his journey through the Stormlands, and how Orton had stolen away with his small escort while allowing the rest of his household to proceed back to Longtable. They covered the disappearance of Rhaegar and Lyanna, and Jon made sympathetic noises when Orton brought up the subject of his replacement as Hand of the King. Finally Jon felt it safe to return to the subject of most import.

"My lord, you may be aware that several great houses in the South have waited hopefully for Prince Rhaegar to succeed his father on the Iron Throne." He began slowly. "With this recent news of his disinheritance, I can only imagine you would join me in my dismay."

Lord Merryweather gazed pointedly at Jon for a long moment before slowly nodding his head.

"It was my hope, as that of these other lords, that the tourney at Harrenhall could have begun this process," Jon continued. "As you know, the King foiled that plan"

"Those were just rumors," Lord Orton said softly.

"No. It was true," Jon answered.

After another long moment of silence, Orton said, "forgive me, my lord, but why am I here?"

Jon smiled and ran his fingers through his ginger curls. "I was displeased, to say the least, that King Aerys dismissed you. Judging by your display out there in the yard, I can only assume you feel the same. I would hope to invite you to join me in rectifying Aerys' mistake. In restoring Rhaegar to his inheritance and hopefully you to the office of the Hand."

Orton leaned forward and clasped his hands over the goblet. "I'm listening."

Jon's smile widened. "Good," he said as he rose from his chair. "Then please, my lord, come with me."

He lead the former Hand up through Griffin's Roost to his private chambers. One could see far and wide across the vast lands of House Connington from this tower. The Narrow Sea shone on one end and the other was filled with the thickest and richest forest in the Stormlands. Jon checked to make sure Orton had followed him, and opened the door to the Lord's Study.

There in the study three men rose to greet them. Jon moved forward to make introductions.

"Lord Orton Merryweather, may I introduce you to Lord Marq Grafton of Gulltown, Ser Hoster Whent, heir to Harrenhall, and Lord Maekar Dayne of Starfall."

Each nobleman greeted Orton Merryweather pleasantly, speaking praise for his lands in the Reach or his tenure as Hand in turn. Finally the time had come. Jon stepped forward, bearing a the letter they had been working on when the former Hand arrived in the courtyard. "Lord Orton. We would like to ask you to join us in signing a raven to our possible allies as Lords Declarant."

Orton Merryweather looked confused. "Lords...Declarant? Of whom?"

Jon's hand clenched into a fist. His courtly smile was gone, he knew, and he felt bile rising in this throat as rage rose in his heart.

"Of the king. King Rhaegar Targaryen."

[Emmon Frey]

The Bastard and the Black

"Who are we even looking for?" Whalon had asked, wetting the tree trunk with a steady stream of yellow piss. A growing puddle was forming amongst the roots, pungent and putrid. You must stop drinking the cheap stuff, Alyn thought, smelling his friend's work from several feet away.

"Bugger if I know," he replied, turning from his own sour work to regard his friend, "you know Black Walder's told me nothin' as usual." Alyn, much like Whalon, had been summoned before dawn and told to prepare for a hunt. Gods only knew what sort of hunt would require the chainmail shirts they had been ordered to wear but Walder had insisted on it.

Alyn was one of Walder's men. Black Walder they called him, so named for his violent temper and to distinguish him from the countless other Walders who resided at the Twins. All of them were named for their liege, Lord Walder Frey. Serving Black Walder was a hard task, grim work for a grim knight, but it beat working the fields.

"Besides," Alyn continued, arms folded as he waited for his companion to finish, "it's Walder Rivers leading the party and you know he never says nothing to the likes of us. Hardly ever says a word at all, or so I hear. You know it must be something important if his lordship's put him to work."

"Too many bloody Walders if you ask me," Whalon snorted, shaking out the last of Old Walder's cheapest vintage. He was only a young man, a kinsman of the Charltons who swore fealty to the Crossing, and his arrogance, Alyn decided, would be the boy's undoing. Yet ever since he had joined the garrison, several months past, the two had formed a bond. Alyn would guide him, he had decided, and try to keep the boy in the favour of Lord Frey and his brood.

"Each as dangerous as the last," he replied with a smile, hoping to still Whalon's tongue. No easy task.

"Oh, I'm sure," was the response, when at last the rangy youth turned back towards him. He was still fastening up his breeches as they walked towards the track that led back to the campsite. It was evening, the sunset sky slashed with crimson, and already there were shadows creeping amongst the trees. It would be an hour or two before nightfall but it would not pay to tarry so far from the others. Alyn paced in silence but there was no quieting Whalon.

"You think one of the old man's son's been humpin' his wife?" the lad asked with a smirk. He was being much too loud for Alyn's liking. "Doesn't seem the sort to want to share his things and her ladyship's got a nice pair on her."

"I think you should be quiet," Alyn replied, stern and humourless. Careful, boy.

"Oh, come on, Al, you must admit to it. For a Crownlander she's not half bad." Whalon was giggling, gesturing unseemly shapes with his hands. "You can't tell me you wouldn't."

"Lady Frey is with child now and you should speak of her with a little more respect."

Whalon, smirking again, finally took the hint. A raven crowed in the trees above, his call answered by a hooting owl. Leaves rustled on their branches, so green and lush. It would be a long summer. Mercifully, their walk continued in silence for several moments until the youth found his voice again.

"I tell you what I think..."

"Be quiet." The two stopped dead in their tracks. The voice did not belong to Alyn. Behind them, a vision in black save only his surcoat, stood a man that Alyn knew only too well. Walder. Oh, you stupid bloody fool, Whalon, Alyn thought, head bowed for the man he was sworn to.

Walder, hand upon the dagger on his hip, was staring at the youth with a look that could tame a wolf. The contempt was palpable but when he finally did speak again it was with a voice that betrayed none of his usual temper.

"I've been looking for you, Alyn," he said at a growl. There was blood on his surcoat. Alyn did not know if it was fresh. "My uncle has commanded that we break camp. There has been a sighting five miles south of here. We must move."

That is all he said. With one last withering glare for Whalon, Black Walder moved past the two of them and back towards the campsite. Perhaps he had not heard what Whalon was saying? Alyn prayed, for the boy's sake, that was true. Clearly, something more important was playing on Walder's mind. He was soon out of sight and the pair were alone once more.

"We still don't know what we're looking for, though," Whalon sighed. Alyn turned, shoving the lad hard against a tree by his throat.

"Oh, you silly, silly boy," he snarled. He hoped Whalon saw only the anger in his eyes and none of the fear. "Are you trying to get us both hanged?" The boy fought back, pushing Alyn aside with a remarkable strength.

"Get your bloody hands off me, Alyn," he snapped, a look of youthful indignation on his face. "I didn't say a damned thing." Whalon looked ready to strike the elder man and Alyn was bracing himself for a clout. The boy finally thought better of picking a fight and stormed off in a sulk. "Go bugger yourself," he called out Alyn, as he followed the same path had taken Walder back to the camp.

***

Sometime later the pair were back on their horses. Some of the other lads sensed a certain tension between them but made no remark. They had too much respect for Alyn and too little for Whalon to care. A score of them were waiting to ride on but a halt had been called by Ser Walder Rivers. The bastard knight had manoeuvred his horse up to the crest of a hill and was flanked by Black Walder and Ser Hosteen Frey. Hosteen loomed over the pair of them, tall and imposing.

"I understand there has been some questions about the nature of our hunt," Bastard Walder called out, his voice a growl. It was said that Bastard Walder resented his bastard status and hated everyone who was not. To be certain, the man was looking at those in his company with a most disdainful sort of glare. Black Walder, Alyn noted, was looking at Whalon.

"I see no harm in telling you now," the bastard continued. "We are hunting the biggest prey of them all: dragon, with a snarling she-wolf at his side. The Crown Prince has taken Lord Stark's daughter and fled to Gods only know where. There have been rumours of sightings around the Riverlands."

These tidings immediately set the men to talking, drowning out the quiet knight upon the hill. Walder scowled, visibly irked that the prattling of his men should interrupt him. He muttered something to Hosteen at his side.

"BE QUIET." The booming voice of the biggest Frey was like the snapping of a tree trunk. The men were silenced in an instant. Bastard Walder was free to continue.

"We shall not rest until every inch of my father's land has been upturned. If Rhaegar is found, we shall all become very rich men." Oh, wisely done, Alyn thought to himself, immediately noticing the greed and ambition in the faces of the young men who surrounded him. Theirs was now a hunt lifted straight from the stories of old, tales of knights and dragons and maidens.

"But we must break into smaller parties if we are to cover more ground. Ser Hosteen shall command the twenty downriver and I shall take you ten." The knight gestured in the direction of Alyn and those closest to him.

"Walder," he added, motioning to Black Walder at his side, "will take you ten." Those surrounding Whalon bowed their heads in obedience but the young lad did not appear entirely pleased by the decision. Black Walder was still looking at him. The Freys always take their toll, Alyn thought to himself with a touch of sadness. He wondered if he would ever see the boy again.

"We move quickly!" And with that the bastard's speech was over.

Thundering hooves in the mood, accompanied by shouts of excitement and the clank of armour. Alyn took a firmer grasp of the spear in his hand and prayed, then moved to follow Ser Walder Rivers. The hunt was on.

[Dereich]

A DECLARATION TO THE REALM

All men must know me for the trueborn Prince of Dorne and a man of honest conduct and virtue. On the honor of my House I declare that our late king, Aerys II Targaryen, was mad and unfit to rule. Let the proof of his madness be known by all:

1. His erratic behavior and warped appearance, witnessed by all the Realm during the Tourney at Harrenhal.
2. His frequent usage of pyromancers, including in executions in violation of our rights of trial, while the Tragedy of Summerhall is still fresh within memory.
3. His unprompted taking of highborn hostages from undeniably loyal subjects such as Lord Stark.
4. His fickle governance and dismissal of fair and honest councilors, disrespect for vows made before gods and men, and abuse of the High Septon.
5. His unjust murder of the good Queen Rhaella and demands for highborn women to be kept from their families at his pleasure.

Therefore, the decree stripping crown prince Rhaegar Targaryen of his title and rights, being the product of madness and made without trial or evidence of wrongdoing, must be invalid.

Rheagar I Targaryen is by right of birth and blood the rightful King of the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and Elia Nymeros Martell is his Queen. Dorne will recognize none but Him and His line as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men.

Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne

[Lumine]

To the Lords of Westeros:

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Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, and Hand of the King.

[Garlan Gunter]

THE AMBASSADOR



The envoy from the isles reflected amusedly, not for the first time, that his countrymen would envy him now…but for all the wrong reasons. Their eyes would flick, mingling greed and contempt, from the sable at his neck to the velvet at his seat, the bright wine in his hand and the very light that caught the manse through a pane of Myrish glass. All this spoke of gold and gems and more gold, of a land where iron was tawdry and all but obsolete, little better than rust. But few, it might be none, among the Ironborn would know of the most precious object in all the room, all the spacious house – the overworked, spiderstained scroll over which he frowned. It was said, and it seemed to Lord Rodrik to be plausibly suggested, to be a copy of some part of the lost writings of Septon Barth. And here it was, to be found for any fool’s looking at the residence of some distant kinsman of Lord Tywin, a man who would not merit command of a ship were he on the Isles.

In other respects Rodrik was not wholly easy in his heart to be here, for all its comfort and interest. He was a young man still, midway through his twenties, but already a father to twin sons, the fruit of his young marriage to a Merlyn lady who had not survived the twofold burden. He had scarcely known the first Lady Harlaw, but he was fond of his boys; yet it was obvious that they would be a hindrance as he came to the West a-wooing. Few potential good-fathers liked to be reminded of living heirs, nor brides of deceased forerunners, at that. But he missed the twins with a stinging pain. Curious, Rodrik thought, the emotions twins seem to stir.

He could not have turned down Lord Quellon’s command, though he knew himself more hostage than suitor or envoy in truth. But he trusted his good-brother’s father – a good deal more than he trusted that dour hunting kraken fools named Balon the Brave – and hoped that the Lord Reaper would see to his interests, just as Rodrik intended to serve him well here. The Harlaw’s involuntary rival Gorold Goodbrother seemed pacified for the moment, pleased with his daughter’s Tyrell marriage and disposed to be friendly. Harlaw could wait; and a rich dowry would benefit the whole island, as a smooth mission would aid the Isles in general. There was work to be done here.

If only Rodrik could keep his intellect firmly on the task in hand…some among the Ironborn thought him, he knew, a wandering, impractical spirit, half-mad and ill-fitted for rule, because he openly seemed to prefer reading and learning. If they only knew how such reading sharpened his resolve, steadied his nerve, clarified his predicament…while it was the life outside, men, yes, and women too, that could derange the neat, orderly world Lord Harlaw preferred to build about himself.

It must have been near a month now since he first had seen her…no, he must not think on it…

“Lord Harlaw, I hope I do not disturb you at your study,” his host enquired, passing in with his lank golden hair drooping into his eyes, his rotund figure wobbling. The Lannisters of Lannisport seemed more burgesses than warriors, not that Rodrik minded that – he felt a good deal the more secure under a mere penny-pincher’s roof. Even this lesser Lannister, he noted though, seemed as mildly amused at his reading as any among the Ironborn. These people had wealth, in wisdom as well as gold, at their command, but scarce any idea as to its proper use. “Lord Tywin asks that you might come to the Rock, for the feast of the lords’ leave-taking.”

Lords Lefford, Banefort, Crakehall and all the rest of them…many had assembled, and now they were off back to their keeps, privy commandments presumably well hidden under their rich folds of vair and ermine. Rodrik had forgot the feast, but not for long. “I wait as ever at Lord Tywin’s commandment. I shall present myself within the hour, if I might trouble you for a fast stallion.”

“There will no need of that,” the tubby Lannister smirked. “His lordship’s brother has come himself to escort the Lord of Harlaw.”

“Ser Kevan?” Rodrik enquired with a hopefulness he did not feel, but Gerion Lannister’s laugh quite drowned his idle query.

The envoy was still not quite sure whether he liked Gerion Lannister, though the youngest of old Lord Tytos’s get was obviously and eminently likeable. He was intelligent, talkative, odd, unexpected, humorous…and ubiquitous. Rodrik was beginning to develop the increasing suspicion that Lord Tywin had tasked his little brother with dogging the ambassador’s footsteps as some kind of joke; though Lord Tywin, notoriously, was unlike his brother not a man for jokes; so it might be the initiative was all Gerion Lannister’s own.

“We’ve missed your refreshing change of company up at the Rock, my lord,” the Laughing Lion was prattling as the fortress’s massive structure blemished the seascape ahead of them. “Now all our western lords save Farman and Brax are bound homeward, maybe they’ll find a permanent berth for you somewhere in there, ha! Or maybe not. Lord Farman’s used to offering slightly rougher hospitality to your people.”

Rodrik thought it best not to dignify that poorly judged witticism-cum-threat with a response, though he felt a twinge of regret as Gerion appeared to wilt in sincere grievance in the silence that well. I am becoming near as dull and prickly as my good-brother, Rodrik realised in dismay.

“Will all your family be assembled at the feast, my lord of Lannister?” Hardly glittering repartee, but it might serve to set some sort of conversation astir again.

“Oh yes, don’t you worry, my lord. You’ll get another fascinating chatter with my favourite nephew, I hope. And even a sight of my pretty niece.”

Lord Rodrik decided then and there that he definitely did not like Gerion Lannister.

It had been some two weeks into his visit to the west, and all had been proceeding, as much as could be expected, roughly to plan. Rodrik had already met Lord Tywin, judicious, preoccupied, taciturn but courteous; had enjoyed freer and more revealing access to the diligent Ser Kevan; had been honoured with an indistinct grunt that might have been a curse from the bellicose Ser Tygett; and had already seen enough of Gerion to make him wish himself firmly back at Ten Towers with his sons. He had achieved friendship of a sort with Lady Genna Frey, and noted well her cryptic words as to her lord brother’s ravenry. But his few receptions at the Rock had been brisk, and he had yet to be presented to the children of the household.

He had been taken as a special privilege to the library of the Rock, and even left there awhile with the maester, when a newcomer surprised them. The voice had been low, in one so young and fair, though by no means rough. “Maester Creylen. I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to this guest yet.”

The look of panic on the maester’s youthful face prepared him for the importance of the arrival, but not the awe-inducing wonder of the sight. She was more than half a girl still, he supposed, but tall beyond the queenliest of women, though her proportions were yielding enough for any singer’s syrup. Her bright hair ran free and defiant in curls that knew no master, three-quarters of the way to the gem-studded sandals at her feet, and her eyes had all the light of any eerie glint off Sealskim Point, yet all the verdance of the depths of Lordsport Harbour. Rodrik scarce needed to be told that he was now in the presence of the Light of the West, for it had left him – and he was not a man given to exaggeration half-blind.

“I – I believe,” he found himself saying with sudden and senseless boldness, “that I have the honour of addressing Lady Cersei Lannister? I am Rodrik Harlaw, emissary to your lord father from the Lord Reaper of Pyke.”

“Ah, the ironmen’s envoy,” Cersei breathed, though it already seemed something of disappointment had crept into her whisper. She neared him then, glanced over his shoulder at what he was reading, as he stood more stock still, fighting against the absurd instinct to tremble at the girl, him, lord of a rich isle, master of thousands and a dozen ships, a man, a father, a warrior of sorts, a scholar beyond this child’s conception.

“You are reading of Harmund the Handsome,” she murmured, “kin of ours, of a kind, if I recall the histories. No kin of yours, to look at you. Lord Quellon said he was sending his most charming and accomplished bnnerman.”

“My late wife said the same,” Rodrik said before he could stop himself, though he had not meant to speak of Lady Harlaw in the west, least of all to such a hearer. He scarcely thought of her now. How had those words come unbidden? “It’s true to say most would call me an ordinary man. Neither better nor worse than most.”

“Lord Farman would say you are better than most of your people, then,” Cersei sallied, and her laugh was a brief delight, before she passed on, and out.

Rodrik was still in a daze when his reverie was interrupted again, a tiny voice from a tiny figure.

“You found her clever, didn’t you?”

This time the maester was quicker to make the introduction. “Little lord, this is Lord Rodrik Harlaw, from the Iron Islands…”

“Ten Towers,” the malformed little boy rapped out, to some invisible cue. “On Harlaw. Richest and most populous of the isles…”

“You shouldn’t address him until you have been formally introduced, my lord. Lord Harlaw, this is Tyrion, second son of Lord Tywin…”

Aye, Lord Rodrik had heard of Lord Tywin’s Curse already. The boy was fiercely repellent, with his unmatched eyes and his curious waddle, on a certain, but quite obviously as quick-witted as any of his kin…and eagerer to show it.

“But you did, my lord, didn’t you? Think her clever? But she isn’t. She doesn’t really know about King Harmund at all. I do. And about Hagon the Heartless and the Shrike and Queen Lelia…”

“I’m sure you do,” Rodrik replied evenly, meaning to be kind, but he saw with gloom that the distorted child took it as a reproof. He would make it good if he could.

“Maester Creylen, fetch Archmaester Haerreg’s works, please. I have much to discuss with the young lord.”

And so it was that Gerion had found them, keenly absorbed, some four hours later, the whole broiling world beyond quite forgotten. Books could sharpen a head for business…but they could shelter readers too from a crueller world without.

[Emmon Frey]

The Maid

An Ironman? Had her father lost his wits? The maiden still found it hard to believe that his lordship had promised her to a man of the Isles. They remained demons from the old stories, from a time when the Hoares ruled all throughout the Riverlands with an iron fist, and she could not imagine what would possess her father to grant her hand to one of those savages.

She had long dreamed of the day when her father would find her a suitor. She was no fool, of course, and she did not truly expect a handsome knight to whisk her away on the back of his destrier. More than likely it would be a son of House Charlton or Haigh, those knightly families sworn to her sire, or a man who could further the interests of the Freys beyond the Riverlands.

But an Ironman? And a Greyjoy at that? The thought terrified her to her bones.

"Tyta."

She turned, startled by the sudden voice behind her. It was her brother, Lothar, standing in the threshold of the chamber she shared with a number of the other ladies of the house. Unfortunately, at this moment, she stood alone. She felt herself shiver again.

"Sister," Lothar hissed, limping towards her on his twisted leg. 'Lame Lothar' the others called him, but he was the sharpest of all of her father's brood. Tyta was of the opinion that her brother was the favourite of all their father's sons, though she never as much admitted in the company of their kinsmen. The men of the Twins might share the same name but they were all, to a man, ambitious and cunning. Lothar was the most cunning of the lot.

Her brother, she knew, pined to be named Steward of the Twins. He was never likely to inherit and, being a cripple, he would never be a famed warrior either. But he could be their father's right hand in all things, master of the household and all who dwell beneath the roof, yet for now Lothar served merely as cupbearer. Other men would find shame in being a man grown and still pouring wine but Lothar, she knew, saw that as a path to greater things.

He was breathing heavily again, having exerted himself in climbing to her chamber.

"I am loath to intrude upon your evening, sister, but father desires you in the great hall. He has asked me to summon you."

Tyta said nothing. She loved her brother as she loved the Twins. Yet like the castles she called home, Lothar could be frightening and intense. When he looked upon her with his close-set eyes she felt herself grow crimson in the cheeks, before lowering her head to avoid his gaze. He laughed.

"Trust our father," he told her, placing down the folded garment he had held within his hands. "He would never put you in danger."

She did not quite believe that.

"He wants you to wear this," he continued, gesturing at the folded garment beside him. Tyta moved, hesitantly, to inspect it. Once unfurled, her mouth fell agape.

He truly has lost his wits, she told herself.

***

She knew Lord Frey was speaking somewhere in the hall but all she could hear was her heartbeat. It pounded like a drumbeat in her mind, boom doom boom doom boom doom, pounding again, pounding and pounding and pounding.

Yet she saw nothing. The veil was drawn over her face, shrouding her from those in the hall. For a moment she felt faint, before realising she was merely holding her breath. She dared not move, speak or breathe, but a hand pushed her forward gently into the midst of the hall. All eyes were upon her, his eyes, but she did not see them.

"And this is my daughter," she heard Father say. His voice carried out across the hall. "Heh, you will notice there are lumps in all the right places. Her mother was a good old tumble. Of course they breed 'em strong at Raventree Hall. Strong and fertile, heh. What say you, Greyjoy?"

Boom doom boom doom boom doom.

"Show me her face."

Tyta once more felt the air sucked from her lungs as Lothar pulled back the veil. There he stood, a bullock of a man, a vision in iron and steel with an axe that could break the back of an aurochs. A brute, a savage, an Ironman. Victarion Greyjoy nodded his head.

I am cursed, Tyta told herself, as tears welled in her eyes. Her family, in their dozens, muttered amongst themselves in the gallery as Victarion and his companion shared a glance. She was deaf and blind to them all. I am cursed, I am cursed, Seven save me.

[Spamage]

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[Lumine]

To the Lords of Westeros:

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Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, and Hand of the King.

[Lumine]

The Knight of the Rose:

It was yet another day of riding, and young Quentyn did not want to think on how long was until they finally reached the capital. It was following the unfortunate news of the death of the Mad… his Grace Aerys that they had immediately departed Highgarden, his cousin desperate to reach the Capital before someone proved too enthusiastic to grasp the now empty throne. And to the utter anger of Mace and the more seasoned of his advisors, the returning winter had shattered all hopes of a short journey by forcing rains of a size that the young Knight had not seen on his entire life. The fields flooded and the roads muddy, the rivers unstable and the smallfolk everywhere, Mace had kicked and screamed and in the end he had been to make the peace with the gods. Riding alone to the city was suicidal in these times, and so the entire Tyrell host had been forced into a slow but sure march. And to Quentyn’s shock, his cousin and Lord had entrusted him with full command of the host marching to King’s Landing.

-The host is yours, cousin. – It was all that Mace said, retiring back to his tent as he had accepted the inevitable delay –

The truth is that Quentyn fully understood Mace’s predicament, but found himself increasingly uneasy at the new role he had been asked to play. He was nothing but a distant cousin of the main branch of the family, and while he had received a good education and had been trained as a proper knight, he stood no chance at the hour of inheriting land to be a Lord on his own. A glorified bodyguard, perhaps, but never the man to give commands. Alas, his luck showed in the need to keep the Tyrell uncles searching for the Mad Prince or guarding Highgarden until Mace’s return, and with Ser Igon kept busy with those tasks better left unmentioned, it was left to Quentyn to command something very much resembling an army for the first time on his life. He would miss his wife, aye, and little Olymer too, but this was a chance that he could seize, the uneasiness aside. Not for nothing he was now under the orders of the Hand of the King.

-The Hand commands it.-
-The Hand wills it.-
-You will not address the Hand in such a way.-
-The Hand here…
-…and the Hand there.-

It had to be said that Mace had assumed the role with enthusiasm and the other young knights of the summer had also been thrilled to second his displays of authority, but perhaps it was too much open enthusiasm for Quentyn. After all, cousin Mace’s tenure could be boiled down to a never ending trip to King’s Landing and all those letters he wrote, at times with a look of despair and at times with a mischievous grin. Not exactly a Tywin Lannister… But he had to push those thoughts away, knowing them to be at least unfair in some sense. For all the japes and comments made by the august Lady Olenna, Quentyn could tell Mace not to be the oaf his mother thought he was. He was not the smartest of the High Lords by any measure, but people often forgot that the late Lord Luthor, Mace’s own father, had been a true oaf. Gods, the sheer ridicule of his death, vanquished from the land because he had not seen a cliff… Aye, the bards would jest that it was the thought of Lady Olenna that had clouded his mind – or cleared it –, but anyone from the family who had truly known Luthor could attest to the monumental lack of… sense, for lack of a kinder word.

Mace had been but a boy of six and ten when his father had met his untimely end, and it had been a long rule over Highgarden for a Lord who was, even at the present point, young. It was strange when he thought about it, that most of the Lords about to hack themselves to pieces were so young, leading to situations like young Mace being Hand of the King and master of the Reach despite not even being over thirty namedays. But brilliant or not, he had been a decent enough Lord, and despite his rage against the Gods Quentyn could not counter the fact that he would have been a lot less confident than Mace looked in the present times. Reach bannermen siding with the Mad Prince, half the royal family dead after Princess Elia had somehow believed she could have seized the throne, and now the Stags proclaiming royalty out of nowhere… other men would have perhaps considering not bothering to show up on King’s Landing to pick up the collar and the pin, other men would have returned to the safety and warmth of Highgarden and waited things to calm down. And here was Mace, the Gods bless him, riding to King’s Landing with a smile and a horde of ravens carrying his endless letters, almost happy to ride to a place which did not inspire much confidence on Quentyn. What if, gods forbid, what if Mace…?

-Cousin! What are you thinking about? – Mace had showed out of nowhere along with a couple of his knights, startling Quentyn -
-Apologies, my Lord. – Quentyn lowered his head –
-Enough with the formalities. Is the host ready to march? –
-It is, my Lord.-
-Good. Do give the order, and then entrust Ser Igor with leading the march through the morning.-
-Aye… But, I do not understand. – Quentyn put on a puzzled expression –
-I would wish to ride with you, cousin Quentyn. – Mace smiled – Plenty to talk about.-

It did not took long to put the host in order, and to his merit, Quentyn had to admit Ser Igor was better than him at getting the men and even the morose knights to ride by virtue of the storm of a voice he had. So he had left the host in good hands, and retreated to join Mace in one of the flanks of the formation. The Rose Road was getting less and less familiar to Quentyn, so he could well assume they were very near to the Crownlands… and close to King’s Landing. To the young rose knight’s bafflement, Mace had insisted they went hunting one they had reached a small lake at the middle of the day, leaving the host to rest for a more forced march through the evening. Mace and Quentyn left, bow and arrows in hand, escorted by a few knights sent by Randyll Tarly himself. It did not took long for them to find the first stags, and Mace was swift in striking one through the side with one of the first arrows.

-We're close. – Mace commented, dismounting to see the corpse – Very close.-
-My Lord Hand? –
-I said enough with the formalities, Quentyn. You can leave those for King’s Landing.-
-Very well… uh… cousin Mace. –-
-That's better. Mind you, this is an exception I do just for your person, the rest still have to call me Lord Hand.-
-But of course. – Quentyn lowered his head, suppressing some laugh –
-There will be much to be done from now on. – Mace crouched and took a good look at the dead stag’s expression – I would not dare to bring all the good men of the family with me, Quentyn. I hope you understand just how much I will be relying on you, if we are to emerge alive out of this.-
-My Lord? –

The mood had turned somber within an instant, just as the sun hid behind the trees of the forest and casted shadows right and left. The guards were far enough not to hear their precise words, and as Mace turned Quentyn could see his eyes were fixed on him. He looked… he looked serious, a sight the young knight was not truly used to. Mace called him with a gesture and Quentyn dismounted, walking towards him. When he was close enough, his cousin took a small letter out of his clothes, and then he extended it to his hand. Quentyn took it immediately.

-I have sent many ravens, as you are aware.- He started – Many issues are to be dealt with, but there is much more that we do not know yet. If anything happens to me, Quentyn, send that letter to Highgarden, it has some words for Willas, for Garlan, and… for mother.-
-What in the seven hells are you talking about? –
-If I succeed, Quentyn, I dare think it will be for the better for all of us, and for the realm. – Mace explained – But I might as well fail.-

Quentyn understood then just what was at stake, and remember the horrible tale of what had ensued on King’s Landing before and after King Aerys’s death. If Mace was worried… then it was clear that he had to do his part to ensure everything would go along.

-Best to return now. The scouts say we are getting close.-

To the young knight’s surprise Mace did not gave any looks of concern or even of being worried over the next few days, leading Quentyn to wonder whether he had exaggerated the mood at that forest and assumed his lord to have been much more serious than he really had been. And with the previously endless road reaching its end at last, the knight wrote as fast as he could to his wife and son, and then pushed away any thoughts he might have had at the current state of the Realm.

[Dereich]

Here's my promised PoV; no promises that its anything of quality, especially since I can't figure out tenses. I also couldn't find ANY good images of Mellario.

Mellario of Norvos

Princess-Consort Mellario of Norvos sighed as she carefully ascended the stairs in the Tower of the Sun to her husband's study. This was the third time she had been called to chastise her husband; yet again he would not listen. The princess was often told that she had chosen the wrong brother, that as a young and vivacious woman she would have faired better with dashing Oberyn instead of the quiet Doran. They didn't understand. The first time she'd seen Doran, he had been negotiating with her father. His smile was genial, his movements deceptively still, but his eyes...his eyes were alive and burning with fire as he spun a web of lies and half-truths that had completely fooled all the men who were listening. But not her. She had decided right then that she would marry this foreigner.

They began growing distant from the day they arrived in her husband's keep. Dorne was a strange place. A slow place. As her husband serenely slipped into his new role as ruler of this sluggish and boring desert, Mellario grew more and more bored, hoping that something, ANYTHING, would happen. All at once, her wish had come true. It started when the Prince went missing. Doran had become a flurry of activity; the fire was back in his eyes. Letters started flying out of Doran's study by the hundred; to the Lords, to King's Landing, to every part of this godforsaken land. After the Mad King had died, the fire grew even brighter. The night they got the news, he had asked her to dance for the first time since Norvos. It was clearly getting more difficult for him and he had forgotten some of the steps, but the mad exhilleration of the moment made up for everything. Here was the man she had married. Her husband continued his mad dance with all Westeros, with more and more letters going everywhere, to his lords, to Essos....to his sister.

The news of Elia's death hit the city like a Dothraki Khalasar. Oberyn, who had been preparing to race north to her ai, for the first time anyone could remember. had been struck dumb. The common mobs of Sunspear took to the streets to grieve and to call for vengance on someone, on anyone. Her husband...that was the first time. From the moment he heard the news, the fire in his eyes had died; he didn't say a word the rest of the day. That night, a guard had caught the Prince of Dorne trying to take poison. He had luckily been caught before any real damage could be done, but his guard was increased and his friends and family brought in to talk sense into their errant prince. He didn't hear a word anyone had said. The second time, he was caught with a dagger. The guards had found their Prince too drunk with grief and Dornish Red to hit a vital point. Still he did not listen. As the weeks went by Dornishmen came and went without purpose or guidance. Their Queen was dead, their King missing, and their Prince spent all his time drinking and staring out into the horizon for someone who was no longer there.

And now, the third time. Mellario knew it would happen the moment the death of Rhaegar Targaryen had been announced. Sure enough, the summons came: the Prince had tried to leap out his window. At the top of the steps, the Princess prepared herself for yet another disappointment and opened the door. Inside, she found Doran Nymerios Martell, Prince of Dorne drunker than a Volantene whore. "Well? Do you have anything to say this time?" Mellario asked. "...Why do you even bother?" Doran responded. "Because I am your wife. And did you forget you still have a domain to rule?" "They're better off without me." Mellario sighed. She had not come all this way to indulge her husband's petty whining. "Enough. You need to do something. Rhaegar is dead and your people call on you to crown his daughter." Doran snorted. "And do what? Conquer the rest of Westeros with 20,000 spearmen? None but the Dornish will rise for Rhaenys as long as Viserys..." Doran stopped, his eyes gaining focus.

"Viserys...", he repeated quietly and looked away, a spark in his eyes. Doran suddenly sprang to his feet; "Get me paper, get me ravens for King's Landing I..." Doran stopped again, looking ill. "Perhaps you should get his lordship a bucket instead?" Mellario cooed. She left her husband mumbling obscenities as the alcohol finally caught up with him. She descended the stairs with a smile. Maybe Dorne wasn't quite done yet. She could see it in his eyes: Doran Martell had a plan.

[Lumine]

To the Lords and Knights of the Reach:

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Mace Tyrell, Lord Regent of Westeros.

[Enduro]

Eddard 1

The angry heir threw another glass across the room, the Tully soldier did not flinch.

"Let me go! I need to speak to my father!" He screamed.

"Sorry, I can't do that yet."

"5,000 Northmen are out there, do you really want 5,000 Northmen to storm this castle because of you!"

Eddard calmed at the sound of his wife. Catelyn walked into the view, asking the soldier for a few minutes with her husband.

"Why do you want to leave, Winterfell isn't safe, we'll be safe here until your father acts on the offer to take the black." She said.

"I need to see my father." Eddard said in a calm voice.

She was beautiful, Eddard had been so angry when he heard that Brandon was going to marry the women he loved. The announcement of the betrothal was the last time he saw her before he left to the Vale. Now, Eddard had her, and she was the only thing keeping his sanity intact.

"My husband, Stannis will want revenge, this isn't the time to go." She said plainly.

"He shouldn't be worried about Stannis, I'll kill him myself! Robert was my greatest friend, I would've died for him three times over." He replied.

"I'm sorry, Eddard, but being angry at your father is only going to make things worse."

Eddard sat on the bed, the same bed they made their marriage official in, and he nearly whispered.

"I didn't even get to say goodbye."

"There is nothing for you to do, but wait." She said in a equally quiet tone.

Eddard pulled his wife into a hug, he was on the verge of tears.

"Robert, I miss you." He thought.

[Garlan Gunter]

The Lord Reaper On Gods

 

Too long have the folk of the Iron Islands been shut from the best learning of the mainland, which can combine with our might to restore us to the greatness we deserve.

Septons as well as Maesters are to be comforted throughout the Isles, and the Seven honoured along the Drowned God. Some septons preach that our watery lord is an aspect of their Stranger, and this is no insult but an acknowledgement of the Drowned One's truth and power, be it true or no.

Whomsoever, be he lay, septon or Drowned Man, speaks ill of any of the Eight Gods shall have my law to reckon with.

A first proclamation to cement this law - there shall be an end to salt marriage from this day till the ending of the lands. My own son Aeron yesterday wed a Dornish maid by greenlands law. The offspring of salt wives and their mothers shall not lose their extant rights and protection, but no more such unions are sanctioned by Pyke.

Attested in the name of the Eight Gods,

Quellon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke

[Dereich]

The Dutiful Maester

The longtime maester of Dorne moved quickly through the winding halls of Sunspear, scrolls in hand. He hesitated outside his Lord's solar for only a moment; the Prince would want to hear the news. The maester enter to find Prince Doran in a chair by the window, sound asleep with a copy of Lies of the Ancients Archmaester Fomas sitting on his lap. The maester had scarcely begun to consider leaving the prince to his rest when Doran suddenly awoke. "Ah, Caleotte, it's only you. I was afraid my wife had come to scold me again." Doran pulled out a glass, seemingly out of thin air, filled with a bright yellow liquid. "Come to think of it, its a good thing you aren't my brother as well. He would be up in arms to find me drinking anything but Dornish Red. He is yet to find anything from our new friends in the Reach that he approves of." Drowning the glass in a single gulp, Doran sighed. "If you've decided to interrupt my rest the news must be important, so out with it."

The maester again hesitated; it seems he had caught his lord and master in a strange mood. The haranguing of his wife and brother must have left the Prince of Dorne out of sorts...to say nothing of the drinking. He handed over the scrolls, sealed with the crests of the direwolf and kraken. "The newest details of the accusation against your person by Lord Stark. He has presented the basis for his claim." Prince Doran's brow furrowed. He appeared to read the Stark missive slowly, word by word, as if the words could not quite say what he thought they said.

Doran laughed somewhat uncertainly, "Is...is this a jape? Some strange prank pulled by my brother?" The maester shook his head. "Is it false? A trick by some lord opposed to Lord Stark? A Bolton, perhaps?" Again the maester shook his head, "I'm sorry, my prince. The seal is genuine and the writing appears to match that of Lord Stark's maester. Have you a problem with the letter?"

"A problem? Yes I do! Why did you wake me up for this? If THIS is all Lord Stark's accusation amounts to, leave me to my rest!" Maester Caleotte was taken aback, "But my Prince...a Paramount Lord of the realm is accusing you of regicide! You must draft a response!" Doran rolled his eyes, "I will do no such thing. This kind of accusation is best left to rot on the vine. To respond is to give it credence in a way that Lord Stark obviously cannot." The maester started "But...but", but he was cut off by the increasingly angry Prince of Dorne. "Do you really not understand? Fine, I will lay it out and then you will leave me to my rest with no interruptions this time."

Doran began: "So Lord Stark accuses me of murder. That is all well and good. I have motive; my sister is the King's captive and his disfavored son my good-brother. But wait; nearly every lord in the Realm has motive to kill the king! Lord Tyrell wanted influence and used the King's death to become regent, Lord Lannister is still upset from his ignominious dismissal as Hand and the failure of his marriage plans, Lord Baratheon obviously wanted to declare himself King, and Lords Tully and Arryn might have wanted to further this plot. Lord Stark HIMSELF had great motive; when Rhaegar went missing he was ordered to send his son to King's Landing to what he admitted was certain death. Frey, Merryweather, Greyjoy, Hollard, Mooton, Lonmouth, a third the Kingsguard, all the Lords Declarant, Queen Rhaella, the Queen's lady's-in-waiting, the Grand Maester and the half the Lords at Court supporting Rhaegar all had motive and some degree of opportunity to assassinate Aerys. Even among the Dornish I would not be the primary suspect; my sister, nearby and trapped in captivity, her handmaidens, House Dayne, and my brash and poison-happy younger brother would all be better suspects than myself."

The prince was practically cross-eyed with rage, but his loyal maester knew that stopping him in the middle of a tangent would just cause more problems, so he stood in silence and Doran continued.

"And this accusation? Where is the evidence? A "Green Dream"? Half the Lords of the Realm won't know what that is! Half of those who DO know will think they are a vile Northern heresy against the Seven and the OTHER half will consider them a myth, an ancient superstition told to Northern children. I bet half the maesters who saw this message didn't even give it to their lords; no man in their right mind would believe such baseless nonsense. And if I WAS guilty and evidence HAD existed, it would have been washed away when those RATS in Kings Landing murdered my sister and every other Dornishman in the city."

"Even then, consider the wild tale's author. If this was the noble and honest Lord Stark of two months prior, mayhaps some lords would give the accusation some consideration. But now? Now it comes from a man half a step from kinslaying. Even the most anti-Dornish Marcherlords will have a difficult time believing the man who murdered their lord, his daughter's betrothed, in cold blood."

The maester cut in boldly, "But my Lord, the Lord Reaver obviously believes. His missive states that he will continue to besiege your territory until you submit to trial." Prince Doran rolled his eyes. "Greyjoy doesn't believe this drivel; nobody does. Lord Greyjoy has been waiting for a chance to increase his power and influence for years. Besieging an empty rock and accusing me of murder isn't supposed to "force me to atone for my sins" or whatever he called it, but give him leverage to extract things from me. Once he's had his fill of power and loot he'll drop these ludicrous claims."

The Prince stood. "Now. You will leave me to my rest and will not disturb me again unless something IMPORTANT happens." Doran began shooing his maester towards the door and pulled a bottle, again seemingly out of thin air, to refill his glass. Maester Caleotte shrugged at the sight and left his master to his wine and his reading.

[badgate]

Victarion

The skiff swam quietly down the river toward the castle, a mass of black against the starry night sky. "You are sure he is gone?" Victarion asked.

"Quite sure," his companions assured him. The Frey household soldiers he had recruited for the raid had scouted all morning, before returning to camp with word that Lord Hoster Tully had departed Riverrun toward King's Landing with due haste.

Germond Botley shifted next to him nervously. Victarion elbowed him; he missed the companionship of his brother Aeron. Still, it was good of his lord father to send a fellow Ironborn with him to this hellhole.

The Riverlands had proved duly disappointing to a son of Pyke. Too green and too far from the sea, Victarion had judged the Twins upon arrival. The river helped, but it was still a dismal place to live. Lord Frey seemed to have more sons than fingers or toes, and they all thought to make the Ironborn their fast friend. The only one that Victarion had found impressive was the bastard, Black Walder. He had no cause to trust this son of Lord Frey, though the soldiers promised he would come through.

Still, Victarion was eager to prove himself tonight. He had donned a kraken helm the smithy at the Twins had presented him with upon his arrival. A longsword hung from his belt, and a dirk was at his ankle. Another was hidden under his black doublet.

The skiff came closer and Victarion saw for the first time the seat of House Tully, Riverrun castle. In one swift movement, they all slipped into the water almost silently.

Underwater, Victarion kicked and felt himself pulling ahead of the Frey soldiers. Yes! His heart was pumping as he saw the gate of Riverrun above his head, raised just a hair like their accomplice had promised. He made for the surface as quietly as possible and sucked in air. Germond surfaced right next to him; it had to be said that Germond was an excellent swimmer.

The castle grounds were quiet and dark, and largely abandoned. "We were right to wait," Germond whispered. "Lord Tully took half his household with him to King's Landing. He may not even have guards on the Lady's doors."

"Don't be stupid, of course there will be guards," Victarion shot back.

Once the soldiers had landed in the courtyard, a man appeared from the shadows. Victarion heard one of the Frey soldiers greet him, but could not make out the name over the splashing tide of the riverbank. The man was tall, and older. Victarion recognized him from his welcome feast at the Twins, and the man was wearing an elegant doublet bearing the Frey sigil and colors. He focused his attention on Victarion.

"Thank you, ser, for your assistance tonight," he said.

"I'm no greenland knight," Victarion said indignantly.

The man smiled. "No, but if you succeed, surely my father will knight you, if that is your wish."

Victarion spat, and the man's smile faded. "My lord, there are too many guards at the lady's door to get in undetected, but there is a window to the privy chamber." He pointed to a tall, thin tower on the  southern end of the castle. "I am told a boy much smaller than you was once able to climb to Lady Lysa's bedchambers in the same tower. Surely you can manage the same."

Victarion's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. He turned to his soldiers. "Okay, I want four of you to take the side of the tower, the other four to stake out the front. Germond, you're with me." He turned swiftly and they shuffled through the darkness to the maiden tower.

It was as the man had said. Shallow grips and footholds were everywhere along the stone walls. Victarion and his companion had no trouble gaining the tower, up to the highest window that the Frey man had pointed him to. "Your Lady is in there. Once you give the signal, your men will attack at the foot of the tower, with you charging down the stairs. Lord Tully's guards won't know us until we're on them."

He reached the window and hefted himself over as quietly as possible, which didn't say much. He found himself in a girl's privy as Germond tripped over the same water basin coming over the windowsill. "Shhhhh," he bid him. He pulled the gag in one hand, to silence her, and the rope he wrapped around his shoulder. He then pulled his dirk from his boot and made way into the bedchamber.

The room was virtually pitch black, but for a single tallow candle barely lit. It's embers glowed faintly as Victarion approached the bed, the Lady Lyanna Stark sleeping peacefully before him. Beside her, a mass of pillows and furs stirred. Victarion stopped suddenly as a second woman, younger, sat up and looked him straight in the eye. Then she screamed.

"Get her! Get her!" Victarion hissed at Germond, who pulled his knife from his belt and leapt over the bed at Lysa Tully.

Germond and Lysa landed on the stone floor, and he pulled her up by her hair with his hand wrapped around her mouth. Her screams echoed against his palm until suddenly a gush of blood erupted between his fingers. She'd bit him, and Germond cursed before pulling his hand away. Lysa screamed again, louder, and suddenly Lyanna Stark had leapt from the bed with a short sword of her own in her hands, slashing at Victarion.

Shocked, Victarion tripped backward. She fights like men?! He parried a blow and kicked at her stomach, but Lyanna jumped away. She's still as weak as a woman, he assured himself, and charged her, dirk waving before him. He caught a flash of Germond slitting Lysa Tully's throat to make her shut up as he slashed down the entirety of his target's forearm.

Lyanna cried and dropped the sword, clutching her arm. "Please, don't kill me, take me instead-" she began as Victarion loosened the rope, then suddenly guard after guard banged through the bedchamber door.

Turning, Victarion swung his sword at the first, then second, but the men quickly overpowered him. He found himself face flat against the stone floor, and on the other side of the bed he saw Germond as well, but his empty eyes pronounced him dead immediately. A brave death, Victarion thought approvingly.

His own rope binding his wrists together, the household guard of Riverrun brought him down to the Lord's hall, where a gruff knight in black gave Victarion one of the most deadly looks he had ever seen. His cape was fastened by a gleaming black fish brooch. "My lord, this was the man what climbed up to the bedchamber. His friend died fighting us, but we got him alive if it please you."

"It pleases me indeed," the black knight answered, his eyes never leaving Victarion's face. "A kraken is a nice thing to capture alive."

A fat maester shuffled in from the door behind the dais. "My lord," he said gravely to Ser Brynden. For a moment Brynden Tully looked stricken. "Edmure?" he asked. "The boy was sleeping peacefully and his guards reported no activity. Ser Brynden nodded.

Brynden's glare upon Victarion's face only intensified after that. "You killed my niece. You stole into our home, broke our peace, and from what we can assess intended to steal away with Lady Stark as a captive."

"The lady is alive," the maester assured the room. "Though she bares wounds from the incident, which will remain with her forever as scars."

Victarion felt the guard on the right's grip loosen just an inch, and took his moment to strike. He elbowed the man in the ribs as sharply as he could, and undid the knot he had been unloosening slowly behind his back. In one swift movement he pulled the second dirk from his doublet and shot it at Ser Brynden Tully with all the skill he could muster.

His aim was not true. The blade skimmed past the man's wavy black hair and instead struck the trout engraving on the wooden dais. A flurry of fists befell him as the guards overpowered him again, and he found himself held by four men as Brynden walked slowly down below the salt. He came within inches of Victarion's face, and with a fury as Victarion had never felt, the Blackfish's fist met his jaw.

He awoke hours later, the morning sun shining through the bars of his cell, with iron chains binding his ankles and wrists in a dank chamber that surely would flood if the river ran over.

[Blair]

Master of Coin was hardly the most thrilling job. Whilst Lord Tully had a basic understanding of the realms finances he had no desire to reform the office. The main advantage was that after the months of tension, and near war he could now retreat to the sun of King's Landing. Sipping on a glass of the finest arbor red; freshly delivered by the Regents men himself Lord Tully could almost feel himself drifting off as he laid back in his carriage.

As his mind drifted into an easy slumber Lord he realized the banality of the situation. The entire realm had almost thrown itself in the depths of war; the King himself had been murdered in the capital and the honourable Lord Rickard Stark was to take the black. Yet in this moment all that surrendered his carriage were the rolling hills of the Riverlands.

**

The piercing shriek of the bugle woke lord Hoster, and caused the convoy of his household guard to burst into action. A circle formed a protective ring around his carriage as the Lord sprung to life. Peering out of the narrow gap he could see the the much trusted standard of a red horse on a brown background-it was the banner of Lord Bracken. Whilst known for their long running feud with house Blackwood they'd been trusted as one of the most loyal banner lords of the Riverlands.

'What troubles you dear sers?' The commander of the Tully Household guard shouted, opening his helm at the sight of the 3 riders from House Bracken.

'I must request Lord Tully company, we bring word from Riverun' The leanest of the riders demanded reaching into his pocket causing a near panic as several guardsmen put there hands upon their hilts, ready to defend their liege. 'Relax-tis merely a message from your lords Home. I was instructed by my dear lord Bracken to give this scroll directly to Lord Tully''

Upon hearing this Lord Tully appeared out of his carriage, his velvet travelling cloak was a rainbow of blue and red yet underneath bore a man with a look of concern on his now weary face. 'What is the meaning of this?'' Lord Tully barked stepping down and walking toward the Bracken men. In one swift movement he grabbed the piece of parchment, and studied the brief scrawl.

The Kracken has landed
Bryden 'Blackfish' Tully, in stead of Lord Hoster Tully


A silence had settled over the surrounding men as each waited for Lord Tully's reaction. Bearing a calm, yet resolute face the Lord turned to his squire. 'Unload my helm and armour, we must march back to Rivverun. Ser Ayren, take the lead.'' His men could only splutter with agreement at being marched back home after days preparing for the voyage south

The House of Lord Bracken was only an hours ride away, and would be a safe destination as Lord Tully tried to work what in seven hells had actually happened. He'd faced threats from the Ironborn, most likely they'd tried to land in Seagard, or had burnt some fishing vessels. For all his feuding with his brother he knew that he'd only send such a warning if something of grave importance had happened. Looking out onto the green fields of his home Lord Tully knew that somewhere the rubbery tentacles of the Kraken had done what they do best-destroy.

[Lumine]

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[Garlan Gunter]

ALANNYS



They spent more and more time in the maester’s ravenry now, even when the maester himself was called aside to Lady Greyjoy’s bedside. Birds arrived thick, fast and ominous, almost all of them from Duskendale, where her lord good-father must have pressed dozens of maesters into his service. Few now bothered to write to Pyke directly. The strength of the Ironborn resided on the other side of Westeros, with its Lord Reaper.

Gorold Goodbrother was a jovial man by habit, always ready with a warm grin salted with a cynical jest, but this time a besetting glumness laid down even his infectious and playful temperament. As for Alannys, she gripped the old, wet stone of the casement, and for a moment of weakness could have wished herself a little girl back in Ten Towers.

She felt Gorold’s hand on her shoulder then, more tentative than usual. “You’ve barred the door?” she asked absently.

“Aye. Farce that it is, the maester’s long known to keep out of our way.” Alannys ignored the querulousness in his voice; it could scarce be blamed at such a time. She laid her own left hand on his, rubbing it faintly. Her voice seemed to come from ever further away. “Aeron will take this news about his brother hard.”

“You worry too much about your good-father’s krakens,” Gorold objected. “Your own children see you too rarely. Rodrik’s wilder than ever with Maron off in Winterfell, Asha is too damn clever, like your brother, and Theon…”

“Try and keep the pride out of your voice, it’s hardly the time for it,” Alannys cut back firmly. “We have no proof he’s yours.” But it was true she had her suspicions, and it had always made her the more fond, tender and protective towards her youngest child.

“Anyway, Aeron has his bride to play with now,” Gorold plodded on like the reliable plough-horse he could be when he was trying to be reassuring. “As well as a whole knot of playthings, Tyrell, Frey, Bolton, Manderly, and him the leader for a change. The Greyjoy in Pyke. I’ll wager he’s never had so pleasant a time in his life.”

“There at least you may be right,” Alannys murmured, though a frown seemed to have carved deeper across the high, strong brow from which she carefully brushed her horse-thick, strawy red-gold hair. None of her siblings, few even of her playmates on Harlaw had looked so outlandish. “Though it might be for reasons you’d be a fool to know. Aeron’s natural wit and temper surfaced when Euron left Pyke.”

“Aeron, Euron, even bloody Quellon, I’m sick of them all,” Gorold groused. “Did you not say a moment ago the door was barred.”

“It won’t remain so. This is not the time, not the time at all,” Alannys repeated. “My good-father writes that the Lord Regent has deprived him of his office and summoned him and Lord Botley to the capital. Victarion is to face trial for the murder.”

She turned then speedily, and raised arms that never disdained her share of fetching, carrying and toil to unbar the ravenry door herself, her long grey green apparel slicing an abrasive way through the rushes. Gorold loped behind, embarrassed, baulked, clearly sharpened to the state when she found him most amusing, and moving. There would be another such time for this, when the trouble was over. But would it be?

Dinner at the longhall of Pyke was a curious arrangement now. The highest place belonged by right to Lady Greyjoy, but the Piper woman rarely availed herself of it, keeping more and more to her chambers. After that, young Rodrik, her own and Balon’s eldest son and most undoubtedly his father’s, theoretically had the primacy, but more often and not he wandered about the castle and the island, missing meals, especially grand ones, or even sailed on visits to his cousin and fast friend, Harras Harlaw.

Little Theon and his elder sister Asha flanked their mother, Theon bemused, Asha as watchful as if she had given birth to him herself. It was Aeron who most enjoyed his unwontedly high place, with the noble wards below him, Gorold’s proposed good-son Leo Tyrell and the Northern boys, the quiet one, Domeric and the fat one, Wendel. Sharp-eyed Symond Frey was pinioned opposite the slouching figure of the sleepy Ser Stafford Lannister; little Willamen Frey, already as alert, clever and forward a child as any Maester Korigan had instructed, served as cup-bearer. After that the salt and Sylas Sourtongue divided the higher nobility from the household and the petty sworn men. The newly wed Lady Allyria Greyjoy avoided dining in public near as oft as the Piper woman.

Gorold Goodbrother, the lord deputy on the Isles while Quellon and Balon were at sea, had taken by Alannys’s consent to occupying the head of the board. His wife was off in Hammerhorn. Aeron’s protests on this point were loud, reiterative and tedious.

“You can’t let him stay there, my lady good-sister, he’s no Kraken. The high chair’s legs will rip his feeble limbs to pieces.”

“And would you be cut in half if you chanced to sit in my brother’s seat, then?” rejoined Alannys, thinking fondly of those ancient scythes. “I doubt it very much. The only man who has truly to fear where and when he takes his seat is Leo’s Nuncle Mace.”

“They say the throne rejects him, he gets cut all the time and bleeds like a hog,” piped in the rotund Wendel Manderly. Leo Tyrell barely bothered to spare him his contempt, and Alannys had a faint suspicion Domeric Bolton might have kicked him under the table, though she could not say she greatly cared just now.

“You came from the Ravenry, good-sister?” Aeron enquired. He had got irritatingly observant and more than a little ceremonious since accompanying Balon on the Starfall raid. Though little Aeron was by far Alannys’s favourite among her good-brothers – in many ways among all the brothers – and she was pleased to watch him thrive, sometimes she still preferred the shy, pert child he’d so recently been. Now he was all eagerness for blood and victory, more like her lord husband, whom he worshipped. “Will Balon take Storm’s End?”

“If he did, it would be…very remarkable,” Alannys soothed politely, though she drank back a horn of the castle ale with a rapidity that only Gorold noted. It was a great mercy the young nobles knew so little of how fast the realm was changing…so far.

Then her eyes met the slimy coolness of Symond Frey’s. He wrote to his lord father often enough officially, and more than he let on too. Of course he knew all. She beckoned to have her horn refilled…and from Willamen’s jumpy step, she knew his brother had let him know. Who else? Domeric Bolton always looked like he had quietly reckoned with everything, but surely that was just his habitual air, his unnerving though courteous glance…Leo Tyrell? He was only a minor kinsman of the Regent’s, but almost of age, soon to be wed…Alannys felt an ache for the newly confident Aeron. Was he the last of all his new playmates and admirers to know the true state of affairs?

Wendel’s belch brought her out of these gloomy reflections with fresh relief. If the Freys knew, they knew they were in grave danger, threatened, outlawed and despised. They would have no reason to let it spread. Ser Stafford Lannister must be well-informed, but his pride and stolidity would surely stop him making much use of the fact.

“Lord Goodbrother,” she found herself saying as if without volition. “The maester told us to expect a new bird at this hour. I want to see it immediately. Come with me.” She did not pause to see the effect of her clumsy falsehood, or who might watch them go.

Before they reached the ravenry they were hand in hand, and before the latch was lifted her bodice was unstringed. Gorold was shorter in stature than Quellon and Balon, but he well made up for it. He had strong, reliable arms, not unlike her own, and as he hurled her back upon the table where the dispatches rustled she felt she could be soaring, swimming…

…until she heard the sound of her youngest good-brother’s oath soiling the night, and saw the shadow of a squid tearing at speed back down the stairs.

[Emmon Frey]

An open letter to the lords of the realm.

My lords,

Hear me now, in sight of Gods and men, that the tragedy of Riverrun was not the work of House Frey. Any suggestion to the contrary is simply absurd.

So many young men, young lords and young princes of the blood, have fallen by acts of cowardly sabotage in recent months. Men sent to their graves for a folly, long before their times, consumed by their own ambition.

Not a single one of them was felled by a man of my house.

How quickly you descend upon my family! My peaceable family who have kept their swords sheathed and unbloodied as the great lords of this realm have torn it asunder! And now you turn your tyranny to us, with little more that hearsay to justify your actions?

We are builders of bridges at the Twins, not burners of halls. We do not cut the throats of girls in their beds. I echo the words of Lord Greyjoy in hoping his son can be brought to face true justice in the capital. If any members of my family are then proven to have played a part in this foul deed, they too must face the consequences of their actions.

Until this day comes, I will do all in my power to protect my people from the madness. You march your armies upon the Twins at your own peril.

Lord Walder Frey

[Weyfield]

A declaration to the lords of the realm

I, Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, declare rebellion on the oligarchs who purport to rule our realm. I name Lord Tyrell, Lord Martell, Lord Greyjoy and his sons, and all those who support them as enemies of the realm. These lords have no right to rule over our realm. I urge all honourable and upstanding lords, great and small, to join the coalition against them. The madness of the late King Aerys and the plots of these lords have brought discontent and instability to the Seven Kingdoms. Through deceit and intrigue these lords have risen high, though their fall shall be equally terrible.

The Targaryens surrendered their right to the throne when Aerys placed himself outside of the law through the wrongful disowning of his heir and murder of Brandon Stark. It is evident that this mad, incestuous dynasty should no longer supremely govern us. Join me, and the other lords who have already joined to this cause, in arms against our oppressors so that we may build a better realm free from this foul, corrupt alliance of lords whose high ambitions have driven the kingdom to war.

-Lord Stannis Baratheon.

[Garlan Gunter]

A response to Lord Stannis's Declaration

The latest young Stag declares his intention to overthrow the corrupt Lords of Westeros, and to put in their place the noble Lords of Westeros. All very well and good and fine, but how is he to determine which are which?

He makes mention of me and my sons. My family has just crushed a rebellion whose suppression was beyond his capabilities.

Lord Stannis might be better advised to ponder how his brother died, at whose hands, and why.

More timorous than his gallant, or rash, brother, he aims at the crown without daring to say as much, and so says nothing of moment instead.

Written in the Name of the Eight Gods and the Old,

Quellon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke

[Enduro]

An announcement from the Lord of Winterfell:

I ride to the wall; to make sure I don't have any distractions, Lord Roose Bolton is to take command of operations against the Twins. Farewell.

Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell

[Talleyrand]

Announcement by Lord Tywin Lannister

As a result of newly developing threats to the stability of the West, I will not be declining position of Hand of the King at this time. I wish for peace in the realm, but matters in the Westerlands require my foremost attention at the present.

In addition, as a result of a misunderstanding, it appears Crown soldiers were killed within our borders. For these unfortunate losses, House Lannister will generously provide just compensation to His Grace King Viserys III.

I urge all houses to currently do what they can to support peace for the realm, and strongly encourage Lord Stannis to stand aside and back the Crown. The support of the Stormlands are needed at this crucial time for the security of the Seven Kingdoms.

X Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West