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Chapter Text

101 AC
Prince Baelon, Heir to the Iron Throne, Hand of the King and Prince of Dragonstone was dead, and Otto Hightower knew this was the greatest opportunity he would know. His friendship with the young Prince Viserys had afforded him the opportunity to meet the late Crown Prince, who had recognized his talent and brought him under the office of the Hand. That relation with Prince Baelon had made him known to King Jaehaerys. Now, Otto understood he could rise as high as any second son could. The King had summoned his only living son, the Archmaester Vaegon, for matters of inheritance and he had convinced him to call a Great Council to peacefully put to rest the matter of succession.

Soon after Prince Baelon’s death Corlys Velaryon and his wife the Princess Rhaenys had begun to gather support for her claim and that of her children. The Old King knew what was happening. The Sea Snake’s ships had been seen sailing between Driftmark and Storm’s End. The Sea Snake was hosting any lord of importance whose voice was heard in King’s Landing. Old promises and debts were being called and the Velaryon fleet was mustered in a manner that was not seen since the Conqueror’s Day.

And Otto could see what the king wanted: the male claimant, Prince Viserys, to become heir. And Archmaester Vaegon had given them a way to make it so without bloodshed. The King disliked Corlys Velaryon, he would not see the name Targaryen lost because Prince Aemon refused to father a son on his wife; would not see the dragon bow to the seahorse. Thankfully Prince Baelon had made advantageous matches for his son: a Valyrian bride of Arryn name for Viserys.

Queen Alysanne had arranged the match of the younger prince, Daemon, and found him an inheritance in the Vale. And Otto knew the truth behind that match, whilst a good match for a second son set to inherit nothing it was also a marriage that brought little to the table to Prince Baelon. Queen Alysanne championed the cause of Princess Rhaenys to the day she died and knew better than to allow her second son to make powerful matches for both of his sons. How was the Good Queen to know that soon after Prince Daemon’s wedding that tragedy would befall the Arryns and young Lady Jeyne would be left orphaned and with a Royce regent—Daemon’s goodfather. Now Prince Viserys’s wife was the closest blood relation and heir to the Vale and Daemon’s was daughter to the most powerful man in the Vale. By ensuring that both sons of Baelon were married in the Vale the Queen had unknowingly placed that kingdom firmly in the side of Viserys, from the highest to the lowest lord, thanks to the political skill of Yorbert Royce.

If he could help ensure that Prince Viserys was declared heir to the Iron Throne then, as the highest-ranking member of the Hand’s offices, he would surely be made the new Hand by the King. He made himself available to the King, he organized the Council, invited the lords of the Realm and made sure each had their place in Harrenhal—no other keep could host as many lords and their retinue. He worked closely with Lord Strong to make sure that Harrenhal was ready to receive every lord of the Realm. He organized the arrival of merchants and servants and the movement of the smallfolk who were making their way to the great ruin of a castle. He also made sure to talk with those lords whose ties to any of the two principal claimants were not set in stone, and he made sure that the King knew this.

The bulk of the Westerlands, including the wealthy and ambitious Tymond Lannister, most lords in the Reach, the Riverlands, Crownlands and a surprising number of lords sworn to Storm’s End defied their lieges and were inclined to follow the male line and cast their lot with the son of the popular Spring Prince. But the Vale was proving stubborn. Yorbert Royce was angered that the royal marriage the Queen had arranged for his daughter and heir was being ignored and scorned.

Soon after arriving at the Council Otto began wishing the younger son of Prince Balon had inherited any of his father’s better qualities. Prince Daemon was impulsive, rash and impatient. He had arrived with a large retinue of sellswords and threatened lords Celtigar and Massey after seeing them dining with the Princess Rhaenys; he then came close to blows with Boremund Baratheon and would have challenged him to a duel had Viserys not being present to temper his temper. And with every word Daemon spurned his wife, Rhea Royce. Otto began to fear the scorn Daemon had for his wife would set her father against Viserys, against the wishes of the King.

The Velaryons had the support of House Baratheon and worryingly they also had the nearly unanimous support of the North. Otto could not afford Daemon’s attitude shifting the loyalties of the Vale, united as they were under Lord Royce. Corlys Velaryon would seize the opportunity and use that advantage to shift the allegiance of other houses. If Otto Hightower was to see his efforts rewarded and his ambitions fulfilled, he had to take action. He met with Yorbert Royce and sought to compromise and earn his loyalty, in the name of Viserys.

The solution was the simplest: Royce wanted a Targaryen grandson, a prince to rule Runestone after his daughter. A promise was made between Hightower and Royce. Otto would need to make sure that Prince Daemon would consummate his marriage with Rhea Royce. He knew that he could say nothing that could move the young prince towards the marriage bed; in the little time they had known each other they had found that neither cared for the other’s company. But Otto had seen the loyalty the younger brother held for the eldest, behind the rash and violent actions that Daemon took he had seen the desire to help Viserys. Thus, he knew the best way to convince Daemon to finally take his wife to bed would be to convince Viserys that it was needed. Otto had come to understand both brothers well enough, and he knew orders would only make Daemon refuse and resent his brother, but if Viserys were to ask… if Daemon was made to believe that Viserys needed him and this was the way to help his brother… Well, convincing Viserys proved to be easier than convincing Gwayne to eat his vegetables.

When the votes were finally counted his friend Viserys came out with a dominant victory. He was soon made Prince of Dragonstone by King Jaehaerys. And most importantly, the King knew how important Otto had been to bring about the result the Old King desired. Not long after Viserys was formally made heir to the throne; Ser Otto Hightower, a second son, was given the position of Hand of the King.

Rhea Royce was with child. Yorbert Royce was content. That Daemon soon found out his brother was manipulated by Otto into asking him for help, that he was forced into laying with his Bronze Bitch by said manipulation, was of little importance to Ser Otto—nay, Lord Otto. Hand of the King. Otto Hightower had proven his worth not just to King Jaehaerys but also to Prince Viserys, his future was assured in the capital. Not long after returning from Harrenhal he summoned his family from Oldtown.

In the waning days of 101 AC a daughter was born in Runestone to Prince Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce.

Chapter Text

108 AC

Elaena Targaryen was 6 years old when she remembered.

Lord Yorbert summoned her from Runestone to become a lady-in-waiting to the Lady Jeyne Arryn. She was fourteen and close to her majority and Elaena's grandfather wanted to keep a Royce close to her. In his letter to his daughter, he wrote that he hoped that Lady Jeyne would come to see their little Royce princess as a little sister and the bonds that had been forged between the Eyrie and Runestone would not be broken: Lady Jeyne's guardian and regent was a Royce; Lady Jeyne's heir, her cousin Ser Arnold, had squired in Runestone and married a Royce.

Yorbert Royce was confident the two largest houses of the Vale would remain great allies for the next hundred years, but Rhea Royce wasn't as confident as her father. Before she left, Rhea told her daughter that Lady Jeyne and her cousin Ser Arnold were not on good terms for when she was but an orphaned babe, he had tried to steal her inheritance; but Andal Law was clear and the Old King and both of Elaena's grandfathers, Baelon and Yorbert, had supported Lady Jeyne. Her mother often spoke to her about matters of ruling and the politics of Vale lords, but she didn't always understand; this matter she would come to understand when she began living in the Eyrie.

She didn't cry the day she left Runestone. Her mother had taught her what it meant to be a Royce and what duty to their house meant. Elaena's father had told her on his only visit—that she remembers, at least, but he had visited for every one of her name-days before his exile and his war in the Narrow Sea—that dragons don't cry. Elaena didn't feel like a dragon then, and she still doesn't. A dragon egg was placed in her cradle, but it had turned cold and hard as any stone. She was still allowed to keep it with her, no longer a living dragon's egg but still an heirloom of House Targaryen. Daemon showed her his own stone egg and spoke to her about his brother, the king, who also had a stone egg and how they both had claimed adult dragons when they were grown men, and that he'd make sure she was granted that honor when she came of age. Her father's visit was short, he had to leave for the Stepstones. Elaena did not fail to notice that Prince Daemon did not utter even one word to his lady wife.

The journey through the mountains was thankfully peaceful, one Ser Osgood escorted her with twenty knights all the way to the Eyrie. Ser Osgood was a landed knight belonging to a junior branch of House Royce granted a keep in the frontier of the Royce lands with the Mountains of the Moon and charged with defending the mountain passes from the clansmen. He told his future liege how they shared a great-great-great grandfather, but it was difficult for the little lady to picture such a connection. Her distant cousin Osgood's son and heir, the young and newly knighted Ser Yorwyck Royce aged eight-and-ten, had been assigned as her sworn shield.

The Eyrie was the most incredible thing that Elaena had ever seen, even more than Caraxes. The setting sun had painted the mountain red, and the distant white walls of the castle had taken on a beautiful shade of pink. She couldn't begin to imagine how people had carried all that stone to the top of the mountain. Their little party was welcomed to the Gates of the Moon and granted guest right by Ser Mandon Lynderly, Keeper of the Gates in the name of Lady Jeyne. He informed them that he had sent a raven up to the castle and come morning Lord Yorbert would descend to the Gates to take his little granddaughter up the mountain.

After a hearty dinner of roasted duck, Elaena set out to explore the keep, accompanied by Ser Yorwyck. It was not as large and impressive as Runestone, but Ser Mandon had brought his own taste to the castle and filled the Great Hall with the most beautiful tapestries with images of the Faith of the Seven. Figures woven in the most vivid colors standing on gentle green hills. One shows a king kneeling before the Father as he is crowned by stars. The next one showed the Mother standing between a king and queen, holding their hands like a septon in a wedding. The same king leading an army of knights with shining swords of beautiful gemstone colors on ships sailing the green seas. When Ser Mandon found Elaena staring, he excitedly began telling her how he had brought those tapestries from his home in Snakewood; that the linen used in their making had been harvested in Old Andalos and how his grandfather had commissioned the most skilled weavers of Myr in their making. The riveting tale of how his grandfather had to haggle with the seamstresses cruel slaveowner was cut short however, as the sun was now gone and Ser Yorwyck declared it was time to sleep and shepherded his little charge to her guest room.

Come morning Lord Yorbert descended the mountain and wasted no time in bringing his only granddaughter back to the Eyrie. She was still too small to ride alone on a mule, so she rode with her grandfather. The climb was uneventful for the first two waycastle, Elaena excitedly talking to anyone who would listen about how gentle the mule was with her. Halfway on the path between Snow and Sky however, Lady Elaena gazed down towards where the Gates of the Moon were, and all the color went out of her face. Her breathing started to happen quicker and quicker and she lost consciousness. Her grandfather had been thankfully holding her close to her, so she merely sagged against his arms. Thinking she was merely tired from the climb they continued on their way and she went up with a basket full of turnips towards the Eyrie.

When she woke up, in a small bedroom with walls made of white marble and a lit fireplace, she remembered.

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Jessamyn Redfort was excited to look upon the little Lady Targaryen of Runestone. She had seen Princess Rhaenyra once, when Jeyne traveled with her ladies for poor Prince Baelon's tournament, so she was curious if Prince Daemon's child would share the same silver hair and otherworldly eyes of her family. She knew the prince rarely visited his wife and daughter and hadn't set foot in the Vale since he and the Sea Snake began their war. Jeyne had—in a stroke of genius, Jessamyn thought—left behind two handmaidens, loyal to House Arryn, to accompany Princess Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra was family, she had told the king, and he had agreed to host the girls. Now they received constant news and reports from the comings and goings in King's Landing.

Thankfully old Yorbert was the sort of man who had little interest in sitting in on the conversations of Jeyne and her ladies so they could gossip to their heart's content. They all knew that Yorbert would react horridly if he knew how Daemon spoke of his lady wife, Jeyne had even come close to asking Ser Boring and Solid, Ser Mandon Lynderly, to challenge the prince to a duel for the honor of the ladies of the Vale but Beth Hunter had talked her out of it, though it came close to happening once Jeyne heard about Daemon's pregnant whore and the whole debacle with the dragon egg. Beth had told Jeyne it would cause problems to Yorbert and Rhea but had later told Jessamyn that she simply believed Daemon would kill Ser Mandon.

Jeyne liked Rhea. A bit too much if you asked Jessamyn, but since Rhea was ruling Lady of Runestone in all but name now she hadn't visited in many moons. Jessamyn was glad about that, but she couldn't quite work out why. She also had no idea about what drove Prince Daemon to scorn his wife so; Jessamyn thought Lady Rhea was a handsome woman, stout of bone and with wide childbearing hips, pretty grey eyes as well. And a match to the Royce heiress was as good a match that a second son set to inherit nothing could make. The Royces were an ancient line, one of the oldest in the entire Seven Kingdoms, powerful and wealthy.

Close to sunset old Yorbert finally arrived, and with the turnips of all things. His granddaughter was asleep in his arms, so he asked Jeyne her leave to take her to bed and arrange the introductions come morning. Jessamyn couldn't get a look at Elaena Targaryen's eyes, but she could see she didn't have her father's hair. A curly brown that seemed to shine like bronze under the sun's light, though there was a single streak of pale hair, so Prince Daemon couldn't claim she wasn't his at least.

Come morning she finally got a good look at the girl's eyes: her mother's grey. Though under the morning light that single streak of hair shone like gold.

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Thanks for the comments!

I've started fleshing out the Vale, spent quite some time making up a Royce family tree and branch families, there's basically next to no named characters in canon so I had to create a bunch of them and I'm running out of names and I don't want to repeat them, got any recommendations? I'll probably have like 5 or so smallfolk called Pate.

Ser Mandon Lynderly is the third son of the current lord, a pious and serious guy who in another world would have joined the Warrior's Sons and become Commander of the Gulltown chapter.

​Both Jeyne Arryn and Jessamyn Redfort are currently fourteen, still not the lifelong companions that they'll eventually become but getting there.

Amongst the OC there's Bethany Hunter, and I'll introduce the other ladies in waiting in the next chapter, which will also be mostly a worldbuilding one; and Elaena adapting to suddenly remembering an entire previous life. For her hair I thought of Valarr Targaryen.

I'm still experimenting with the narrator, so please let me know what you think of the Jessamyn part since I think I'm leaning towards that sort of narrator.

Thanks for reading.

Chapter Text

108 AC
Elaena Targaryen, daughter of the Rogue Prince and future Lady of Runestone was afraid of heights. She’d brought over that fear from the place before, but she didn’t remember everything: faces were blurry, and emotions were faded. She was certain she had once loved someone but could not recall a name or even a hair color. She thought it unfair she could not remember the name of a dog she was certain she had but could recall a degree’s worth of classes and the taste of chocolate. She doesn’t remember her name, but she remembers art critics and historians, strange. And a boy slipping, and a girl screaming.

She spent her first days aware thinking. Her collapse during the climb had afforded her a few days of bedrest before needing to formally meet with Lady Jeyne, she had called on her and wished for her recovery and left her with her thoughts. She was Elaena Targaryen, six years old, seven enough. She had lived an adult’s life in the place before, and she was now living a second life in a fictional world. Her father’s name had clued her in on where she was: House of the Dragon. She watched the show, and Game of Thrones, but she never read the books—sure, she snooped around the wiki a fair amount, but nothing important jumped to mind now. She didn’t know if she was meant to exist, she didn’t appear in the show, Daemon had no children with his first wife, but she doesn’t know if she was a book character who was cut. For now, she’ll proceed with the idea that whatever sent her here also made Elaena Targaryen up and she wasn’t ever meant to exist.

Nobody knew her in the Eyrie, and a six-year-old (almost seven) acting quiet and serious when separated from her mother and fostered in a new place wasn’t out of the ordinary. Her grandfather loved her (she hoped) but didn’t know her. So, nobody noticed if she changed; not even her, she was unable to see where Elaena began and the woman from before ended, mayhaps there was no beginning and ending. She decided to put it out of her mind and instead focus on the more pressing situation of her survival as a child in a world that was decidedly not friendly to children. She had to survive, and she wasn’t about to allow herself to become a marriage pawn for an alliance with some guy missing his teeth.

If she was to survive, she needed a plan, she didn’t wish to get involved in a war and she wanted nothing to do with dragon riding. And she didn’t want to simply survive, she’d prefer to thrive and live as good a life as possible, surrounded by fat and happy peasants, surrounded by beauty and comfort. From what she remembered from the show, the Seven Kingdoms were not that keen on female rulers. The Vale had a female ruler. And for the past 10 or so years her mother had been acting as lady of Runestone whilst grandfather Yorbert was regent for Lady Jeyne. Elaena had room to maneuver. She had to learn as much as she could about her future holdings, her family and the law—shield yourself with law and most people would let you be, and for those that wouldn’t: Might.

Dealing with her fear of heights in this castle of all places was of paramount importance. The Eyrie, thankfully, not only had rooms but also gardens that stayed away from the edge of the mountain. After she’d asked Lady Jeyne, Elaena’s room was moved to one such room, with its balcony overlooking the Godswood. She could deal with a second floor, but the mountain was too much for her. The company of the other girls and her grandfather’s lessons were a good distraction from the looming threat of the open air. As the days passed in the Eyrie, she began to get better at forgetting how high up she was. She was not sure how she’d get down from the castle, and that sometimes kept her up at night—would she be forced to forever remain in the Eyrie if the very sight of the open air could cause her to lose herself?

Her apartments were directly under Lady Jeyne’s in the Moon Tower, they’d once belonged to Aemma Arryn. She had a small room for receiving guests, though she didn’t quite know who’d come visiting a seven-year-old. Her grandfather had hung a large tapestry of a three-headed dragon quartered with the arms of House Royce. The furniture in the room was old but well maintained, small as if made for a child and with little falcons in flight carved in them. A small door to the side led to her nursemaid’s small room, a knight’s widow named Mina that her grandfather had hired to care for her.

Elaena’s room was through a door at the back of the guest room. It was a spacious room with a bed large enough for two married couples to sleep comfortably in. To the side she had her own privy and she was thankful she was born into a position where she didn’t have to clean it. The walls of her room were lined with hanging furs to keep away the cold from the mountain winds, her grandfather had proudly told her he had hunted them all, so she’d spend her stay in the Eyrie warm. She had a large dresser, already filled with clothes in Targaryen and Royce colors that her grandfather had purchased in anticipation. And a beautifully made mahogany desk, full of ornaments, with moons carved on its sides and bronze falcons perched on its two back corners securing with their talons a wooden relief with the arms of the major houses of the Vale.

Elaena soon found a routine in her life in the Eyrie. She’d spend most of the day with Lady Jeyne and her many companions; they took their lessons from Septa Corinne together, they ate together, played together and did everything else they could think of together. Jeyne and the older girls had lessons with Maester Martyn after dinner; Elaena and the younger girls had theirs before dinner. Elaena was the youngest, but a university student’s memories set her at a much more advanced level than the nine-year-olds Anya Waxley and Lanna Belmore, so she’d done her best to convince grandfather Yorbert to give her personal lessons before bed.

Elaena thanked the Seven—something that surprised her—that Lady Jeyne and her ladies welcomed her and treated her kindly, she doesn’t know what she would have done if they had been awful to her. Jeyne was the eldest at four-and-ten, she liked laughing at silly puns and acting as a big sister to the other girls; Jessamyn was a moon younger, and she was the biggest gossip that Elaena had ever met, in this life or the last. Afterwards came quiet Bethany Hunter at three-and-ten, considerate of everyone’s feelings and hopelessly in love with Ser Mandon. Alayne Waynwood was one-and-ten and loved nothing more than visiting the mules and stealing sweets from the kitchens. Anya and Lanna were joined at the hip; they used to be the youngest but now with Elaena joining them they loved lording over her with all the authority that age gave them. They dragged Elaena with them on all their little adventures and games. Anya was the loudest and always leading the two, but Lanna made up all their plans.

Now that she was aware of her position as a female heir she wanted to learn as much as she could about her new home. Yorbert Royce, the ever-proud Lord of Runestone and regent of the Vale, liked nothing more than talking about his home. Their lessons together began with what “everything a Royce should know about home”. Runestone was an ancient keep, their home since before the Andals crossed the sea. The lands they held sway over were large and fertile, though not as fertile as the Vale itself. If you stood on the tallest tower of Gulltown, everything the eye saw belonged to the Graftons, anything beyond that was Royce land. They’d apparently taken a large amount of land in a war twelve years before Aegon’s Conquest, and the Graftons were still angered about that, though it had been a few years over a century ago. Relations between both houses had warmed since then, Good Queen Alysanne had arranged marriages and Yorbert’s mother was a Grafton. But most times land was worth more than blood.

Their borderlands to the west reached nearly to the Mountains of the Moon, where a small keep held by Ser Osgood Royce and his line for the past hundred years or so protected their peninsula and the path to Gulltown from the clans, the keep came with the title of Warden of the Mountain Pass. Most of the land between the keep and Runestone was dominated by grassy, gentle hills with calm, serene forests that were good for logging and hunting. Close to Gulltown the Royces owned some farmland and had built a stout keep called Harrion’s Keep, after the lord who defeated the Graftons, meant to protect the farmlands from the ambitions of the lords of Gulltown. Harrion’s Keep was held by another landed knight of Royce blood, one Ser Lomas Royce. One of the three gates of Gulltown, the easternmost one, was held by a knight of House Royce but his oaths were divided between his family and the Lord of the city.

North of Runestone lay a fishing town, where the docks that Royce ships use for trade anchors at. From among all the Vale houses, the Royces were blessed with a way to avoid Gulltown tariffs. The town was home to a knightly branch of House Tollett, who garrisoned a small tower and to a humble motherhouse. The lands south of Runestone were home to many a village, four septries and as many sheep as there were peasants in the Vale—that is to say, no one bothered to count how many. To the east there were many a small river and stream, large fields, a few villages, two towns, three septries, a motherhouse and more sheep. The largest of the two towns was home to the Bronze Sept, an ancient sept, built for the first Arryn princess to marry a Royce lord, for its defense from any threats another knightly branch of the Royces held a keep there.

Next, and most confusing for Elaena, came the vassals who swore oaths to House Royce from distant lands in the Vale. The Tolletts of Grey Glen, the main branch, held land in the famously fertile Vale of Arryn. They were far from Runestone but their oaths, and their harvests, were promised to the Royces. House Royce would protect them and tax them for it, and House Tollett could avoid trading through Gulltown. The Coldwaters of Coldwater Burn lived even further north, right by the Fingers, in a land rich in forests and apple orchards. Though the ancient Bronze Kings had lost the crown and the Vale, old oaths still meant something.

That just left Runestone itself. Elaena’s home for the past six years and future domain. An ancient castle, built between seven large hills during the Age of Heroes, its thick gates were inscribed with ancient runes. The walls were rebuilt after an earthquake brought the old ones down, they were seven feet thick and seventy feet tall to honor the New Gods. Its main hall was the largest out of any castle in the Vale. The sept was small but made from the same white marble as the Eyrie. The stables were of a kingly size, the kennels similarly sized and the Godswood was one of the largest in the Vale. The barracks could comfortably house eight hundred knights and their squires. And as might be expected, everywhere you looked there was something made out of bronze.

The wealth of the Bronze Kings, the reason they had built their home so far from the bountiful Vale, lay deep beneath the seven hills: the largest deposit of tin—a rare metal, that when alloyed with copper becomes bronze—in all the Seven Kingdoms. No other First Men house could arm as many men-at-arms with bronze as the ancient Royces could. But the Andals came with cold iron. The tin mines were now only open in one of the hills, the demand for the metal nowhere near as large as in the Age of Heroes. Lord Yorbert assured her, though, that they still had more than enough to arm a thousand thousand men. The tunnels beneath the hills were a veritable maze, which permitted the Royces to surround sieging armies and ambush attackers.

House Royce was wealthy, but Elaena was sure that it would not be enough to defend her against would-be usurpers. She had to make sure her position was unassailable. Wealth meant larger armies, loyal to their paymaster. Between all their household knights, vassals, both lordly and knightly, and hedge knights answering the calls of lords, no other Vale lord could call upon as many knights as the Royces: some two thousand if the land was stripped defenseless and bare of knights. But she needed more. If Rhaenyra had an Aegon, who’s to say she wouldn’t?
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110 AC
Life at the Eyrie was comfortable. Elaena enjoyed her time with Lady Jeyne and her other friends. She enjoyed her lessons with their maester, with their septa and with her grandfather. She had thrown herself into all her lessons. Alayne hated embroidery but Elaena not only understood its value as a woman’s skill in this world, but she had also always enjoyed handicrafts. In the place from before she had loved pottery and had even dabbled in woodcarving. She couldn’t turn her nose up on any potential advantage, so she absorbed as much as she could. She tailed Jeyne whenever she had official duties—they called her Jeyne’s little shadow. Whenever Ser Mandon climbed the mountain with news, whenever a lord came to the Eyrie seeking a judgement and whenever a raven carrying important messages arrived: Elaena was there. She sent letters to her mother, Lady Rhea, every week to learn what was happening in Runestone and how her lady mother ruled those lands—the Lady Rhea had been the ruling lady of Runestone in all but name since her father took on the stewardship of the entire Vale.

In no time at all she realized Jess Redfort’s gossiping had led to a small information network sprouting up around Jeyne. From her she tried to absorb as much as she could about information gathering, spying and planting agents in other people’s castles, though Jess herself hadn’t quite realized what she herself was capable of, gossip was still its own reward. Elaena had also soon discovered that Jeyne and Jess were in love, but didn’t know it yet; thus, she decided to… do absolutely nothing about it, this wasn’t the sort of world that would look fondly upon them, so she’d stay quiet and hope things work out for them. Lanna Belmore was clever and good at solving problems, she was also the biggest troublemaker in the castle, though most of the adults hadn’t realized it quite yet. Elaena was trying her best to learn from her the art of convincing someone to do something without them realizing you even did anything.

She had thought the Eyrie would be the best school for her to learn how to rule when the time came to inherit Runestone. But the white raven carrying news of autumn changed everything. They were descending the mountain, and she wanted nothing to do with the descent. She begged and begged until finally someone had the idea of carrying her down most of the mountain with her eyes covered, on top of the most surefooted mule. But as soon as that small problem was resolved, the biggest one came knocking.

The colder months usually mean an increase in mountain clan raids. With the first autumn snows in the Mountains of the Moon, the Stone Crows and the Painted Dogs descended in force to raid for provisions for Winter. Lord Yorbert, as Jeyne’s regent and commander of her armies, gathered the knights and soldiers of the Gates of the Moon and rode out to meet them and push them back towards their mountain holdfasts. He took his time to explain his strategy to his granddaughter, after she’d asked of course. The clansmen knew the land, and they weren’t the mindless brutes that many would think, they had a cunning developed from years of fighting with the knights of the Vale.

Yorbert Royce would ride his forces hard, making sure the clans knew they were soon to face 500 armored cavalry men. He’d put all attention on himself, so that the clansmen would not see the larger force marching from their rear. He intended to push them towards a second army led by Ser Osfryd Arryn and his son Ser Arnold Arryn, Jeyne’s uncle and cousin. They would give the clansmen the largest defeat since the days of Bors the Iron Falcon, who after a short and bloody campaign against the clans, dragged thirty chieftains in chains and pushed them one after the other through the Moon Door. Nearly forty years passed before the clans could once again gather enough forces to threaten the Andal’s hold on the Vale.

The strategy went awry the moment Yorbert rode out. He did not know the man that led the clansmen. Dolf, son of Ralf, was famous amongst the clansmen as the most fearless man alive and such was his fame as a warrior and chieftain that, rather than running from the incoming knights, the clansmen stood their ground. The short battle was a hard-fought massacre. The clansmen were slain nearly to a man, but the knights of the Vale had not come out unscathed. The first charge claimed the life of Ser Hugh Royce, the only son of Yorbert’s younger brother, the late Ser Symond. Nearly two hundred horsemen died in the ensuing melee. Among them was Yorbert Royce. A lucky arrow had pierced his horse’s face armor and brought it down on top of him, allowing a clansman to take Lord Royce’s own sword, the Valyrian steel blade Lamentation, and kill him with it. The clansman then tried to flee with Lamentation, but Lord Yorbert’s squire, Jon Tollett, managed to avenge his liege and recover the sword for future Royces.

News of the Lord Regent’s death was brought quickly back to the Eyrie. Lady Jeyne was just two moons away from her age of majority thus she declared she no longer needed a regent and would rule the Vale by herself. She sent ravens to all her vassals, inviting them to a grand autumn feast in the Gates of the Moon, where they would make merry and make oaths to their ruling lady. She ordered Ser Mandon to prepare the Gates of the Moon for hosting the Arryn court for winter and to prepare for the feast. However, it soon became apparent that things would not go smoothly. Ser Osfryd Arryn long angered that after the death of his older brother and nephews that the lordship would go to a young girl decided to press his claim now that Lord Yorbert was no longer defending the rights of Lady Jeyne.

Ser Osfryd had married his only son, Arnold, to the only daughter of Ser Gunthor Royce, the Bronze Giant, and both men knew that between Ser Gunthor and Runestone stood two women, one of them not even named Royce, and a young boy orphaned after Ser Hugh died fighting the clansmen. Following the example of the Targaryens, a male claimant over a female one, benefited both men. So, when Ser Osfryd took his army and marched them to the Gates of the Moon, Ser Gunthor made himself the biggest nuisance so Lady Rhea could not quickly call her banners in defense of her liege. The Bronze Giant was a cunning man however, so he made sure that the delays could not be tracked to him.

When the nearly eight hundred men that Ser Osfryd commanded arrived at the Gates of the Moon and demanded entry into the castle, Ser Mandon Lynderly, Keeper of the Gates by Lady Jeyne’s command, stood his ground. With the small garrison remaining to him he barred Ser Osfryd’s access to the Giant’s Lance. Twice some over eager knight attempted to lead a small force of men over the walls and twice Ser Mandon defended the walls. Any raven they sent up the Eyrie went unanswered and any raven coming out of the Eyrie flew too high for their archers. Ser Osfryd sent his son to Gulltown, they had friends amongst the Gulltown Arryns, the Graftons and they might have been able to rouse Ser Gunthor to their side.

Ser Osfryd knew he was pressed for time; he was aware of some of the names of Lady Jeyne’s ladies so he was sure their families would come to their aid eventually. He had to force Lady Jeyne’s surrender and her acceptance of his usurpation. To his benefit, the household of the Eyrie had begun the process of moving down the mountain, so the supplies at the top were lacking. Jeyne Arryn had refused to even answer all his ravens calling for her surrender, so he had no choice but to starve her out.

Elaena’s first, and hopefully last, siege was hard from the start. Jeyne soon figured out what her uncle’s plan was, and that he was acting on borrowed time. Jeyne had not spent the past few years playing come-into-my-castle and learning with her septa, she had sent many and more ravens to the fathers of her friends. After she had turned three-and-ten Lord Yorbert had invited a new lord to dine with them every other fortnight. Lady Jeyne’s growing political weight ensured that Lords Waxley, Redfort and Hunter had gathered their knights, and they would arrive at the Eyrie before the moon turned, Lady Royce and Lords Waynwood, Belmore and Corbray would be close behind them. The Lords of the Vale were content with keeping the King’s peace, a usurpation would only invite dragons into the Vale, and no one failed to notice that a dragon’s daughter was stuck in the Eyrie at the moment. But she would not risk her position to the autumn snows blocking the mountain passes, so they rationed the remaining food from the first day.

Elaena could not bring herself to look down the mountain at the armies, but just knowing there were close to a thousand men down there willing to do violence for power kept her awake at night. She knew what happened to women when castles were taken. Everyone said the Eyrie was impregnable, but nothing was ever certain. Jeyne had boasted that Ser Osfryd could have twenty times his numbers and he would still fail at taking her Gates, but Elaena didn’t believe her. Only once did Elaena convince herself to look upon the valley, and the sight of all those tiny banners and tents arrayed around the castle, coupled with the open air between them, made her lose consciousness.

Septa Corinne tried to keep their minds occupied. The younger girls, Elaena included, were scared most of the time and had begun sleeping in the same bed for comfort. Both Jeyne and Jessamyn had tried to reassure them that help was on the way, telling them that Anya’s father, Lord Robert Waxley, was leading almost eight hundred knights and that Jessamyn’s brother, Ser Byron, was not far behind him and that Rhea Royce had called on her banners and was now crossing the mountain passes; but they were still afraid; afraid that Ser Osfryd would brave the mountain and take them captive and his soldiers would do harm upon them. Jeyne and Jessamyn spent nearly all day with the maester writing letters to this lord or that lord. Beth Hunter spent her days in the sept, praying for Ser Mandon Lynderly and his men. Alayne Waynwood had taken to practicing with a small bow, when the septa wasn’t looking. The three youngest spent their time together, trying to distract themselves from the fear. The days were growing colder and the older girls and the many servants had begun sharing their beds as well, but for warmth. Elaena didn’t fail to notice that Jeyne and Jessamyn had finally realized their feelings for each other, which meant they avoided each other’s beds and spent their nights separated. She was distracted from her fear for some days thanks to their awkward teenage love.

It was a week after they had run out of meat and were down to pickled vegetables, grains and bread that the banners of House Waxley finally appeared on the horizon. The next day Lord Redfort came, behind them came the Lady Royce and Lord Hunter. Ser Osfryd had failed, Lady Jeyne was able to muster the support of her vassals, and they had come in force to support their liege. His dwindling forces were now surrounded nearly three to one. The knights that followed him were quick to surrender, the soldiers began running off back to their homes. Lord Waxley put Ser Osfryd and his knights in chains and led them to the dungeons to await the descent of the Lady of the Vale.

Elaena descended the mountain as planned, that is to say: as a sack of turnips with her eyes closed and tied to a mule. When they arrived at Stone they could untie her and she could clean herself up as was expected of the heir to Runestone. Their arrival at the Gates of the Moon was met with much fanfare. Jeyne had defended her seat from a siege, stuck in autumn in the cold Eyrie, for a moon and a half. Her usurping uncle was in chains. The clans had been dealt a costly defeat. Her many vassals had arrived, those that brought their armies had already sent most of their men home. For the first time in her life, Lady Jeyne Arryn sat the High Seat of her ancestors to deliver judgement: In the first day nine and twenty knights were sentenced to the Night’s Watch. In the second, four were executed. Until finally, in the third day, Ser Osfryd was tried for his treason.

“Ser Osfryd Arryn,” called out Lord Waxley, overseeing the sentencing. “Every person present here knows of your crimes, all that remains now is for Lady Jeyne’s judgement.

“I spit on the girl’s judgement,” Ser Osfryd remained defiant even now. “After my brother, your Lord, died I should have been the heir, but the Old King’s shrewish wife cowed you all into submission and you bent the knee to a girl-child. Shame on you knights of the Vale!”

“Quiet!” yelled out Lady Jeyne over the growing anger in the hall. “Dearest nuncle, ‘tis you who shames the knightly name of the Vale. ‘Tis you who bared your sword to your liege Lady, who led many a poor knight into your treason with promises of coin and land like some common merchant. You call yourself your brother’s heir, but I am my father’s only living child, and a daughter comes before an uncle; so has it been since the coming of the Andals.”

“No woman can rule the Vale! The mountain clans spit on you, they killed your regent and will soon take the Vale, you have a woman’s heart and are unwilling to do what must be done, the Vale needs a knight at its head!”

“Speak not of brave Lord Yorbert, nuncle, for he was thrice the man you could dream to be,” a weary Jeyne retorted. “You shan’t make a kinslayer out of me, though you had no qualms of becoming one. You are sentenced to the Night’s Watch, mayhaps you’ll regain your honor there.”

“Spit on that, I demand a trial by combat! Pick your champion, girl.”

“My Lady, I have stood as keeper of the Gates for years now and I have defended its walls from your uncle’s men, allow me the opportunity to see this to the end,” so said Ser Mandon Lynderly, kneeling before his liege lady.

“’Tis granted Ser. Come morning we will see this sordid affair to the end”

When the time for the trial came, Ser Osfryd stood in the center of the hall, armored in pale blue plate, blazoned with the moon and falcon of House Arryn, with a winged helmet upon his brow, a solid oak shield and his father’s sword. Ser Mandon stood by Lady Jeyne; he was armored in a simpler set of unadorned steel, under a surcoat proudly bearing the serpents of his house, and a helmet with a coiled serpent on top, carrying a peacock’s plume on its mouth. His shield bore the star of the Seven. His sword was Valyrian Steel, the Lynderly’s ancestral blade Serpent’s Bite, brought by his father.

Rhea Royce had insisted her young daughter be present for the trial, so she would understand the way of men and what they would be willing to face to take her inheritance. Elaena thought to close her eyes when things came near the end and she could be sure her mother wouldn’t be watching, but it was over as soon as it began. Ser Mandon was taller, and broader at the shoulder. He was a third son who had made his way in life by the edge of his sword and the favor of the Seven. Ser Osfryd had once been a tourney knight of some renown. Three swings of his blade were all it took for Ser Mandon Lynderly to end things. Before Elaena could realize what was happening, Ser Osfryd Arryn met his end, bleeding out in his niece’s hall. She wanted to vomit, but managed to hold it in. She held her mother’s hand in an iron grip while Jeyne announced the victor and called for the Silent Sisters. She pardoned her cousin Ser Arnold, currently in Gulltown, and declared the matter at an end.

Elaena hid herself away in the rooms assigned to the Royces while the great hall was cleaned and prepared for the night’s feast. In the privacy of their rooms Rhea Royce dropped her lady’s face and comforted her young daughter. They had not seen each other since her last visit to the Eyrie for her eight name-day. She had always been a quiet and well-behaved girl, but the long siege had left her timid and fearful. That would not be, she would inherit Runestone one day and just as Jeyne had Osfryd, Rhea had Gunthor. Her mother planned to stay for a fortnight, so she would spend the entire time teaching her daughter what she needed to know. She was now the ruling Lady in name and needed to go back and rule. But she also needed to prepare her heir; she had talked to Jeyne, after winter’s end, when the snows melted, Elaena would return home to Runestone.

The autumn feast lasted long into the night. Up in the dais sat Lady Jeyne with the lords who had first answered her call. Robert Waxley in the seat of honor drank merrily with Ser Mandon, Lord Baldrick Hunter discussed the trade of their last harvests with Rhea Royce and, though only Elaena noticed, Jeyne kept stealing glances at Jessamyn Redfort who sat next to her brother, Ser Byron Redfort, talking of their father’s ailing health. Lord Martyn Waynwood had left the dais to dance with his daughter Alayne. Elaena might have had an adult’s mind, but her body was still a child’s, and sleep began to overtake her. Ser Yorwyck, her sworn shield, carried her to bed and returned to the feast, hoping to meet a bride.

Come morning, Elaena finally freed from her fear, grieved for her grandfather. Yorbert Royce was not the most grandfatherly man, nor the most fatherly one, but he had taught her with patience and diligence. He had celebrated her little triumphs and allowed her to seat with him whilst he worked. Her mother now had the responsibility of running Runestone and would have to shoulder her grief and her rule on her own. Daemon Targaryen would be of no help, he had not even come to Elaena’s aid, from what she remembered from the show, he was impulsive and always going from here to there, always being exiled by the king; she could not rely on him. Preoccupied as he was with the Stepstones he never heard of his daughter being stuck in a siege, the letter had only reached him months after it had happened.

She spent a fortnight with her mother, mostly just talking in the castle’s gardens. Talking with Rhea helped her soothe her fears and realize the threat she always knew existed. She never wanted to experience a siege again, she never wanted to feel fear and to be threatened in her own home. Her mother was a direct woman, who never minced words, and explained to her that the threats that Jeyne faced she would face as well once Rhea died. She had to make sure to defend her position, make alliances and make sure that the knights answered to her and not to the more famous warrior Ser Gunthor Royce. And the biggest issue to her succession was her name, she was named Targaryen, not Royce. So, Rhea would have her betrothed to her little cousin Andar, Ser Hugh’s son. Andar was six years younger than her, came directly after her in the line of succession and would probably grow to be as skilled in arms as his father. It was a good match, and a match she could work with.

Rhea Royce left with her remaining knights and Elaena prepared herself for winter at the Gates of the Moon.
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Sorry for the delay, I wanted to post this sooner but real life got a bit busy.

I intended to finish up her childhood this chapter, but it got too long so that winter next chapter will finish it up.

Fleshing out the Vale is unexpectedly fun, hopefully the reading is not too dry.

I decided to give House Lynderly a Valyrian steel sword, somewhere in the books they mentioned there were around 200 of them so I chose them to have one of the many unnamed ones.

I'm starting to put in more dialogue, hope it's good since I'm not really accustomed to writing them out just yet.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

111 AC
Elaena had been a witness to history. Autumn had allowed them the weather to travel to Gulltown, and from there to King’s Landing. King Viserys was celebrating five years of marriage to his wife, Queen Alicent Hightower, and Jeyne had wished for one last celebration before winter. Elaena’s tenth name-day would also be celebrated by their little party there. The past few moons had been thankfully quiet, and Ser Arnold Arryn had shown no signs of rebellion. Lady Jeyne had not set foot in King’s Landing since Prince Baelon’s ill fated tournament, her absence in the wedding of Queen Alicent and King Viserys had been noticed, and she hoped to mend some bridges by joining them in celebrating their marriage.

Elaena thought Gulltown was a nice enough town—they all called it a city, but she didn’t feel it was big enough to be one—with its wide streets, its smell of fish and the cats laying around every corner begging for scraps. Their carriage travelled towards the docks along a cobbled street lined with the manors owned by Vale nobility and the wealthiest merchants. If she had to describe their architecture she’d used Romanesque; rustic town houses and manor houses were built in a style that imitated the castles of Great Lords: thick walls, small windows, crenellations in the ceiling and carved heraldry over the doors. Solidly built, but lacking in the elegance she had grown accustomed to in the Eyrie. The further away you went from the main street the stone would give way to wood and plaster.

The Falcon’s Harbor was reserved for the ships bearing Arryn sails. Workers were doing maintenance on Lady Jeyne’s trading cogs, preparing for the winter trade of foodstuffs. Jeyne pointed out to them where her largest ships were bound to: the Foaming Falcon and the Lady Amerei were bound for Braavos, the Stone Queen and the Honor for White Harbor, and the Lady Jeyne was bound for Eastwatch-by-the-sea. They would be sailing to King’s Landing in the Gentle Daella, a massive dromond with four hundred oars, built with the dowry that accompanied said princess when she married Lord Rodrik Arryn. It had been outfitted with all the comforts expected of a Great Lady’s personal transport. The furniture in Jeyne’s cabin was better than that of many lesser lords. Even Elaena’s cabin, which she shared with Lanna and Anya, had been furnished beyond the means of many lords.

Their trip on the Gentle Daella was thankfully gentle. The autumn storms of the Narrow Sea did not make an appearance as they went around Cracklaw Point and into Blackwater Bay. Elaena was pleasantly surprised that the journey itself was short. The oarsmen rowed at a steady speed and before any of them could think of getting seasick they were withing sight of King’s Landing. Despite the war in the Stepstones still being ongoing, the bay and harbor were full of Velaryon flags. Trade with Braavos was evidently flourishing, for every five Westerosi ships there was one puple-hulled Braavosi merchant ship. They docked next to a smaller, but still large, galley bearing a merman banner. Before the ship had even dropped anchor, two horse-drawn carriages had come to receive them.

Jeyne’s position as Lady of the Vale, niece to Late Queen Aemma and cousin to the Crown Princess had driven King Viserys to offer her lodgings inside Maegor’s Holdfast, the only noble who was offered that privilege. All the Vale maidens fit in the first carriage, their second one bearing servants and belongings, their knights riding on horses through the city. The city stank. As soon as they left the harbor, and its smell of sea and fish, the stench of near a million souls. The carriage had no windows and still the smell hit them. Though thankfully the closer they got to the Red Keep the better the air quality got. Jeyne explained to the younger girls, who had never been there, that the Old King had actually built drains and sewers, but after the death of Good Queen Alysanne the work was stopped and been left incomplete, so the drains did not extend to the entire city. Elaena thought that it was very stupid for a king to allow that to happen in times of plenty.

Their journey through the city was soon joined by curious onlookers and with them, the gold cloaks to make sure nobody bothered the Lady of the Vale. Their escorting knights were being called on and asked if they would join the tourney. Each one of Jeyne’s ladies, and Jeyne herself, had brought a knight to ride for them on the tourney. Ser Mandon rode for Jeyne but Beth Hunter was giving him her favor. Jessamyn’s brother, Ser Byron, had come with her, as did a cousin of Beth’s. The younger girls had come accompanied by their sworn shields, usually skilled knights from lesser branches of their families, eager to please the main branch. Elaena’s distant cousin, the young Ser Yorwyck, would ride the lists and fight in the melee in her name. Elaena intended to gamble, her mother had given her some coin to spend in the capital and she was certain that no man could beat Watt, a guardsman in Jeyne’s service, at archery. She’d seen him shoot apples down from trees at three hundred yards and was certain he could win it all. What Elaena didn’t know was that Watt would not get to show off his talent, since this tourney would have no archery contest.

The Red Keep was massive. The TV set didn’t do it justice. Not to its size and certainly not to its color; it was clearly red and not just red-adjacent, as would be more sensible. People in this world were clearly not fond of subtle and practical. The Eyrie was around the same size than Maegor’s Holdfast, and that was just one part of the monstrous castle. They were received in the square behind the gates by Princess Rhaenyra herself, who ran and embraced her cousin Jeyne as soon as she descended from the carriage. A maiden of four-and-ten, at least a head shorter than Jeyne; Rhaenyra was wearing a long black dress, which would be considered mourning clothes were it not for the hundreds of little three-headed red dragons masterfully embroidered all over it. Her flowing silver hair went unadorned but for a gold tiara, bearing the sigil of her house. When Elaena descended the carriage to greet the princess, she managed to see the necklace Daemon gave her in the show, and at least one ring per finger. Elaena was almost the same height as Rhaenyra.

“Cousin Jeyne!” the excited princess had long ago mastered the art of ignoring the large groups that followed lords. “Father has said that as soon as winter ends, I can take Syrax on a tour of the Vale and finally gaze upon my mother’s home.”

“Slow down, Rhaenyra,” Jeyne laughed at her excited cousin as she dragged her away to talk. “Jessamyn, please take look to our rooms.”

Rhaenyra didn’t notice her other cousin’s presence as she dragged Jeyne away to the Godswood. Elaena didn’t want to draw attention to herself just yet, so she kept quiet as well. Jessamyn oversaw the servants moving their belongings to the chambers assigned to them and Elaena found herself in the unenviable position of stopping Lanna and Anya from wandering off exploring. Once the servants had finished, and Jeyne had returned, an older knight from the Kingsguard came to see them: King Viserys Targaryen had summoned Elaena to meet him.

Elaena followed the knight, who introduced himself as Ser Clement Crabb, through a series of labyrinthine corridors until they reached a room guarded by two other white cloaks. Ser Clement knocked, announced her and pushed her inside to meet, for the first time since she was aware of who she was, a member of her Targaryen family. Viserys Targaryen looked some like the actor in the show, but he was chubbier and still healthy looking, he had the sort of belly that came from good eating and good drinking. The smiling king, next to a masterfully crafted model of Old Valyria, picked up his niece and hugged her.

“We finally meet, dearest niece,” the king put her down and offered her a chair. “I asked your father to bring you to court years ago but he can be stubborn about the strangest things. Can I offer you a drink? Bring a glass of lemon water for my niece. How was your trip? How are you liking the Eyrie? My Aemma always spoke fondly of her childhood home. You must spend some time with Rhaenyra whilst you are here, the girl has few friends her age. I am sure Lady Jeyne can spare your company for the duration of the tourney.”

“T-thank you, Your Grace,” overwhelmed by the hug and the barrage of questions from the uncle she had just met. “The sea was gentle, the Eyrie is lovely, I would be honored to spend time with the princess.”

“What a smart girl! I insist you call me uncle. If I remember correctly, you are turning ten soon, no? We must hold a feast to celebrate!” a sudden shadow passed the king’s face. “Your father has not shown his face at my court for some time now, so I fear he won’t be here to celebrate with us. Tell me, dear Elaena, has he sent you any messages?”

“No, uncle,” calling him uncle came easier to Elaena, used as she once had been to looser social norms. “The year past he sent me a ring, but I have not heard from him since… not even when we were stuck in the Eyrie.”

“Ah! I remember that dreadful business. I was about to do something but Ser Otto, that is my Hand, counseled waiting and then Lady Jeyne managed to resolve things by herself; so, everything worked out!” the king, noticing his niece’s evident disappointment was quick to add “but worry not niece, help was always coming. Ah, here’s the lemon water, now: tell me all about the Vale.”

The king and Elaena talked for quite a while, until a servant came with a message for the king, and she was escorted back to her chambers. She had enjoyed her time with Uncle Viserys. He was kind to her, though he insisted on bringing up Daemon. She was not quite sure what to think of her father, he had not even sent a raven after the siege. And Otto Hightower had talked the king out of helping Jeyne. Was Otto an ally to the usurping Ser Osfryd? Did his hatred of Daemon extend to her?

Rhaenyra never did call on her, or summon her. Elaena spent the few days before the tourney with Jeyne and her friends, and Jeyne was the only one summoned by the princess. She was certain Rhaenyra knew who she was, so she theorized it was jealousy over Daemon, or mayhaps a maid of four-and-ten not wanting to spend time with her nine year old cousin, she could only guess. A hello would have been welcomed, though. Every girl in their party, and the most observant members of court, noticed the snub. She also never saw Queen Alicent, though she did see little Aegon being chased by his nanny.

The tourney finally began. Elaena was disappointed there would be no archery to bet on, and she knew that Ser Criston was a great knight, but she didn’t want to place a bet on him of all people, though he was still protecting Rhaenyra at this point in time. She bought rolls of colorful purplish cloth, dyed in Tyroshi, but silk was beyond her allowance. The first day of the tourney contained the melee, a chaotic free for all full of shouting knights and screaming horses. She’d seen a few before, but none as big as this one. They’d been given seats in the king’s box. One burly hedge knight defeated a knight with a red apple sigil in the final bout, to claim the victor’s purse.

Not long after the melee ended, a great cry sounded out across the stands as a blood red dragon descended on the now empty field. Prince Daemon Targaryen, with a driftwood crown upon his head, descended from Caraxes. The Lord Hand shouted to the Kingsguard, who moved to step in front of King Viserys, though Daemon ignored them and walked towards the stands, where he knelt and offered his crown to his brother.

“I know of only one king: my brother, Viserys the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm and King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea!” once he saw his brother’s smile, Daemon threw his wooden crown towards him. “Hail, Viserys Targaryen!”

The crowd of commoners soon began cheering: “The prince is back!”, “Hail, the prince of the city!”, “Hail King Viserys and Prince Daemon!”. And if you listened carefully, you could even hear some shouts of “Hail, princess Rhaenyra!” and “Hail, prince Aegon!”. But the cheers for Prince Daemon were the loudest of them all.

Through all the shouting, Elaena just had eyes for her father. It was the first time she remembered seeing him. He looked young, he was around thirty years old. As he climbed the stands to hug his brother, she could see he was taller than the king, stronger too. He had a warrior’s body. She tried to see what of him she had inherited, besides the silver streak in her hair, though the bronze-like shine probably came from him as well. She could not tell if she had his ears, or his chin, or his nose.

After their hug ended, the king whispered something in his brother’s ear, and he finally looked towards her. His eyes opened wide, but he quickly looked away, said something to the king and went back to his dragon. The excitement of the melee’s end had every member of the court talking, and the game of favors and politics came into play as everyone tried to claim seats as close to the king in the night’s feast. Jeyne, as befit her station, had been granted one of the larger tables close to the royal table, so she had to dodge every noble with the slightest connection to the Vale badgering her for a place at her table.

During that night’s feast, Daemon continued to avoid his daughter. He sat talking and laughing with Viserys for the entire duration of the feast. Elaena might have been hurt by that, but she now carried the memories of an adult, so a stranger’s apathy meant nothing. What did happen though was Rhaenyra finally introducing herself to her little cousin. She gave Elaena a pitying smile—Daemon had preferred Viserys to both of them—and made her promise she would sit next to her during the joust. In her bedroom, she found a long black dress with flowing sleeves and embroidered bronze dragons and a silver diadem waiting for her with a small paper that simply said: Daughter.

The day of the joust IT finally happened. Queen Alicent sat in the king’s box dressed in a green dress, with a long train following her and a silk wimple under her crown. After the Queen took her seat, several knights stepped forward, all of them bearing green pieces of cloth wrapped around their arms, and saluted Alicent. Viserys had his daughter, dressed in black, to his right and his wife, dressed in green, to his left. Elaena, in her black and bronze dress and gifted diadem, sat beside Rhaenyra. The lines were drawn. From this day on they were the Greens and the Blacks.

Criston Cole rode with a fury that Elaena had never witnessed. Every time he matched against a knight wearing green, he rode them down as if he wanted to kill them. One of Alicent’s cousins broke his leg, a knight from the Reach broke his arm and Ser Gwayne, Alicent’s brother, was nearly crushed by his horse. No knight that met Ser Criston managed to put up a fight. At the day’s end everyone believed he’d remain the undefeated champion, until Prince Daemon took the field. Wearing black-tinted armor, adorned with ruby dragons and a winged helmet, Daemon cut a striking contrast with Ser Criston’s white armor and cloak. They broke seven lances each, until in their eight pass the white knight lurched to his side and slipped his lance under Daemon’s shield, throwing him at the ground. Before the fallen prince could demand to continue with a contest in arms, King Viserys stood up clapping and declared Ser Criston the victor. He crowned Princess Rhaenyra as the tourney’s Queen of Love and Beauty.

After that night’s festivities a somewhat drunk Prince Daemon appeared at her door, carrying a small chest. He bid her to follow him to the Godswood. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have, but curiosity over the man who was now her father won out. He led her out to a small bench (might have been the one where Ned Stark revealed to Cersei that he knew the truth, now that she thinks about it), where they sat under a full moon. Prince Daemon simply stared at her, seeming unable to find the words he wanted. When things became to awkward for comfort, Elaena spoke.

“You rode well today, father,” she tried to give him a smile, though it came out quite awkward.

“I wanted to crown you,” the prince finally spoke. “As an apology.” Elaena could only blink in confusion. “I wasn’t there when I had to be, and the man I should go after is dead. I wanted to be there, I knew not of what happened in the Vale until it was over.”

“B-but what does being crowned Queen of Love and Beauty have to do with that?” She could not follow his thinking process.

“You were a princess, you know? For a while at least, princess of the Stepstones. That diadem was to be the crown of a princess. I wanted you to know that I care for you, I did not forget you. If I had been able to crown you in the tourney then they’d all know,” the prince sighed, looked at his daughter with her eyes opened wide and hugged her. “Go to bed now, what’s in the chest is for you, I’ll talk to Viserys about getting you a dragon.”

Before Elaena could tell him that she didn’t want a dragon, that the thought of flying terrified her, he power-walked out of the Godswood. He’d thankfully left a guard with her, because the chest was far too heavy for her to carry back to her room. Back in her room she opened the small chest, it was full of jewels of all sizes, of gold and silver, of ruby, sapphire, amethyst, opal and emerald. Jewels fit for a princess, though she no longer was one.

They stayed for another fortnight. Once most guests had left, Anya and Lanna were finally allowed to explore the Red Keep. Jeyne and Jessamyn spent most of their time together, walking the gardens arm-in-arm. Beth Hunter found a comfortable spot to read, where she could also coincidentally watch Ser Mandon at his training. Alayne had struck an unexpected friendship with Princess Rhaenyra, they’d gone riding together. Elaena was spending time with Daemon. After his awkward apology he was insistent on knowing his daughter, so he took her with him to meet the more polite members of the Gold Cloaks and he re-introduced her to Caraxes. Every day he gave her some new gift, she was returning a much wealthier girl: silk dresses from the east, a hawk, a white fur cloak made from a snow bear’s pelt and, most surprising of all, a handmade necklace that Daemon had made with polished scales that fell off Caraxes. He’d not brought up again her bonding with a dragon, though from the evil looks he gave Otto Hightower whenever he saw him close to Viserys she could surmise he was somehow involved.

When they eventually left Daemon seemed to want to go with her, but the king had asked him to take charge of the City Watch. The journey home was as uneventful as the journey to King’s Landing. She’d seen the court, the tourneys, the factions and she now knew what sort of person her father was. Prince Daemon was violent, with a taste and skill for it, but he was also kind and awkward in showing affection. Gifts were his preferred method, if he hadn’t gotten drunk for his apology, he probably would have continued giving her more and more gifts. She did not see much of the king and queen, and she was surprised at how much older than Rhaenyra she was. Rhaenyra herself had spent more time with girls closer to her own age, and whenever Daemon gave Elaena a gift she also wanted one; Daemon was happy to spoil his niece just as much as his daughter.

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112 AC
Winter lasted close to two years. It was mild, or at least the older servants said it was mild. Elaena was now a maid of two-and-ten. Winter at the Gates of the Moon was surprisingly comfortable, the hearths were always lit and there were always singers at the ready. Many lords ventured the mountain passes to visit Jeyne so as to request this or that of her, so there was constant feasting and even small tourneys for squires and hedge knights. There were hedge knights everywhere, they had to winter somewhere, and the Vale always needed more swords to defend from desperate clansmen. Elaena continued being Jeyne’s shadow during winter, being allowed into the room when she discussed business with her lords and even being allowed to read many of her ravens. Now that the maesters had announced winter’s end she would be saying goodbye to the first home she knew.

She would not climb the Eyrie with Jeyne, instead she was returning to Runestone. She wasn’t the only one leaving Jeyne’s court. Beth Hunter had finally convinced her father that Ser Mandon was a respectable match, and they were now betrothed, they would marry when the snows melted and she would stay at the Gates with him. Alayne’s younger brother had suddenly died of winter fever and with her youngest brother being just a babe in arms, her father wanted her close to him. Lanna and Anya were the only two staying, and Jessamyn of course. Rhea Royce was one of the guests at Beth’s wedding, and when she left, she would take her daughter with her. The time had come for Elaena to learn what it meant to be Lady of Runestone.

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This time around I decided to have her witness some canon events.

Way I see Rhaenyra (at 14) is a moody teenager jealous her favourite uncle has someone else to spoil and care for, so she's jealous and doesn't want to spend much time with her little cousin.
Daemon is better at war (and at being a cool uncle) than at being a father, but he does care about his kid.

Coming next is finally getting into ruling and changing things in her home.

I was thinking about headwear for both Alicent and Rhaenyra, and, to me, Alicent really matches with a wimple, specially like the one the princess of France wore in Braveheart. But wimples might be too Christian for Westeros. I debated if I should give Rhaenyra a hennin, there were some that had the point divided and could be made to look like dragon wings, but decided that showing off silver hair was more important for a Targaryen than an elaborate hat. At least at this moment.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

113 AC
Runestone was a formidable fortress. With thick stone walls and a strong gatehouse, complete with murder holes and three different sets of doors, and hidden tunnels connecting the castle with the mines that lay under it, Elaena felt quite safe inside its walls. The comforts of the Eyrie and the Gates would be missed, but the added security was a welcome change. No army had lain siege to Runestone in over six hundred years. The castle itself was big and spacious, it had several buildings inside its walls: the Bronze Hall, the keep, the knight’s barracks, kitchens and servant quarters, a sept, a Godswood, kennels, stables and several of the towers’ insides had been turned into rooms and storage.

The Bronze Hall was large, big enough to sit three hundred people and aggressively bronze: bronze candlesticks on the tables, bronze sconces holding torches along the walls, bronze armrests in the chairs at the family table and, once feasts began, bronze plates, cups and cutlery. Ancient runes were carved on the wall behind the family table ancient runes. It was the oldest building in the castle, the keep had been rebuilt and made bigger several times, but the hall was old enough to have seen a bronze king of old. There were no bronze statues in the hall though, and Elaena was resolved to change that glaring absence of a bronze something. She’d turn her clay sculptures into bronze and fill the castle with her work; thank the Seven she had, in the place from before, worked briefly at a workshop making bronze statues for parks and plazas. She’d leave her mark for future Royces to admire.

The keep, where the family rooms were, weren’t as impressive, or as full of bronze, as the Bronze Hall. The rooms assigned to her were on the top floor of the building, through four flights of round stairs. Elaena’s sitting room had been furnished in an austere fashion, Rhea disliked her father’s large spending, solid furniture without decorations, no tapestries and just one simple carpet. A fireplace was built into the wall, with runes of protection carved on the inside. Her bedroom, on the other hand, housed beautiful antique furniture, with Vale flowers carved on the sides, that had belonged to several generations of Royce maidens. The most beautiful thing in her room though, was her petrified dragon egg, a reddish rock with grey stripes running through it. Elaena spent most of her time with her mother in her office, on the ground floor, it was as bare as could be allowed for a ruling lady: a sturdy desk, an old carpet, two bookshelves and three tapestries showing hunting scenes. Rhea insisted on austerity, but Elaena intended on changing everything about the keep’s decorations as soon as she could. House Royce was wealthy, but they didn’t show it; and showing wealth was showing power, or so Elaena thought. She’d seen Jeyne talking to her vassals in rooms displaying the wealth and power of House Arryn and she wanted to do the same.

Rhea gave her just one day to settle down in Runestone before she had her daughter begin her lessons and follow her everywhere. Elaena soon became Rhea’s apprentice, assistant and ever-present shadow. If Rhea met with merchants, Elaena was there; if Rhea met with the knights, Elaena was there; if Rhea met with her vassals, Elaena was there. Elaena’s mornings were spent in lessons with Maester Rookwill, chiefly learning history and sums. The rest of the day was spent learning with Rhea and, during Rhea’s free time, Elaena spent her time with Septa Mallory learning manners and about the Seven. Maester Rookwill was a balding man in his fifties, whose bony hands were always scribbling this or that; Septa Mallory was closer to seventy, she had been Rhea’s septa, and her mother’s septa before her. After Rhea lost her mother at an early age, Septa Mallory had raised her as if she was her own.

Rhea, on her free time, enjoyed hawking, riding and horse breeding and tried to always free up her time to do her hobbies; her daughter, much to her chagrin, spent nearly every waking moment on her duties. Very rarely did Elaena join her mother when riding and hawking, though she did take an interest in animal husbandry. Elaena wanted every advantage possible and so would learn everything offered to her. She’d be living her best life here. In the few moments that Elaena wasn’t at lessons she had started sculpting clay. She’d had the castle’s blacksmith, Pate, make her small knives, chisels and the various tools she described to him. She began making small projects in her free time to get accustomed to her new hands. She claimed a room close to the well as her “atelier”, though for now it only contained some tables, a potter’s wheel that Rhea had bought for her in Gulltown and her tools. At first Rhea was not so certain about her daughter “playing with dirt”, but after a while she was content that she was enjoying her free time over constantly obsessing over her lessons.

The Royces were a large family, and Rhea didn’t trust most of them to do right by her daughter. Elaena’s first lessons were to learn who was who in House Royce. Learning the succession and who her heirs were ended up being quite scary, since her grandfather had never implied there was any danger to her. These were Elaena’s most worrisome lessons; once she learnt who desired Runestone she was suspicious of many in the household. Her troubles all began with Torgold Royce, who was born ten years before Aegon’s Conquest and decided to be a lecherous old man. His first wife, a Belmore, gave him a son and five daughters, one of whom married Hubert Arryn, an ancestor of Jeyne’s. His eldest son, Waymar, had three sons, Elaena’s grandfather Yorbert being the eldest. At the age of five-and-sixty, Torgold Royce, already a grandfather and with a secure succession, became a widower and married again, now to a teenager called Sharra Redfort. Sharra, who still lived in Runestone and was now eight-and-sixty, gave him two sons.

Waymar Royce succeeded his father Torgold but not a year had passed before he also died. Waymar had married a Grafton, who’d died giving birth to their younger of three sons. The eldest, Yorbert, married a Belmore and had two daughters, but only Rhea survived to adulthood, her younger sister dying of a flu. Waymar’s second son Symond married a Templeton, they both died in a carriage accident, but not before having a son: Ser Hugh, who had died alongside Yorbert fighting the clansmen. Ser Hugh had married Lady Jeyne Tollet and before his early death they’d had a young son named Andar. Little Andar was five namedays old, and he was Elaena’s betrothed and her heir as well, him being her closest Royce relative. She had not thought too much about her betrothal after her mother had arranged it, but now seeing the little kid running around who she would have to marry one day made it all much more real; and even more uncomfortable. It was one thing being suddenly told you were marrying a cousin you’d never met, another thing entirely to see your intended picking his nose and clinging to his mother’s skirts. The last of Waymar’s sons was Amos Royce, who died from a horse’s kick. Before meeting the horse he had married a Corbray, who died giving birth to their only daughter, Mya Royce, a lady of two-and-twenty who was married to a cousin.

Then came Sharra Redfort’s boys. The older of the two boys, Osric Royce, was skilled with a sword and far from the lordship since all of Waymar’s sons were older than him, so he had decided to join the Night’s Watch not long after Rhea was born, he now commanded the Shadow Tower. The younger of the two was the most famous knight of Runestone: Ser Gunthor Royce, the Bronze Giant and master-at-arms of the castle. Ser Gunthor had married a northern maid he’d met accompanying his brother to the Wall, a younger daughter of a younger son of House Bolton. She’d given him a daughter and two sons before a fever took her. Ser Gunthor had never remarried. Rhea’s current headache was Gunthor’s daughter, Betha. Betha Royce was a pleasant enough woman, but she’d married her father’s former squire: Arnold Arryn. The same Arnold whose father attempted to usurp the Vale and laid siege to Lady Jeyne and Elaena. Arnold Arryn had been fostered at Runestone and still found himself welcome in the castle. Gunthor remained an ally of Ser Arnold Arryn.

The marriages of Gunthor’s sons were another point of worry for Rhea, and for Elaena. On the one hand Yorbert and his brothers had married maidens from important houses in the Vale; and Rhea had been unhappily married to a prince. On the other Gunthor had married his two sons to the daughters of House Royce’s vassals. The older son, a pleasant knight called Ser Gerold, had married a Shett; the younger, a markedly less pleasant knight called Ser Jorah, had married a Coldwater. Ser Gerold had two sons. His older son, Jon Royce, was married to Cousin Mya (daughter of Amos), which meant their line came after little Andar; they had two little sons and a third baby on the way. The younger, Willam, was Elaena’s age and he was insufferable. A bully who enjoyed tormenting the younger squires and was reacting quite badly to no longer being the highest ranked child in the castle. Jorah Royce had only one son, a younger Gunthor, six namedays and already a target of his older cousin Willam’s bullying.

Ser Gunthor’s connections to the vassals of House Royce were not merely those marriages. The brothers of his good-daughters had been his squires. Most of the knightly branches of House Royce admired him and had named sons after him. His position of master-at-arms had allowed him to train almost every household knight in Runestone. He was a veteran of dozens of incursions into the Mountains of the Moon hunting clansmen, and he’d won tourneys all over the Vale. After Elaena’s birth and the contempt that Prince Daemon held for his marriage bed, Ser Gunthor had decided that Runestone would be better led by a warrior instead of a woman.

Elaena’s was a female child. A maid of barely two-and-ten, with a different name to her storied ancestors. She had no dragon despite being of the blood of the dragon. The servants had known Ser Gunthor for decades. He was a proven warrior of Royce blood, with male heirs of his own. During meals the maester always sat with him, the guard commander followed his lead, the castle’s septon spoke often of the father’s justice and the warrior’s strength, he was admired by the knights, the heir to the Vale was his good-son. After Lord Yorbert had become a widower and never remarried, after his brothers and nephews met tragedy after tragedy, after Rhea had only a daughter, Ser Gunthor Royce had begun to set the board in his favor. The marriages of his sons and daughter were carefully thought over, the squires he took, the household knights he favored, the branch families he approached; everything he’d done was for the lordship.

Elaena spent hours worrying over the giant knight. If her mother died, what would he do to her for Runestone? If Jeyne died, would Arnold Arryn declare Ser Gunthor heir over her? Or even take Runestone from her and give it to him? Would the knights even raise their swords to defend her? Her sworn shield Ser Yorwyck would surely defend her rights, but what is a single knight against hundreds? She needed to make sure she could defend her rights from her uncle. She needed a way to win over the knights. She remembered Varys’s riddle about power from the tv show and become the rich man, a rich Lady might just very be what the knights believe to be the most powerful. Ser Gunthor, for all his prowess and skill, was but a household knight, he had no land and no great wealth to his name. She would show everything she had over Ser Gunthor, the right, the blood and the wealth. She also had the law, though she had little faith in the locals upholding it, judging from both tv shows. Whoever controls the purse strings controls the army.

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114 AC
An unexpected situation, one she should have foreseen, came with her thirteenth nameday. Her father, bored with chasing pirates hiding in caves, decided to visit Runestone and his daughter. He arrived, unannounced, one rainy night atop his dragon. Elaena was asleep when he arrived, so she missed the shouting match between her parents, but the argument was heard by many knights and servants alike. Come morning she was greeted by her father, who came bearing her nameday gift: a beautifully illustrated book of Valyrian legends and tales. She didn’t know the language, though Daemon was sure she would learn it quickly enough. But that morning, during breakfast, she remembered what her father called her mother in the show the moment she saw them together.

“So, wife,” Daemon began as soon as he sat down. “What manner of sheep porridge are you having me eat today? One would hope my brother’s prosperous reign to bring flavors beyond those eaten by the Mountain Clans.”

“Worry not dearest husband, I remember what you thought of Vale cooking and have had the cooks prepare a sheep just to greet you,” answered back Rhea without looking at Daemon. “Good morning, Elaena, I hope you slept well and were not woken by unwelcome visits. Will your Velaryon friend not miss you in your war, Daemon?”

“Is that what I am? An unwelcome visit in my wife’s keep?” Daemon smirked, though he grimaced once a serving girl brought him the wheat gruel and mutton sausage they usually broke their fast on. “Corlys is more than capable of leading the war without me there, so don’t worry dear wife, I shall be here for my daughter. I really should take you with me on my next visit to Driftmark, daughter, the food there is actually edible unlike whatever passes for food here.”

“There will be no need of that, Elaena needs to learn the duties expected of an heir. She will not follow in her father’s footsteps, whose quality as heir was so great he was supplanted by a little girl” Rhea spoke, louder now that Ser Gunthor and his sons had sat down at their table.

“Ah, the Bronze Giant!” said Daemon, noticing the new arrival, smirked. “Dueled any poachers lately? Remind me again, what battle was it that won you your spurs? Ah! I remember now, ‘twas the great battle of the Vale against Clan Sheepfucker. How many were there again? Fifty thousand? A hundred thousand?”

“It was a war party numbering some fifty warriors of the Stonecrows, my Prince,” grumbled a red-faced Ser Gunthor, as some the younger knights snickered. “I surely hope, my Prince, that you’ll grace us with your presence for longer than your previous visits, the castle is ever the livelier.”

“Well, Ser Giant, I guess it depends on how hospitable my Bronze B-“ a sudden cough from Rhea, a glance from Daemon towards Elaena. “How hospitable my wife is. Will you join us warriors in the training yard ser, or is your sword arm no longer what it was when you fought off the chieftain of the Sheepfuckers? Dark Sister has been showing the Triarchy what the swords of the Sunset Kingdoms are worth, I would hope you would not shame us in your old age, ser, I know it’s been many years since you faced the screeching savages of the mountains.”

Daemon’s laughter could still be heard after he’d left the hall, leaving behind his uneaten breakfast. Red-faced Ser Gunthor silently ate his gruel, whilst the youngest knights rushed through theirs to join Prince Daemon in the yard. Elaena quickly picked up on the fact that the younger knights seemed to admire her father and were, quite cruelly, quick to abandon Ser Gunthor to seek the prince out. Elaena’s parents hated each other, and Daemon clearly disliked Runestone and its inhabitants. But she could work with that, mayhaps the younger knights could be brought to her side.

Once Rhea left for her morning work, and the older knights began filing out, Elaena, a slow eater, was left alone with Ser Gunthor, who walked towards her.

“’Tis good you saw his nature milady,” a low whisper, low enough so the servants would not hear. “You now see the tainted blood of sister-fuckers that runs through your veins. The blood of the cur who spawned you, who with his every breath spits on the Vale and our ancient House Royce. The Old Queen promised us a prince, and all we got was a drunken lecher who abandons his wife to marry his whores. He is not fit to rule over Runestone with Rhea. You are not fit to rule Runestone.” Ser Gunthor, shaking with rage, left behind a silent and wide-eyed Elaena.
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I once again fell into the trap of too much exposition, but I tried to set the stage of how Royce politics go, and both Elaena's and Daemon's role in them.

Up next we'll have lessons at Runestone, the rest of Daemon's visit and if I can fit it in, Rhaenyra is getting married soon~ish.

Thanks for reading and feedback always welcome!

Chapter Text

114 AC

“You know why I can’t do anything at this moment?” her mother gently asked her on the night of that very same day, sitting with her on her bed.

“He has many friends,” answered back a sullen Elaena. “They would come to his aid.”

“Just so,” her mother answered as she rubbed her back. “We rely on our vassals. Oaths hold them to us, but they also hold us to them. They swore they would come to our aid if needed, but their oaths did not speak of numbers. If I move against Gunthor for this, the next time we call they might abandon us, gods know they love the man. When Aegon conquered the Riverlands, the Ironborn were abandoned by their vassals. Many ages ago, Gulltown was ruled by the Shetts, but they were abandoned by their vassals and one of them even took the city from them. I am not yet in a position to remove Gunthor as master-at-arms, and I will not involve House Targaryen in my House’s affairs.”

Elaena had gone to her mother, thinking that perhaps this was the moment to remove the dangers to her succession. Ser Gunthor had certainly declared war on her. But he had many friends to protect him or even avenge him; the landed knights followed his lead and his ties to their vassals ran deep. She thought about Roose Bolton at that moment. She had given up hope they’d be able to do something, when she caught her mother giving her a smile.

“This was, however, a great insult. To you, to me, to Daemon. And it must be answered,” Rhea walked over to Elaena’s desk. “Gunthor loves his children, and his grandchildren. And his family are my vassals and retainers. When a lord has unruly vassals, she merely needs to take hostages to ensure their good behavior. Have it look as if it is an honor granted to them, or a duty, and Gunthor cannot complain. That is your task, come speak to me tomorrow and tell me what you would do.”

Elaena walked around her room after her mother left, thinking of what her mother’s task entailed. She tried thinking of hostages in the tv show and was about to give up when she remembered that Theon was a hostage to make sure that his father didn’t start a war. All of Gunthor’s family lived at Runestone so that would not work. She’d have to send them somewhere away, where they would still have them under control if needed. Come morning she went to stand in the viewing gallery above the training yard to see her father sparring against their knights, and every time he beat one, he would say something or other about inadequate training which would make Gunthor get more and more red. Her father was having fun by goading the older knight.

Having a sudden idea of a plan she ran back to her room. She took out a piece of parchment and began writing out Ser Gunthor’s family, the Royces at least. Two sons, three grandsons, and some great-grandchildren. She began with the youngest. She couldn’t ask her mother to do anything to the babies, though, and her cousin Gunthor was just six. Her cousin Willam though, annoying little bully that he was, had been boasting he was of squiring age and that his grandfather, “the finest knight in Runestone”, would be making him his squire. She had noticed he was the favorite grandson as well, the one who took the most after his martially inclined grandfather. Ser Mandon Lynderly had no squire, and Jeyne might be convinced that keeping a nephew (by marriage) of her unruly heir, could be a good idea. She wrote a letter that she’d show her mother before sending.

To Jeyne,
I hope spring in the Eyrie has been treating you well. I remember still those lovely afternoons in the gardens. To answer your question from your last raven, Prince Daemon has defeated every knight in Runestone in his daily spars though I still believe Ser Mandon might be the better swordsman. And I wanted to speak to you about him. My cousin Willam, promising warrior, and grandson of the famed Bronze Giant, Ser Gunthor Royce, a nephew of your cousin Arnold’s wife, is looking for a knight to squire for and I thought of Ser Mandon. It would truly make me feel much better if I knew my nephew was squiring for such a skilled knight, and that he was under your care.
Faithfully yours,
Elaena

Her next cousin, and Willam´s older brother, Ser Jon, was not an eager warrior. He trained the least out of all the knights in the castle; if his name hadn't been Royce, he would have already been sent away. Gunthor appeared to ignore him, so she decided to ignore him as well. Her uncle though, Gunthor’s firstborn, was a skilled knight, involved in the day-to-day ruling of the castle and in the training of new recruits. For him she thought of the perfect plan. Gunthor hated her father, who had been, for as long as she could remember, involved in a costly war of expansion in the Stepstones. One day those conquests would maybe pass to her, unless he were to have a son, so would it not be necessary for House Royce to assist in his war? Would not a son of House Royce be just the man to lead their knights in battle? Knights who could be all Gunthor’s friends. She could deal a massive blow to his powerbase by sending them away and, incidentally, placing them under Daemon’s command.

That left the youngest of Gunthor’s sons, Ser Jorah. The quiet, morose knight tended to fade into the background. When he wasn’t following his father, he was following his brother. He had never seen battle, had never joined any tourney and had never held any position of responsibility in the garrison. She had no clue what to do with Ser Jorah. Mayhaps he could join his older brother fighting in the Stepstones. Her mother might know what would best suit a knight like Ser Jorah, she had known him for longer after all.

At night, Rhea rejoined her daughter in her rooms to hear what she had thought. She was ecstatic that her young daughter had taken to the lesson. The plans she had come up with could use some polishing, but they were promising. The letter to Jeyne could be made a tad more obvious, so that no confusion could happen; Jeyne had to know she was being sent a hostage, and not a promising ward. She was quite fond of the idea of saddling Daemon with some of her more troublesome relatives, but she would not be the one to ask him to take them when he left, that was best left to her daughter. The less she spoke to Daemon, the better. She thought for a moment about Ser Jorah, and about Ser Gerold as well, and came to a decision. Rhea kissed her daughter on the forehead goodnight and assured her that come morning they would begin their work.

Elaena nearly ran to her mother’s office in the morning. Such was her excitement to deal with the looming danger that she forgot to knock before entering and ran directly into the broad back of Ser Gerold Royce.

“My lady,” a surprised Gerold kept her from falling to the ground, before kneeling before Elaena. “I must apologize on behalf of my father. Prince Daemon has made a game out of messing with him since before you were born and he should not have taken out his anger on you.”

Elaena was shocked, to say the least. Here, in her mother’s office where they would plot on how to deal with Gunthor, stood his eldest son.

“You have to grant him permission to stand, Elaena,” her mother instructed with a smile. “I can see you are surprised but we cannot talk until you forgive Gerold for his father’s mistake.”

“You may stand, Ser Gerold, I accept your apology,” a confused Elaena replied in a higher pitch than usual.

“My gratitude, my lady,” he bowed towards Rhea. “Lady Royce, by your leave.”

“You may go Gerold,” as soon as he’d left, Rhea called over her daughter to sit next to her. “I know you are confused but let me tell you about the deal that we have reached with Gerold. He does not share his father’s optimism that they can steal away your inheritance with a king for an uncle and is more concerned about the future of his children. The sons of distant relatives oft find themselves expelled from castles and forgotten by the main families if they do not prove their worth you see. Gerold desires to have a place in Runestone for the years to come, he wishes for his son Jon to have a place, and he sees an opportunity in your scheme of sending his son Willam to squire for Ser Mandon.”

“An opportunity? In being an obvious hostage?”

“’Tis rare for the younger son of some cousin to be squired by the finest sword in the Vale,” Rhea stood to stare at the gardens through the window. “That cousin of yours desires a white cloak, and his father is intelligent enough to know staying on your good side helps his son. Torbeck was my father’s steward for many years, but he is very old. Gerold will become the castle’s steward after him, his son Jon will help him and Willam will go to the Gates of the Moon and train to earn a white cloak. In return, Gerold will make sure Gunthor stays quiet, and will convince him that sending his brother Jorah alongside with the knights to the Stepstones will bring honor to them all.”

Elaena’s surprise was evident on her face. She had not expected that one of Gunthor’s sons would side with them. Rhea merely smiled at her daughter and sat down with her.

“I have known Gerold all my life, he has ambition, but it is unlike that of his father, he does not reach beyond his position. The safety of a son and the success of the other,” her gaze turned hard. “Now you must convince your father that he must take Ser Jorah and the knights with him on that foolish war of his.” Elaena kissed her mother on the cheek and turned to leave, eager to look for her father. “Also, you are to have more responsibilities beyond your lesssons now, Gerold will assist you”

Convincing her father was easier than she had hoped to believe. During their shared mealtime she asked him, and he agreed to on the spot. His war was costly both in gold and blood and he was ever looking for more soldiers to hold down this or that island. And the thought of ordering Royces around was not an unwelcome one. She might have thought that Gunthor would have been hard to convince, but Gerold reported that his father believed that Jorah needed the experience and the fame that came with such a feat of arms and that was that. Before the moon turned Jorah and fifty knights, some of Gunthor’s closest, rode for Gulltown were a ship bearing a great seahorse awaited them to take them to some garishly named island. Daemon, apparently bored of his wife’s icy barbs and his daughter’s apparent piety and diligence, left soon afterwards atop his dragon back to his war.

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The days after her father left were calm. Gunthor asked for permission to escort his grandson to be a squire, so Rhea decided to try out a new master-at-arms during his absence. Ser Boron Shett and a former hedge knight named Ser Pate of Sisterton were the best candidates. Cousin Willam was so excited to squire for Ser Mandon, that he even thanked Elaena for the opportunity she had granted him and promised he would be the greatest knight to bear the name Royce (probably spurned to do so by his father, she reasoned).

The day Gunthor left her new duties began. Duties turned out to actually mean more hands-in learning. Rhea wanted her to see where the wealth of House Royce came from and sent her on a trip through the nearest villages to see the year’s sheep shearing and watch the peasants at work. Her mother had given her a gentle old gelding named Apple to ride in the villages and Gerold had come along to explain the work being done. He wasn’t that knowledgeable on the work itself though, peasant-work he called it. The peasants worked the fields and tended to the sheep, but House Royce owned the land and the flocks. Every subsequent year of summer they would shear the sheep, clean the wool and send it over to one of the larger villages, where it would be spun into thread to be sold at Gulltown. The shearing itself was a festival of sorts. By local law, after the shear was done the villagefolk were allowed to sacrifice a sheep to cook a large feast; the larger villages had larger flocks and were granted leave to take more sheep. Farmers from all over brought some of their choiciest crops to share in the festivities and innkeepers gave out barrels of ale. According to Gerold the law and festivals were as ancient as the coming of the Andals.

After their mealtime Gerold allowed her some time to herself and she decided to examine both the sheep and the wool. In the place from before wool trade was a source of great wealth and if she could use some knowledge to make it more profitable then she was going to. The wool was of decent quality, some of it had thin fibers good for making clothes and there were even a few that had the thick fibers that were better for carpets and tapestries, but the fibers weren’t particularly long. She also noticed that they weren’t doing any selective breeding, the amount of wool that the members of the flock yielded varied far too much. She’d have to select the best and fluffiest males and if she could she would try to bring in males from elsewhere, all to create her own variety of wool-rich sheep. Her uncle Gerold was no help in knowing where else in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond where sheep were found in abundance and what kinds of sheep so she would have to seek that information elsewhere; the peasants themselves had never ventured beyond their home, with just a few of them having visited Gulltown. She’d have to get the shearers to clean the wool more thoroughly and to start dividing the wool that came from different parts of the sheep, according to quality.

She then took her time to observe the villagers. She wasn’t sure what to expect, she had not had much contact with lowborn people. They were hard at work. Not just those shearing sheep, but also the women helping with the herding and the cooking, the old people overseeing the children in charge of skirting the wool (they were doing it on the ground, she’d have to get them a table for it, so they’d be more effective at cleaning the wool). The villagers laughed and joked with each other as they worked, dogs ran around keeping the sheep in check and a local septon, well into his cups, was explaining the Seven-Pointed-Star to one of the sheep. Gerold seemed to disapprove of the festivities but kept quiet about them, and every subsequent village where they saw the same just made him frown harder.

Elaena herself though was a welcome guest, “‘twas lucky their liege’s heir had come to visit them” the villagers claimed. In one of the villages one of her guards let it slip that her last name was Targaryen, and the entire village stopped working to come and ask her for her blessing, they asked her for children, for greater harvests and even for rain. That had taken her by surprise, after things calmed down the village septon explained to her that despite the Faith’s insistence, many of the ignorant peasantry believed their dragon-riding rulers were closer to gods than men. Elaena, despite her coloring, looked quite a bit like her father. Her hair shone like polished bronze under the sun and the streak of silver that ran through it stood out like a pale flame in the dark of her hair. She was tall for her age, which was more likely a Royce trait since many of her relatives were quite large, and at just three-and-ten she was already taller than most lowborn women. And while Rhea Royce was not a particularly pretty woman, Elaena looked more and more like a female version of her father with each year. To the locals, she was a tall and comely maiden of shining hair who descended from Aegon the Conqueror and the ancient line of Royce kings, so therefore she could grant blessings like the Seven.

After that village she’d ordered the guards to call her Elaena Royce if needed since they spent an entire afternoon fending off people seeking her blessings. And it made her very uncomfortable. Their next destination was a larger village home to many workshops that spun wool. The bulk of Royce wealth came from villages such as this. But they never got there. Just as Gerold was trying to explain how a spinning wheel worked, despite not really understanding how, a messenger from Runestone approached them. Princess Rhaenyra was marrying Laenor Velaryon and Elaena had been invited to sit at the high table. They had to cut their journey short so she could pack and head to the wedding.

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Elaena finally starts affecting the world around her, and begins seeing what she can change to her benefit. I tried imagining what Daemon would get up to in his visits at Runestone and could completely comprehend why he gets bored and abandons the place over and over. I still wanted Gunthor around, though I feel he got properly neutered at this time and his son desires different, more grounded things.

With Rhea I wanted to portray a caring mother who must harden her heart when it comes to teaching her daughter, because she understand what their world is like for ruling ladies, so she includes her daughter in her confidence, has her plot and then corrects her plot, sends her out to learn about her holdings, etc. Elaena might be a bit too diligent though, since both Daemon and Rhea think she could probably spend more free time.

I also wanted to explore a bit about the lives of the commoners, and honestly, who better to fully believe the "Targaryens are closer to gods" line? The nobles who spend time with them or the peasants who, if lucky, might one day see a dragon flying around and hear the stories of Aegon the Conqueror and remember the days of Jaehaerys and Alysanne. Dany also gets some worship in Essos, but there it's a bit more earned since she freed the slaves; for Elaena it's uncomfortable, awkward and a bit scary.
On the technological side, Westeros is stagnant and distances are so great that no one has really tried making a sheep breed, the husbandry efforts of the nobility probably stop at dogs and horses. And I want Elaena to be able to get an advantage that way.

Up next is Rhaenyra's wedding and Elaena trying to make some useful connections.

Thanks for reading and Happy New Year.

Chapter Text

114 AC

The boat trip to King’s Landing was the first time she met the girls that Rhea had found to be her ladies-in-waiting. Her cousin Mya, Gerold’s good-daughter and third-in-line to Runestone, had been made her chief lady-in-waiting. She had left behind her two young sons and a one-year-old baby girl to accompany Elaena. Barbrey Roncey and Delia Mallet were both Elaena’s age and were both daughters of some of the more senior household knights, from families that had served the Royces for generations. A year younger was Cella Tollett, from the main branch of the Tolletts. A noble lady was expected to appear in high society accompanied by at least one lady and her mother had made sure she had more than enough.

She had to rush off to Gulltown with no time to pack so she’d be early to socialize before the wedding, so her mother had sent her with a group of seamstresses and enough cloth to alter the dresses they brought for her and her ladies. The chief seamstress was an old woman, close to eighty, who everyone called Mother Maggy, she owned her own workshop in the city and had made dresses for the ladies of House Royce since the days of Elaena’s great-grandmother. While her assistants were taking her measurements and adding in the embroidery she interviewed the old seamstress, to learn about the weaving industry in Gulltown.

Maggy had inherited her mother’s workshop when she was seven-and-ten after her mother died from a plague brought over by merchants from Ibb. But even before that she was considered one of the best dressmakers in Gulltown and at the young age of twenty she began to make clothes for the then Lady Grafton, and when Elaena’s Grafton great-grandmother married into the Royces she began making dresses for her family. Her workshop employed over thirty seamstresses and one day her own granddaughter would inherit the workshop. When her husband was alive, he dealt with the coin and the merchants; now her good-son, that granddaughter’s father, did. Apparently, seamstress workshops were inherited by the female line but were managed by the men of the family. There was a seamstress’ guild as well, of which she had been the guild master for nearly forty years until she retired fifteen years ago. The guild made sure that only its members could work as seamstresses in Gulltown and ensured there was a high level of quality to their work, it also bought the materials directly from merchants and ensured every workshop got a fair deal. Gulltown had five major guilds: besides the seamstresses, the merchants, the dyers, the shipwrights and the innkeepers all had large guilds of their own with guildhalls in the city center and the ear of Lord Grafton. Though she didn’t have much to say of the current lord, a man more interested in feasts and parties than in running his city. He preferred leaving the rule of the city to his close friend Isembard Arryn, who Mother Maggy said was the wealthiest man in all the Vale.

Mother Maggy knew every alley of the city, every seamstress of note and even owned a small trading cog of her own that made trips to Spice Town every moon, she had seen Gulltown grow wealthy under the Targaryens and had even met Queen Alysanne once. With tears in her eyes, she spoke to Elaena how she had been given justice, after losing her mother, she was beaten by her mother’s brother, who had then tried to steal the ownership of her workshop to give to his own daughter. But Queen Alysanne had called her Women’s Court in Gulltown and the Good Queen protected her. Maggy was an old woman, and she rarely left her home these days, but when she heard her girls would be dressing a Targaryen she insisted on coming along. Out of all the noble ladies in the ship only Elaena’s dress received the full attention of Mother Maggy, who would mumble how the Good Queen would be smiling at her little granddaughter as she embroidered with incredible speed and precision.

The resulting outfit was a long dress of fine black wool that left her shoulders bare, with bronze runes embroidered along the top of the dress and along her hips, and small crimson dragons embroidered over the body. It had been tailored to her exact measurements, so it showed off her hips, which Maggy claimed was the best asset a young maiden had for enticing potential husbands, never mind that Elaena was already betrothed. The skirt was wide at the sides and opened in the middle, where a second, bronze-colored skirt with embroidered vines would go; and then a third and a fourth skirt beneath. She’d be wearing a Myrish lace veil with runes of protection embroidered by her mother at the edges, held in place by the diadem her father gave her. She’d also been given a few House Royce heirlooms to wear at the wedding, some rings and a necklace with a large and heavy bronze weirwood tree that Cousin Mya claimed belonged to a Royce queen once. Her shoes were made of cloth, though they would be hidden from all.

The overall effect was quite striking. For the first time she felt like the princess she technically was. The dress was masterfully made just for her. Mother Maggy had worked for the big-boned and tall Royces and knew how to make dresses that best showed off such ladies. Elaena was tall for her age, already able to look her mother in the eye, who was herself a tall woman, and the dress that Mother Maggy had made for her made for her was meant just for her; with her height and her wide hips she inherited from her mother. Her mother had spent a large amount of coin to make sure her daughter would outshine most ladies at the wedding. Elaena’s ladies were finely dressed as well, each with their own colors though they had all been given belts with bronze studs to signify their allegiance.

She arrived at King’s Landings days before the celebrations began. Her uncle, the king, alongside his Hand and what seemed like half the court welcomed her to the castle. She remembered him being tall and somewhat chubby, but he was hunching slightly now and seemed thinner. He was still jolly however, and happily handed her a plate of bread and salt before inviting her to stay in the rooms next to Rhaenyra’s. King Viserys gave her his arm to escort her and their path to her rooms were full of introductions: “this is Lord Strong, my trusted Hand and great friend,” and “this is Lord Staunton, three of his sons are favorites for the wedding tournament, you know?” and “this is Lord Stokeworth, who has promised the most delicious mutton pie you will ever taste,” and “this is Lord Caswell, a loyal and stalwart servant of the realm,” and “this Lord Mooton, whose sons are growing to be fine squires,” and so many more introductions that she began to forget who had the recently knighted son and whose brother was a maester and whose daughter had just been married. King Viserys had a gift for making friends and remembering the little things about them.

Every lord and knight she was introduced to, however, went down on one knee and kissed her hand. Some of them declaring undying devotion and complimenting her grey eyes and her shining hair with its silver locks. Once behind the doors of their rooms, Mya was quick to warn her about those men, to tell her that even if she was betrothed, her intended was no more than a child.

“It is not rare for matches such as those to be cast aside, and you are the heiress to one of the wealthiest lordships and a niece to a king,” Mya talked as she unpacked her things. “Matches with children as young as Andar many times don’t come to pass, and those men know it, it could be that they merely believe your betrothal is intended to keep other matches away and will be broken a few years from now,” Mya and most in Runestone believed this to be the case. “If your mother had wanted to avoid this, you would have married Andar already, young as he is. You must be careful who you are seen with, and by whom.”

When Elaena, a maid of three-and-ten, saw herself, she saw a child’s body. But to the men of the realm, she was already of marriageable age and with a wealthy dowry to boot. The dress her mother had ordered made for her showed her off to noble society. It was made with an intention beyond simply looking good and she herself started to believe her betrothal to her little cousin was merely to ward off problems. At least she’d come with some more modest dresses, meant for children, and Mother Maggy’s dress would only be worn on the day of the wedding. Taking Mya’s advice to heart she resolved to look for her father, so he’d escort her during the wedding and keep would-be suitors away, though she hadn’t seen him yet.

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That evening she received an invitation from the king to dine with his family. She wore a simpler pale brown dress that had small seven-pointed stars embroidered and a thick wool trim on the cuffs and along the neckline, the kind of dress that pious mothers would have their daughters wear. Escorted by her ladies and her sworn-shield she made her way to one of the smaller dining halls. Already inside and waiting were Princess Rhaenyra and a white cloak. Rhaenyra liked elaborately embroidered dresses and tonight’s was no exception, a silk crimson dress with black dragons embroidered and a neckline that showed as much cleavage as propriety allowed, her long silver hair braided in a way that reminded her of Prince Daemon. She was a woman grown now, and might well have been the most beautiful woman that Elaena had ever seen. Her older cousin was seven-and-ten, older by four years though shorter than Elaena by about half a head. Last she’d seen her she was a young a willful princess who cared little for propriety and could be often seen running through the castle’s hallways and sneaking out to meet her dragon, but age had tempered her a bit and Elaena was for the first time meeting the woman called the Realm’s Delight. The time she had once spent running around the halls with like-minded friends was now spent hosting parties, hawking and riding in the Kingswood with courtiers.

“Little cousin!” before she could sit down, Rhaenyra stood up and walked over to hug her. “It has been too long since I saw you last, I went to the Eyrie not long ago and had hope to see you there but you had left for Runestone and nuncle never wants me to visit.” She pouted. “But you can invite me to Runestone, can’t you? My mother used to tell me an old story to get me to sleep about going on the Bronze Way to meet the Bronze King in his Bronze Hall. I really want to see the Bronze Hall.”

“I’d be honored to invite you, princess,” red-faced she stammered after Rhaenyra stopped hugging her.

“Please don’t be so formal, we are cousins so I shall accept nothing more than you calling me Rhaenyra, all right Elaena?” Rhaenyra led her to her sit—next to hers. “Has anyone told you that you look remarkably like Uncle Daemon? Your eyes and hair are your mother’s I gather but everything else is as if Daemon was a girl”. She giggled but got more serious as she caressed her cheek and whispered. “Just like Daemon’s,” she had opened her mouth to say something else when Queen Alicent entered the room.

“Stepdaughter,” came the Queen’s curt greeting. “It is good to see you niece, I know not if you remember me, but we met when you came to our, me and Viserys, tournament.” The Queen smiled kindly at her. “I’m afraid my children will not be joining us but I know you will accept our invitation so they can meet their big cousin.”

“I’m afraid, stepmother, that Elaena has better things to do than playing come-into-my-castle with children,” Rhaenyra, with a smug smile reached over to grab Elaena’s hand. “Why, I have half a mind to steal her away on Syrax and take her to see our ancestral seat of Dragonstone.”

Elaena was trying to come up with an excuse to avoid dragonflight when the doors opened yet again, and King Viserys stepped through. He was tired and seemed even more hunched over than when he had greeted her. His wife and daughter both noticed, and both stood and tried to help him to his seat, but he waved them away.

“Do not bother, they day I can’t make it to my chair is the day I die,” Viserys said as he sat between his wife and daughter. “Now, let dinner begin! Tell me, what juicy gossips have I missed whilst stuck with Lord Corlys clucking like a fishwife over lost coin sunk ships on those blasted islands.”

“Lady Penrose is with child again,” the Queen solemnly announced.

“She is two years a widow,” Rhaenyra whispered in Elaena’s ear. “And I don’t think she can pass this one as the last gift her husband left her.”

“Ah! The Penrose Maester, one Mortyns had a treatise on something like that,” the king was deep in thought. “Ah! That was it On the persistence of the seed in the womb and unnatural births.”

This set off Elaena laughing, which meant that Rhaenyra soon joined her and even the Queen allowed herself a smile. The king, proud at his jest, spent large part of the evening trying to make his niece laugh, for while hers was a gentler sound, it reminded him of his father’s laugh. Well into his cups, however, he began complaining—as was his custom when drunk—about his brother.

“That father of yours,” a hiccup. “With his war and his scorn… Do you know he has not come to the wedding? I invited him of course, no matter how much he vexes me,” a burp, “he is still my brother and the Seven know I love him.”

“My father will not come?” Elaena was confused, he had turned up at the wedding in the show and she had expected him to come and escort her. “I had wanted to ask him to escort me during the wedding, I know few people and being surrounded by so many strangers was a worrisome thing.” Maybe if she played up her fragility the king might lend her a white cloak for an escort, she reasoned.

“That will not do!” Viserys slammed the table. “With Daemon away I am responsible for you, I shan’t allow any unbecoming noblemen near my niece. I shall escort you.” The Queen quickly looked towards her husband. “You won’t mind, will you Alicent? Your father is here, as are your brothers and that charming uncle of yours.”

“I can escort her, father,” Rhaenyra pulled her towards her into a hug.

“No, no. Laenor will be escorting you, this is your wedding, and it will not do for the lords of the Realm to see any hint of discord,” Viserys seemed to sober up. “I will escort you Elaena, there will be nothing to fear with a king by your side.”

And that was that. Viserys had made his mind up and neither Alicent nor Rhaenyra could change his mind. She was his brother’s only child and with him away it was his responsibility to keep her safe. He had spoken with Daemon about her and knew that Rhea Royce had only convinced him to allow the betrothal with her little cousin by arguing it protected her from foes within and without and that odds were the marriage wouldn’t come to be. His niece was here alone, but she was of his House so she was his responsibility.

Queen Alicent was the first to excuse herself, her son Aemond was fussy at night and oft needed his mother to fall asleep. The king, who after his short moment of sobriety went back to drinking was next to leave. Rhaenyra insisted on spending time with her cousin and asked her to stay behind so they could talk and get to know each other.

“Sorry, I tried to save you but I’m afraid you are now doomed to spend far too much time with Jasper Wylde, he insists on sticking close to my father and his breath stinks,” a laughing princess told her as he refilled both their cups with wine. She got a melancholic look on her face as she stared at Elaena’s face. “I wish nuncle was here, then he could escort you and I could speak to him about this wedding.”

“You don’t like your betrothed?” perhaps due to the wine or perhaps because she was beginning to like Rhaenyra, she dared to ask.

“Laenor is fine enough, comely and skilled at arms, but I don’t love him,” Rhaenyra got very quiet, and quite more serious until she spoke again. “And he can’t love me.” Another pause, and when she finished her drink. “Come, I shall escort you back to your rooms and keep those unruly suitors of yours away,” a smile. “If any come near you, I’ll feed them to Syrax.”

Rhaenyra thus escorted her back to her rooms, accompanied by an unidentified white cloak. Their rooms were right next to each other and at the door Rhaenyra promised she would show her every fun place in the city and outside and they would make up for all the time they didn’t see each other.

“Good night, Elaena,” a kiss on the one cheek and a caress on the other. “You truly do look like nuncle.” The princess turned around and walked into her chambers.

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Rhaenyra made good on her promise. The wedding festivities were set to begin in five days, and she took Elaena everywhere with her. Some might whisper she was using her to avoid Laenor, but the groom himself did not seem bothered much. She showed Elaena the gardens of the Red Keep and Balerion’s skull. She introduced her to Syrax and tried to convince her to join her on a ride, but Elaena remained firmly in the ground. She took her hawking in the Kingswood and looking around the many shops being set up for the tournament, where she insisted they buy matching rings. During an outing in the Kingswood, Rhaenyra hosted a luncheon for her friends and introduced Elaena to them. Most important for Elaena was the introduction to the Stokeworth ladies: Ceryse, an older pregnant woman and her four-year-old daughter, Marianne. If the lamb on their sigil wasn’t enough of a clue, little Marianne had a stuffed lamb. A stuffed lamb with long floppy ears that might just mean a different breed of sheep she could crossbreed with her own. Rhaenyra’s friends mostly belonged to houses in the Crownlands, or a short trip away from King’s Landing, and all of them favored black clothes.

The day before the wedding officially began Rhaenyra was busy preparing, so Queen Alicent finally managed to invite Elaena to a party in the Queen’s Ballroom. In contrast to the luncheon in the Kingswood, everyone wore some shade of green at the Queen’s gathering. And despite there being older lords and married couples, Alicent seemed to only be introducing her to young unwed lordlings and knights. It took a while for Elaena to notice, but after being paraded in front of the fifth consecutive bachelor she noticed. First came both of Alicent’s brothers, then a knight of House Fossoway, a Redwyne and a Reyne. Alicent gave her a break after Reyne, however, to introduce her to Aegon. Seven namedays and utterly uninterested in the party, the young prince was paraded in front of many lords—all of whom knelt before the boy—and then promptly sent to bed.

“He is tired from a long day of dress fitting and rehearsal, young boys prefer playing with swords,” the Queen spoke to no one in particular. “Now, where were we my dear niece. Ah yes! I know just who you should meet.” She led her towards a handsome man with golden locks and emerald eyes she could swear had flecks of gold in them. “Our Master of Ships, Ser Tyland Lannister. He is one of the youngest ever members of the King’s Council and already serves with such admirable diligence. Ser Tyland, meet the Lady Elaena Targaryen, heir to Runestone.”

“It’s an honor, my lady,” when Ser Tyland bent down to kiss her hand, he lingered for longer than usual. She knew what the queen intended, especially as soon as she mentioned that Ser Tyland’s brother had recently been engaged and Ser Tyland remained unmarried still. With a silent signal, Queen Alicent sent away everyone around them, leaving the three of them alone.

“Did you know, Elaena, that Ser Tyland led a group of knights against a band of outlaws near the Golden Tooth?” the queen grabbed her by the arm and subtly pushed her towards the Lannister knight. “He in not only skilled at affairs of ruling but at battle as well. The maid who’ll win his heart will be lucky indeed.” The queen saw someone she knew and left them alone, “Ser Unwin, it has been too long since we last met!” Come morning, Queen Alicent will have arranged four betrothals.

“Duty is its own reward, Your Grace,” Ser Tyland flashed a smile and stepped towards Elaena. “It was the greatest honor to be chosen as part of the King’s Small Council, doubly so given my age.” He gently grazed her silver lock with the back of his hand. “Have you been told how beautiful your hair is, My Lady?”

“I have, ser,” a red-faced Elaena answered back. “But I pray you must forgive me, for the hour grows late and I must prepare for tomorrow’s celebrations.” She disentangled herself from the Lannister knight and walked as fast as she gracefully could towards Mya, but the knight followed.

“You must allow me to escort you,” he grabbed her arm.

“That will be alright, My Lord, I am sure it would be naught, but trouble and my cousin shall be with me,” Elaena tried to pull her arm, but the knight wouldn’t budge.

“I must insist,” a firmer tone and a severe look passed through his emerald eyes. “I can’t in good sense allow two ladies to go alone. Come.” And he dragged her towards Mya.

Neither Elaena nor Mya were able to dissuade Ser Tyland from escorting them, so escort them through the gardens he did. All the way to the doors to her chambers, where he once more kissed her hand and as he gazed up at her, “I had thought your hair beautiful, My Lady, but under the moonlight’s shine not even the Maiden could compare.”

Morning came, and with it came a worry. The wedding tournament began at midday. Rhaenyra was busy, the king was busy, and she didn’t know if Alicent would try the same thing again if she saw her doing nothing. She needed something to do. Something that would be a credible excuse in case they tried to invite her elsewhere. She then had an idea and sent Mya with an invitation.

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As the days had went on and the guest began arriving, Elaena took note of as many houses as she could, trying to find fellow sheep farmers. In the Reach, lords Caswell, Peake, Tarly and Osgrey kept the largest flocks of sheep; the Crownlands had the Stokeworths; the Westerlands had Serret and Swyft; the Vale had the Royces and as far as she could tell no house in the Stormlands and the Riverlands was known for great flocks of sheep. That left the North, she knew that shiploads of wool went out of White Harbor heading to Braavos. She didn’t have much information about industry in the North and the only Northern lords that made the trip for the wedding were the Manderlys. Thankfully, unlike with the Houses from the other kingdoms, the Royces had dealings with White Harbor. Every winter they sold part of their harvest to them before looking to Essos.

It wasn’t well seen for a young woman to invite an unknown man, married or not, so she’d invite the Manderly women instead. Tea, cakes that Mya got for them and embroidery with the excuse of reinforcing the good relations between their houses. All to discover what they knew about wool. Lord Manderly, a widower, had brought his mother, Branda Manderly, two daughters and a son. Not long after Mya had returned the Manderly women arrived.

“Lady Targaryen, we are honored by your invitation,” a grey-haired older woman nodded at her, while the two blonde teenagers behind her curtsied. “These two are my granddaughters, Wynafridd and Marla.”

“An honor, my ladies,” Elaena gestured towards the couches. “Please join me, ‘tis rare to be able to meet with distant friends, and House Manderly is ever welcome at our hearth.” Elaena sat and asked for her needles to be brought, she was making a draft of the Red Keep’s gardens where she intended to place King Viserys with his family to commission a tapestry to gift him in the future.

“Please call me Frida,” the eldest Manderly girl spoke in a singsong voice. “Only grandmama calls me Wynafridd.”

The older woman smiled at her granddaughter and, after sitting, immediately reached for the cakes. The two girls shadowing her brought out their needles as well and took out an aquamarine cloak they were both working on. “For our brother to wear at the joust,” the eldest explained. “We are making a great merman with velvet that father gave us,” the youngest cheerily added. The merman was nearly finished. They had used as many colors as they could, with seashells flowing through his green beard and a rainbow seven-pointed star behind his left hand. “Father asked for the star, he is looking for a match for Martyn and wishes to remind those in the South that we follow the Seven as well,” Marla liked talking and was trying to replicate her older sister’s way of talking. “Frida is betrothed to the Dustin heir, but I also came looking for a husband. Do you know of anyone in the Vale?”

“Marla Manderly!” the old woman poked her granddaughter with a teaspoon. “That is not something you ask when you just met someone. My apologies Lady Elaena, never mind the girl.”

“No need to apologize, Lady Branda,” Elaena liked Marla, and thought of someone who might treat her right and was used to women who spoke their mind, Jessamyn’s brother. “You did not hear it from me, but Ser Byron Redfort, heir to Redfort, is still unwed and the Redforts are attending the wedding.”

“I see,” a glint in the old woman’s eyes appeared and quickly disappeared. “I’m sure my son will be grateful for that little tidbit.” The Redforts were an ancient and noble lineage and owned vast farmlands and orchards in the Vale—key to any Northern house facing winter.

“I must admit, my ladies, I had a hidden motive to ask you here,” Elaena leaned in to whisper, an excited Marla leaned in as well. “As the future Lady of Runestone I have been learning all that I can to rule my holdings aptly and I wished to know more about our trade with White Harbor.” Marla leaned back, less excited.

“Oh, I can tell you anything you might need to know,” Frida replied, in her singsong voice. “I do love walking the markets.”

“I am quite fond of embroidery and clothes-making, and the North sells plenty of Wool to the Free Cities, what kinds of wool do you have?” she didn’t want to seem so eager.

“Wool?” Marla chipped in. “Isn’t all wool the same?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Lady Elaena,” Frida answered with sad look on her face. “Father only takes Martyn to tour the warehouses, and the wool merchants come to us.”

“There’s three kinds,” the old matriarch cut in. “West of the Kingsroad, mainly in Dustin lands, they keep sheep that get fat easy during summer and can survive the long winters, but its wool is not good enough for the Free Cities, so it is used mostly in the North. East of the Kingsroad, Lord Bolton keeps the best sheep, warm wool that keeps the North alive in winter and Lord Bolton’s pockets full,” she said with a grimace. “Then there’s the flocks that Umber, Karstark and the mountain clans keep,” she closed her eyes, bringing up ancient memories. “They’re pitiful animals, that survive on roots and whatever they can find, the wool is coarse and hard to the touch. But when Winter comes, you take what you can,” the old woman intoned seriously, with her icy grey eyes. “You will marry the Dustin boy Wynafridd, and run his household, so you should know this. When we get back, I will teach you.” Frida smiled.

The rest of the morning was spent with pleasant small talk. She asked some more about the White Harbor markets and the city, and they asked about the Eyrie, Runestone and the Vale. Shortly before midday, the Manderly ladies took their leave to prepare for the wedding celebrations. They had barely managed to complete their brother’s cloak— “we would have been finished earlier but Martyn misplaced it on the ship, and we only found it when we had arrived,” complained Marla. She had to prepare as well, while her ladies-in-waiting dressed her in the first of many dresses she would use for the week-long wedding, she thought about northern sheep.

She now had the names of the Northern sheep farmers. She was wary of approaching the Boltons, they were the villains in the tv show after all, but out of all the lords she had investigated, they were the ones whose sheep seemed to be the best lead. Gunthor’s wife was a Bolton, Gerold’s mother. Mayhaps there was a connection she could use. And Roose Bolton hadn’t been born yet, and surely the Boltons weren’t born all villains, and the current ones were decent people, right?

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Holidays really give a lot of time of free time to write. I wanted to have the wedding (and a little joke in the title) as well in this chapter but it got too long.

Elaena met a seamstress and began to learn about about the trade in Gulltown, I hope I managed to describe the dress well enough so that people can picture it. As for Elaena's body, she's still young so describing her was a bit awkward, so I'll just say she has the kind of body that Catelyn Stark would approve of for a match with Robb, but nothing much above the waist. On the other hand, Rhaenyra is a beauty who turns heads wherever she goes, she's also a bit short. Elaena is tall but nowhere near Brienne. I've actually been picturing her a bit like Maria Callas.

Got some introductions to both Team Black and Green, both already divided into factions and moving their influence, and Viserys happily ignoring it. But they act civil when in front of him. Rhaenyra misses her uncle and is an unwanted marriage. Did Alicent decide to find her a Green match because Viserys snubbed her or was that always her plan? And she's a good match, a female heir with a lot of land to her name. She doesn't do too well with pressure and unexpected situations, but she'll have to get used to it.

Elaena now has some leads for where to find other breeds of sheep, so hopefully she doesn't have to pay an arm and a leg.

I think I made it a bit obvious, but bonus points for the first person to say what house the Manderly matriarch came from.

Up next the wedding,
Thanks for reading.

Chapter Text

114 AC

She had never seen someone die before.

The tournament would last for seven days. The first day was the archery contest, and other minor affairs. The second day began with the melee, a brutal affair loved by the brutal knights that lived in the Seven Kingdoms. Elaena had seen her fair share of melees in both the Eyrie and Runestone, but the knights of the Vale cared little for melees and preferred the joust, so they were usually small affairs. Not this one however, nearly one hundred mounted knights would fight in the day’s melee. In the morning the knights fought in teams, then in pairs, then finally in a chaotic free-for-all, where horses were forgotten and knights fought on foot. Rhaenyra had named Ser Harwin Strong, son of the Hand and Commander of the City Watch, her champion. Ser Criston Cole, commander of the Kingsguard, took the field with Queen Alicent’s favor. And the groom-to-be even named his own champion.

Elaena hadn’t met her distant cousins, the Velaryons. They had avoided court after Viserys refused to marry Laena Velaryon, and her father had only ever brought one distant nephew to Runestone, the silver-haired boy, named Daeron, was squiring for him at the time, and he could have passed for a Targaryen princeling. She knew already, but was still surprised they did not look like in the show, particularly Rhaenys. Before the melee began, they introduced themselves. Rhaenys had black hair and lilac eyes, another member of her family without the characteristic silver hair. Corlys was much older than his wife and his once silver hair was now rapidly greying. Laena was a beautiful woman and Laenor was strangely enough, prettier than her. Corlys and Rhaenys made her promise she would join them for breakfast next morning, her father was one of his closest friends and it would be impolite to not make her feel welcome.

The king had invited her to sit in the high dais, alongside the Velaryons, Rhaenyra and Alicent, but she’d decided to sit with the rest of the Vale contingent, sitting with Lady Jeyne and her friends. There she would hear all the gossip straight from Jessamyn’s mouth: how Laenor was an adequate swordsman at best, though a good lance, whose father had refused to take him to the Stepstones despite being a dragonrider and had been knighted just the past week despite having accomplished no knightly deeds. That many were already whispering about his maidenly disposition, particularly after he gave his favor to the young knight he insisted would knight him over his famous father or the king: the handsome Knight of Kisses, Ser Joffrey Lonmouth.

Ser Joffrey, with a silver bolt of cloth around his arm, made it to the last phase of the melee, where every knight fought for himself. He had just defeated a knight with a red lion on his tabard when Ser Criston Cole approached him. They faced each other briefly, mayhaps she imagined they exchanged a few words, then, with a burst of speed she still did not expect from heavily armored men, clashed against each other. The Knight of Kisses, with a checkered cloak of black and yellow, and kisses embroidered on his tabard, kept his shield close to his body and his sword moves compact. Ser Criston, white armored and white cloaked, fought with a morningstar. Ser Joffrey kept his shield between them and kept close as he battered away with blunted sword, not allowing Ser Criston the space he needed to make use of his weapon.

The white knight, however, refused to give ground. He remained unmoving as he withstood Ser Joffrey’s assault with his own battered shield. Ser Joffrey then made a mistake, he brought his sword arm back for a heavy strike and, with the speed of a man whose entire life was battle, Ser Criston struck with his shield. The Knight of Kisses was forced back, and before he could regain balance, the Kingsguard began his fierce assault. Ser Joffrey was now on the defensive. It was his turn to receive the white cloak’s furious onslaught. Splinters from his shield flew as far away as the stands, and whilst he was forced back, the Knight of Kisses remained resolute in his defense and refused to yield.

Elaena never knew if he set out to do so, or if her merely became impatient that his foe did not go down, but Ser Criston struck high. Throughout their entire duel, both knights had aimed for the body and Ser Joffrey’s had skillfully used his shield to defend his body from the white cloak’s morningstar. He was not fast enough to react. Ser Criston struck at his helm with a shout that was heard in the stands. When the Knight of Kisses hit the ground, his helmet had cracked and broke into pieces. Ser Joffrey was spasming and a pool of blood was growing in the ground as assistants ran into the yard and carried him towards a maester.

Noble and common both screamed out in outrage at the brutality of the attack. Ser Laenor abandoned the King’s Box and rushed to the maester’s tent. The king was attempting to calm everyone down when the last duel of the melee claimed everyone’s attention. Without any concern of what he’d done, Ser Criston warily approached the last man standing: Ser Harwin Strong. The large knight that people called Breakbones, in his gold cloak and Princess Rhaenyra’s favor of black silk wrapped around his arm, lifted his sword in greeting to Rhaenyra and with a shout of “Harrenhal!” rushed Cole. But the white cloak stood his ground and received Ser Harwin head-on.

What followed was no contest. Harwin Strong could barely defend himself from the viciousness the Kingsguard displayed. As if the display against Ser Joffrey was merely a warm-up, Ser Criston hit harder and faster with every successive strike. The white cloak had the skill to disarm the heir to Harrenhal, but he struck at his shield-baring arm until it dangled at his side and the shield was on the floor, shattered beyond recognition. She did not know which strikes did it, but when he hit the ground, Ser Harwin had a broken elbow and his collarbone had been shattered. Ser Criston Cole was champion of the melee.

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The King feasted his vassals that afternoon. In front of all, with a clear grimace on his face, he commended Ser Criston for his victory but scolded his brutality. Princess Rhaenyra lent her voice to her father’s: “this is no bloody battlefield, ser. It’s a tourney meant to celebrate my wedding.” But Queen Alicent praised his skill and asked he be made her sworn protector. Rhaenyra seemed to be about to complain, but King Viserys, ever the peacemaker, agreed to his wife’s request and the matter was settled. Lord Lonmouth was not happy, Lord Strong was glaring at the Kingsguard, Laenor Velaryon was missing from the feast, and the princess and the queen shooting glares at each other. But the king’s voice was final, and that was that. The rest of the feast was quiet and subdued.

Come morning, with Mya in tow, she joined the Velaryons. They had refused the King’s offer to host them in the Red Keep and had built a veritable city of sea green tents with a seahorse banner large enough to be seen from the city. Their table was light and full of foreign fruit and the day’s catch. Corlys Velaryon, it turns out, was what passed for a health nut in this world and insisted that the people of Yi Ti lived to be one hundred by eating fish with every meal. His family did not complain, for their fish was the finest on this side of the world, made by cooks brought from unknown nations and with spices that would beggar a lesser lord. Elaena sat between Rhaenys and Laena, in front of her was Corlys but the seat next to him was empty.

“You must forgive my brother, the young knight who was injured is his friend,” Laena gently explained with a sad smile. “The maesters do not believe he will survive his injury and Laenor will not leave his side.”

“Despite orders to the contrary,” the lord of Driftmark grumbled, and his wife shot him a disapproving glance.

“We have met before, you know?” Princess Rhaenys changed the subject. “Not long after you were born, Jaehaerys commanded you father to present you to him, and you were brought to the Red Keep. We have asked Daemon about you, but that boy can be so stubborn about things.” She smiled.

“He says you are betrothed to a child-cousin,” the old lord looked her straight in the eyes. “I had thought to introduce a nephew, but your father claimed there is no interest. He of all people should understand our blood must remain pure. We are what’s left of Old Valyria and with every passing day, less and less remains,” Lord Corlys glared towards a door behind him. “This match is meant to heal wounds left open, and to once again join the great Valyrian houses of the realm. A house will be born with you, it is up to you if your blood is to remain pure or if it will thin as your line intermarries with others.”

“You must forgive father’s rant,” Laena smiled gently at her father. “He had once hoped for a Valyrian match for me, and now I’m stuck with a drunk that he can’t get rid of.” Corlys merely grunted and went back to his fish. “His father was Sealord of Braavos, but now he is just the drunk son of a former Sealord.”

Laena remained smiling, however. Her impending marriage did not seem to worry her. Corlys remained quiet for the rest of their dinner. Rhaenys asked her about Daemon as a father, since she could not imagine that “sullen boy” as one. Laena told her about Vhagar and asked about the Vale. Elaena asked about the ships owned by the Velaryons and their trade in the northern parts of the world. Velaryon ships stopped at every port of note, so these were connections she needed. Lord Corlys, however, was not in a good mood and left the table after they were done eating, having given the bare minimum of answers. Rhaenys promised her they would have another meet again soon; she had yet to meet Laenor after all.

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On the third day, the joust began. It would last for three days, and the first held matches of little consequence. Younger knights and hedge knights hoping to qualify to the next stage. She decided to skip them and instead looked for her friends. Jeyne was hosting her vassals, “adults only,” she said; but Jessamyn was hosting their friends. She sat next to Anya and heard about the sudden changes that would happen at tomorrow’s joust. Wherever Jessamyn heard of such things, no one ever knew.

In the Crownlands they liked to follow the customs of the Reach and set up their jousts in the same manner. Five champions defended the Queen of Love and Beauty’s crown, in this tourney it was Rhaenyra. Any knight could challenge a champion to try and take their place, and at the tourney’s end they would decide if they wanted to crown the same Queen, a new one, or if they would joust each other over a disagreement. The pageantry, the famous knights, the challenges and stories that were told were the main attractions to them. The Vale, proud of the individual skill of their knights and their ancient knightly customs, pitched their knights against each other until the last remaining knight was crowned champion. That way one could learn if a hedge knight was as worthy in arms as a great lord. Every lord in the Vale tried to host tourneys as oft as possible, all to bring in more skilled knights into their retinue.

However, the melee had claimed two of Rhaenyra’s five champions. Ser Harwin Strong could not ride with his broken bones and, “to the surprise of no one!” whispered Jessamyn, Ser Laenor refused to join the joust. Rhaenyra was left with three kingsguard: Ser Steffon Darklyn, Ser Willis Fell and Ser Galladon Hardy. From what Jessamyn had heard, the other knight would be another kingsguard, but the other position was a point of argument between the king’s party and Lord Corlys. The Velaryon Lord wanted his house present on the champion’s podium, and in lieu of his son had offered a nephew, one Ser Malentine. The King didn’t know Ser Malentine and had apparently insulted Lord Corlys when he asked, “how good can a sailor with a knighthood be?” quoted Jessamyn in her most accurate and potentially treasonous impression of the king.

Rhaenyra, as it turns out, did not wish to have only white cloaks as her champions and didn’t trust unknown knights to uphold her crown of Love and Beauty. So, they’d decided to suddenly change the format of the joust. The Master of the Games was running around preparing things, setting up the brackets and opening spots for the winners of today’s jousting. Rhaenrya was left championless, and she refused to give her favor to anyone else. On her wedding day, no knight would champion her cause.

“Have you given your favor to anyone, Elaena?” Jessamyn suddenly asked her. “You can be quite inattentive about things like this. It’s proper for ladies to give out their favor and have knights champion their cause,” she shot her a smug smile. “I had originally thought of allowing my brother of riding in my name, but I’ve granted him leave to ride for a young maiden from House Manderly.”

“As a matter of fact,” Elaena was well used to Jessamyn’s teasing. “I have. My sworn shield, Ser Yorwyck will ride in my name. Brotherless as you now are, who will ride in your name?” and she was close enough to Jessamyn that she felt comfortable teasing her back.

“Alas, I am forced to once more share with Jeyne,” Jessamyn replied with a dramatic sigh. “For young Ser Joffrey Arryn, Jeyne’s cousin, will uphold the honor of his ladies,” at the knight’s mention, Lanna Belmore blushed prettily. And Jessamyn noticed with a wide smile. “Little Lanna here is half in love with him, tall, blonde and blue eyed. Though I do believe my brother has him beat in horsemanship.”

Unable to dodge her other side of the family forever, Elaena was sitting between Rhaenyra and Laena Velaryon the second day of the joust. Neither girl had a champion, Rhaenyra having lost hers and Laena claiming that “horse games do not interest her.” That statement, however, proved false after the first clash. Laena was observing every move of the jousters, she would comment on the quality of their horses and the advantage that a certain kind of stirrup, just developed in the Westerlands, gave its riders. When Ser Yorwyck unmounted the younger son of the Lord of Feastfires she resolved to acquire his saddle, for the good of Runestone.

Ser Yorwyck eventually fell to another knight from the Westerlands, who would go on to unhorse Ser Criston Cole in the white cloak’s first tilt of the day, Ser Joffrey Arryn and Lord Boremund Baratheon and his son. During the break for supper, the skill of the knight was the center of most conversations. Young Ser Lorent Marbrand was a second son and had reached a respectable fifth spot in the melee and had unhorsed tournament favorite Ser Criston Cole. There was an open spot in the Kingsguard, after a chill had taken old Ser Clement Crabb and the young Westerman seemed poised to earn a white cloak.

When the tourney began again, the clashes began rising in quality, as the skill of the remaining riders was put on full display. When the day was done, eight knights remained: Ser Byron Redfort, Ser Waymar Waynwood, Ser Steffon Darklyn, Ser Galladon Hardy, Ser Lorent Marbrand, Lord Marwyn Florent, Ser Adrian Tarbeck and Ser Simon Storm, the Griffin’s Bastard. Coin began passing hands and Jeyne even bet on Ser Byron, though Jessamyn favored the Stormknight and bet against her own brother.

During that night’s feast she was escorted by the king himself. He introduced her to as many lords as he could, it seemed the king had a gift for remembering faces. But Rhaenyra’s warning had rung true, Lord Jasper Wylde loved the sound of his own voice and his breath stunk. He didn’t speak to her, completely ignoring her, but spent most of the night talking to the king. Unable to stand it any longer, she took her leave of the king and sat next to Rhaenyra, who was playing with her food and ignoring the festivities. The sit to her left was empty, Ser Laenor still at the side of Joffrey Lonmouth.

“That knight over there,” Elaena pointed at a rivermen. “He paid his opponent’s squire to loosen his knight’s saddle so he could make it to the second day,” she was using Jessamyn’s gossip in an effort to lift Rhaenyra’s spirits. “He paid fifty gold dragons for it and has made almost thrice that in ransoms and has received an offer from Lord Mooton,” Rhaenyra seemed interested, looking her straight in the eyes and nodding. “That other one,” a knight with a green huntsman on red. “Was forced to take a fall so his trueborn brother would not be shamed. That hedge knight over there is known all over the Vale for his skills, and for having a wife in every city of note from Dorne to the Neck.”

“You know much about knights, Elaena,” Rhaenyra smirked and leaned in close to her. “Tell me more. What about that one?” She pointed with her fork at a young man, drinking heavily, wearing the colors of House Lannister, though lacking the look.

“Ser Myles Lannister, a distant cousin who had to pay his horse’s weight in gold to be able to accompany Lord Jason,” Jessamyn had complained she didn’t have distant relations she could steal money from. “He lost his horse and armor to a hedge knight and Lord Jason has told him he must walk back to the Rock.”

“He did not!” Rhaenyra laughed, a bright and melodious sound. “I knew the man was an arse, but did not expect such cruelty.” She took a long drink off her cup of wine. “You know the most wicked tales, I’ve half a mind to make you my lady-in-waiting, then you could attend to me and tell me all sorts of stories,” a dark sneer broke her smile. “Her Grace would love that, Elinda heard from one of her maids that she intends to find you a proper match for a lady of her station with one of her cronies,” a sad smile. “You are better off in the Vale, for now. When you marry however,” there came a bigger smile. “Then you can come and be one of my ladies. Now, tell me about that bald one over there.”

They spent some time talking and laughing about the misdeeds of this or that knight. Suddenly, however, the musicians began playing some song about a bear and a fair and Rhaenyra stood up and grabbed her by the hand. “Come, this is my favorite song!” and dragged her away to join the circle dance. Elaena, confused, danced as drunk knights and ladies shouted out “THE BEAR! THE BEAR!” The king himself was happily clapping with every verse and drinking with his friends whenever the bear did something. When the song ended, a breathless Rhaenyra declared it was far too late for young maidens and, with a white cloak close behind, escorted her back to her rooms. The king, too drunk to notice, did not seem to notice them leave.

“Who do you think I should bet on?” Rhaenyra suddenly asked when they reached Elaena’s door. “I had intended to bet some coin on Harwin, or Laenor and make his father happy, but I know little about knights and care little for jousts,” she seemed deep in thought. “It’s improper for ladies to gamble, says Her Grace, you know?” Rhaenyra laughed at her cousin’s sigh, Elaena was beginning to realize that if Alicent said left, then Rhaenyra went right.

“Ser Lorent rode masterfully, he is strong on his seat and that Westerman saddle of his is an advantage. Ser Adrian shares the saddle but is not as sure a horseman. The Griffin’s Bastard has something to prove, but he leaves himself open to strike, and an experienced jouster will take advantage of that. Lord Florent is lucky to be there, having gone through many easy opponents. Byron Redfort is skilled, but I do not believe he will be able to claim victory. The knights of the Kingsguard are able riders all, but better swords than lances I reckon,” Rhaenyra’s eyebrows betrayed her surprise, Ser Galladon Hardy, their escort, was equally surprised.

“You are quite knowledgeable, my lady,” the knight commented.

“Thank you, ser, and good fortune tomorrow,” Elaena smiled at the compliment, they did not need to know that for years she had seen the knights of Runestone practice every single day. “Thank you for your company, Rhaenyra,” she turned to enter her room, when the princess took her hand and kissed her on the corner of the lips.

“You must join my box tomorrow, we’ll see if Ser Lorent deserves your praise,” Rhaenyra’s smile became wider when she saw her cousin redden and entered her own rooms. Ser Galladon merely sighed and mumbled something too low to hear.

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The last day of jousting was the most pompous. The stands for nobility were full, and many lords held their children on their laps or on their shoulders. Commoners had arrived in droves to watch the best knights face each other. Elaena sat in the king’s box, which was thankfully not as packed as others. Rhaenyra had claimed the seat to her right for her, but the one to the left remained empty—Laenor would not come.

The first match was between Ser Byron and Lord Florent, they passed each other three times before the Fox Lord was pushed off his horse and the young Redfort knight claimed victory. Next came a duel between white brothers, Ser Steffon and Ser Galladon broke eight lances until Ser Steffon caught the older Ser Galladon on the shoulder and forced him off his horse. Ser Waymar Waynwood faced Ser Adrian Tarbeck, they broke six lances until Ser Waymar’s lance struck true and threw the Westerman to the ground. Ser Lorent faced the bastard of Griffin’s Roost and after just two passes forced him off his horse after he left himself open.

Ser Simon asked to continue with a contest of arms, and with a shout of “A Griffin! A Griffin!” threw himself at his opponent, leading to an exciting show of sword skill from both men. After nearly five minutes of swordplay, Ser Lorent managed to force Ser Simon to surrender, leading to cheering from the nobles’ stands; but when Ser Simon stood, it was the commoners who cheered the loudest. The commoners always cheered the most for hedge knights and bastards. From what Jessamyn had heard, Lord Connington’s young new wife was forcing her husband to expel his much older bastard for he was a threat to her three young sons and the bastard had come to the tourney, seeking a household that would receive him. Elaena decided to gamble on him and had Ser Yorwyck extend him an invitation to join them at Runestone.

Ser Byron next fell to Ser Steffon and Ser Waymar to Ser Lorent. The remaining Vale knights had been eliminated, eliciting visible disappointment from the Vale lords in the stands, Jeyne herself throwing her arms into the air and shouting along with some of her louder vassals. In the last match, Ser Lorent faced Ser Steffon of the Kingsguard. After eight broken lances, Ser Lorent claimed victory to the cheers of many. Rhaenyra smiled at Elaena, and then smirked towards Jasper Wylde, who was very likely several gold dragons poorer.

Ser Lorent, with the Crown of Love and Beauty in hand, kneeled before the King’s Box and offered it up to Princess Rhaenyra.

“A great showing, ser,” the princess accepted her crown. “The white swords are always looking for the greatest knights, and I believe this tournament shows that you are in their company. Wouldn’t you say, father?”

“A great proposition, Rhaenyra!” Viserys stood and asked for silence. “Ser Lorent, what say you?”

“It would be the greatest honor, Your Grace, Princess,” now helmetless, tears could be seen in Ser Lorent’s eyes.

“Good, Ser Criston, tell him his oaths and give him a cloak,” King Viserys began clapping, which began a storm of cheers. “Today we celebrate my daughter’s impending marriage, three days from now you will stand vigil and take your oaths, ser.”

The joust was over, and it was a resounding success, tales would be told for years to come. Both good and bad. The next day, at midday, Rhaenyra Targaryen would marry Laenor Velaryon in the Great Sept atop Visenya’s Hill. As Elaena was leaving back to her chambers, Laena approached her and invited her to break their fast together on the morning of the wedding, she wanted to introduce her to Laenor.

That morning, Elaena woke before dawn alongside her ladies, and they got to work on her dress. Mya had ingratiated herself with many maids and ladies and could confidently say that none, but the princess herself, would overshadow her lady. Laena Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys might have more expensive silks, but didn’t have a seamstress half as skilled as Mother Maggy. Queen Alicent was wearing a more modest green dress. Rhaenyra’s dress was made of black silk, it had masterfully embroidered three-headed red dragons, with rubies sewn into the cloth. A long cloak of Targaryen colors trailed behind her; it had been the cloak that King Viserys draped over Queen Aemma’s shoulders.

Dressed, and escorted by her ladies, Ser Yorwyck and Ser Simon Storm, who had agreed to enter her service, she left the castle to join the Velaryons. Laena received her alone, her parents had already left to prepare the sept. She took her by the hand and led her to a tent full of maesters. Ser Joffrey Lonmouth laid in a cot, struggling to breathe, and Laenor Velaryon wept silently at his side, holding his hand. Before Laena could announce their presence, Ser Laenor nodded at a maester, who bought a cup full of a white liquid to Ser Joffrey’s mouth. Ser Joffrey’s broken body drank what Elaena now knew was the milk of the poppy, and he breathed his last. Laenor merely closed his eyes and remained quiet. After six days of pain, Joffrey Lonmouth was dead.

“Come Laenor,” Laena helped him to his feet and hugged him. “I’ve brought our cousin to meet you, and you have to get ready for your wedding.”

“Yes, I’m going,” Ser Laenor hugged his sister, then he hugged Elaena. “Cousin,” and left the tent to dress himself.

Elaena was shocked, she didn’t know why Laena brought her here, and she didn’t comment on it as they broke their fast with sweet grapes and a warm tea that Corlys brought from Leng. Laena was quiet for a long time, before speaking about Vhagar and the joy of flying. She, and a squadron of Velaryon knights, escorted Elaena and company to the sept, where they sat at the front and waited for the wedding to begin. All that Elaena could remember from the ceremony was Laenor’s weeping.

The feast after the wedding held another surprise. Her father arrived midway through it. He silently walked to the dais and smiled at Viserys, who, with a tired sigh signaled a servant, who then brough a chair. Daemon, noticing his daughter, sat next to her and began to quietly eat. Elaena just stared at him, but he refused to look at her. When the singers began playing an old song from the Vale, her father took her hand and danced with her. That was her only dance of the wedding, but her father danced twice with Laena Velaryon, and once with Rhaenyra—who seemed to be both happy, and upset, that Daemon had arrived.

The next day, wishing to return home, Elaena said goodbyes to everyone and ordered her ship prepared. Before she left, Lord Manderly sought her out, gifted her bolts of silk to thank her for telling them about Ser Byron Redfort, who was now betrothed to his daughter. Daemon didn’t speak to her once, disappearing into the city after the feast and nowhere to be found, but Caraxes accompanied their ship until they left Blackwater Bay.

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And that's the wedding. I decided to just rush the ceremony itself, the trade of cloaks, the oaths, all of that, since what matters is that Laenor is grieving and Rhaenyra doesn't really want to marry him.
Say what you will about Criston Cole, but he has one skill and is very good at it. I flip-flopped on the tourney's format and who would win, and opted to create a new kingsguard, one of Rhaenyra's future supporters. Ser Galladon will eventually die off-screen, along another guard, opening two spots for the Cargyll twins.

On Rhaenyra: as I was writing I wasn't sure if I was making her also attracted to women, attracted to Daemon (and what she saw of him in Elaena), and decided to go for the middle-ground. Elaena is too young and Rhaenyra wouldn't do anything, but she blushes easily which made it fun for Rhaenyra to tease her.

Corlys spent most of his time angry about his son's absence, but that's a connection made and one that Elaena will keep up with. Seeing Joffrey's death made an impact, Laena has seen death before so she didn't think anything of taking Elaena with her. She's got contacts, information, made herself known among nobles outside and is old enough now that she'll be able to start changing things at Runestone.

I like to imagine that Daemon arrived from the start but decided to only show up at the feast.

Next up, animal husbandry.
Thanks for reading.

Chapter Text

(AN: I made a mistake last chapter, Joffrey Lonmouth’s wasn’t the first death she witnessed in this new world so I’m changing up what it was about that death that shocked her, beyond the dying itself. Thanks!)
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114 AC

Elaena’s return found her routine greatly changed. In their absence, Ser Yorwyck’s father had fallen greatly ill, so he had to return home to take up the defense of the mountain passes. When her mother asked for her opinion, she chose Ser Simon Storm—a knight with no loyalties to any other Royce. Ser Simon was young and skilled at arms, he looked a Connington in every way, with his short red hair and bright blue eyes. His father had been married three times, with his first two wives giving him no children; the third, half her age, had given him three sons in as many years and now worried their older half-brother had designs on their inheritance. Ser Simon had been forced away from the only home he knew and sought a new one by relying on his skill with a sword.

Joining Elaena were also her new ladies. Mya, Barbrey, Cella and Delia would remain at her side from now on. They had been granted rooms close to her and joined her in her day’s activities. Her cousin Mya, glad to be back with her children, proved to be as responsible in Runestone as she was in King’s Landing. She oversaw the other girls, Elaena’s maids and the servants in charge of Elaena’s needs. Just like Gerold, she seemed concerned over her husband Jon’s lack of drive and skills and worried about his future in Runestone. Barbrey Roncey had become enamored with court life, the quality of the food, the beauty of the dresses and, particularly, the beauty of the dress she had been given for the wedding. Out of all of them, she was the most serious at embroidery and used scraps of cloth in her free time to make clothes; she was resolved on becoming a great seamstress. Delia Mallet was betrothed to a man as old as her father, she had been promised to him from the day she was born and would be married to him as soon as she flowered. Delia claimed her father had promised her hand to a landed knight, a vassal to House Royce, to one day see their blood as landed knights. She seemed to have accepted her fate, but Delia Mallet was a shy girl who rarely spoke her mind. Cella Tollet was the youngest of three sisters, their father was the younger brother of Lord Tollet. Cella’s oldest sister was married to their third cousin, Humfrey Tollet, heir of the knightly Tollets, the second sister was an initiate in one of the motherhouses in Gulltown. Cella, from their very first meeting, looked up to Elaena. She was the only lady to join her when making pottery.

The biggest change, however, was the nightmares. Every night she dreamt the same thing. Joffrey Lonmouth twitching in the ground, with blood and brain matter pouring out of his head and Laenor Velaryon, in his wedding silks, crying at his side. Without being able to move or do anything, she’d stand there watching as Joffrey quickly turned into bones and dust, leaving nothing behind. She would then wake up, sweating in the middle of the night, with no other recourse beyond trying to fall back asleep. And that could take hours, alone with her thoughts as she was. Life was fragile, and cheap for most in the games of the powerful—Criston Cole had killed the son of a lord and had been rewarded by the Queen. Those who rebelled against Jeyne were executed; did they have their own Laenors? Did people cry for them as well? And the laws were clear, one day she would have to sentence criminals, and give justice to the victims. She would have to harden her heart; forget what the person from before would have done and embrace what Elaena Targaryen and Royce will have to do. She knew she would remember Laenor crying for the rest of her days, and when the day came that she’d have to pass the sentence, all she’d see would be Laenor. Life was cheap and death was ever present.
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Convincing her mother to purchase sheep was easier than she thought. Her mother enjoyed horse breeding and took great pleasure when a Royce knight riding one of her horses claimed victory in a tournament. She understood what Elaena wanted to do and approved of her daughter desiring to bring fortune to their house. The Northern house they had the likeliest connection to were the Boltons: Gunthor had married one, Gerold’s mother. After discussing it with both her mother and Gerold, they decided that sending Jon to purchase the sheep was the best option. He was kinsmen to House Bolton and wasn’t doing anything important in Runestone. They shipped him off with a set of letters and instructions, a bag with coins and a fat-bellied ship with enough room for around twenty rams. Elaena made sure to remind him, on four separate occasions, that he was to buy only rams and the younger, the better. By the fourth time, Jon could quote her instructions from memory. She had had a shepherd from the closest village brought to accompany Ser Jon, who better to pick the rams, she reasoned. Gerold had gotten his father to affix his signature to a letter that would go ahead to the Dreadfort and warn them of the incoming ship—Jon had been sent with a couple of ravens in case the Boltons desired something other than coin.

Ser Jon left from the Royce port towards the Weeping Water on a clear morning. That same day a raven arrived announcing the pregnancy of Princess Rhaenyra. King Viserys, in his apparent excitement, had sent forth messages to all corners of the realm, asking for candles to be lit in the mother’s altar and for septons to organize ceremonies for her health. Letters with the same message were apparently also sent to houses that still followed the Old Gods. Said by sailors, heard by servants and whispered to Rhea and Elaena was that Laenor Velaryon, atop his dragon Seasmoke, had returned to Driftmark soon after the wedding and had been seen flying around the island almost daily. Elaena already knew what would happen, but for everyone else it would be news.

A few days later, accompanied by Gerold and Ser Simon, she set out to the closest villages to choose ewes for her breeding project. She’d start with the closest villages, and once she had bred sheep with large, and quality, wool yields, she’d start sending rams to every village sworn to House Royce. She thought of ordering every ram of the previous breed castrated, and having the sheep gifted during the shearing be exclusively one of those. She had to, however, seek a breed from faraway lands. She wanted to introduce traits from different sheep from faraway, not just Westerosi.

In every village she asked the locals which young ewes produced the most wool. She took the time to explain to the shepherds what she wanted to do and was thankfully surprised they not only understood what she wanted to do but approved as well. The sheep belonged to House Royce, as did the wool, but the workers got paid for the amount of wool, and its quality, by the spinners in the towns. Gerold told her of a contract written nearly six hundred years ago where every village granted sheep by House Royce was expected to provide a certain amount of wool depending on the number of sheep in their flock, and any extra they could bring would be paid for. She passed through six villages and selected around thirty ewes per village, tying a piece of cloth around the selected villages. These were the villagers’ pride, after hearing them boast about the best animals in their flocks she resolved to organize competitions and give prizes to the best sheep, the best crops, the best everything, inviting every village.

She knew she’d have to inbreed her sheep to create a breed. She hoped whatever marriage kept Targaryens healthy after so many brother-sister marriages also applied to sheep. It’d probably take three years, she reckoned. She wanted to start as soon as possible but also wanted to have every breed from the start and had honestly very little idea about the east. Myr made tapestries, carpets and lace, and Norvos also made tapestries. She knew Braavos disliked dealing with slavers, so they purchased cloth coming out of Gulltown and White Harbor. But as for the other cities? She’d have to find out. She also needed help to bring the sheep over; her father and Corlys Velaryon were friends, and this was probably the best time to get help from Corlys, he’s probably thrilled that Rhaenyra is pregnant.

The day after choosing the ewes she left for Gulltown. If anyone knew where in Essos sheep were bred, then it was someone in a port city. Ser Simon, who was just getting to know the guards and knights, picked an escort for her, and they set out to the city. The reign of King Jaehaerys had brought peace and prosperity to most corners of the realm, and the travels and wealth of Corlys had connected the Seven Kingdoms to distant markets. Gulltown was one of the closest cities to Driftmark and a regular stop for ships coming from the Shivering Sea. Ships from faraway lands came seeking cloth, candles and the bounty of the Vale.

Gulltown had two walls. An outer wall surrounded the city and had been built by the Graftons ages past and the remains of an older inner wall, which was said to have been built by the Shett kings of old, that was used by many Gulltowners to save costs when building their homes. Grafton keep overlooked the harbor from the west, the Gull Tower of House Shett overlooked it from the east. They entered through the east gate, which was held by distant cousin Ser Waymar Royce who’d named a son Gunthor and another Arnold, making his loyalties clear. The cleverly named East Street, just as North and West Streets, was a straight street led to the city center. The three streets joined there, and a wider street led from the center to the docks. East Street was a cobbled street, stone town houses lined the street and, in the city center, gave way to the manors of Vale nobility. The city center had a large white stone fountain of King Maegor, of all people. It had been many years since then, and many now hated the Cruel King, but amongst the nobles of the Vale he was still respected for his strength and the manner in which he dealt with the kinslayer Jonos Arryn. The Lord of Gulltown had once thought of replacing the statue in the fountain, particularly after a visit by Jaehaerys and Alysanne, but the cost was too great and Gulltowners claimed the cruel king kept the clansmen away. Overlooking the fountain, and the largest voice arguing for its removal, was the Great Sept of Gulltown, built from the same white stone as the Eyrie.

Smaller streets branched out from the city center, leading to market squares, inns, workshops, warehouses and homes; the various workshops grouped together along their respective streets. The further away you got from the main streets, you found more wooden buildings and humbler houses. Elaena and her party moved to the Market of the Seamstresses. Permanently built in front of their Guild House, on a side street lined with seamstress workshops and ending at the docks, the Market of the Seamstress was the heart of Gulltown. The fame of the seamstresses of Gulltown reached beyond Westeros. Many noblewomen from the other kingdoms seek dresses made in Gulltown, Braavosi merchants that stop at Gulltown often purchase bolts of cloth to take back home to sell, traders out of Driftmark carry cloth and dresses to faraway lands.

The Seamstresses Guild was a solidly built stone manor. It only took Ser Simon announcing who she was to get a meeting with the guild mistress. Palla had taken up the post after Mother Maggy retired. She was a heavier woman, close to sixty. Her workshop was one of the wealthiest, and she had even been invited to the Eyrie to work on Queen Aemma’s wedding dress. She had shaky hands, from a lifetime of drinking, so she’d left all seamstress work to her daughters and dedicated herself to her Guild work. Elaena asked her about where Gulltown purchased its wool, and if she knew where else in the world there was abundant wool. Palla, to Elaena’s fortune, was quite knowledgeable.

“Of course I can tell you, m’lady,” she grabbed some samples of yarn to show her. “This ‘ere comes from Vale flocks, from Runestone and Strongsong and the Fingers. This ’ere other one is from Northern sheep, more common in winter when they start to sell their stock to purchase more grain. Vale wool feels better on the skin, but Northern is thicker and warmer. This other one comes from the Reach, not as good as Vale wool of course, but still good enough. We don’t get much from the Reach but merchants out of Oldtown will still come from time to time. Now this ‘ere, wool from the Hills of Andalos, where the Seven came down to crown Hugor, ‘tis not good wool I’m afraid, rough and coarse, but septons and others of their kind like it. We don’t get much of this one, what with the war, but ‘tis wool from Myr, see the shine? Feel it, ‘tis rough and firm. This is what they make their tapestries from,” she reached to the very back of a shelf. “And this comes from some place east of Lorath, we get even less of that. But ‘tis also good for tapestry making. Those whalers out of Ib make clothes out of their own wool, but we don’t buy it,” she closed her eyes as if remembering. “I worked it once, ‘tis like Northern wool but I prefer Northern, ‘tis softer.”

Elaena thanked her, bought spools of every kind but Vale-wool, and left for home. The journey back was spent deep in thought. She knew not how much wool the sheep from all those places grew, but she knew what feel she wanted. She wanted the sheep that came east of Lorath and mayhaps the ones from Ib. They ought to have similar climates. She decided she’d make two breeds, one for cloth and one for tapestries. Velaryon merchant ships likely sailed the Shivering Sea, and a raven to Corlys Velaryon might ensure his assistance in acquiring the sheep from its coasts. She would breed for quantity and quality.

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115 AC

Jon did an alright job in the North. The current Lord Bolton, Walton, was very old and thankfully still fondly remembered his late niece who married a Royce. He received Jon as a long lost relative, feasted him and had his heirs take him hunting. However, he haggled for the rams. He accepted the gold but also wanted Royce crops during winter. He desired for shipments of grain to go up the Weeping Water and, through ravens, haggled how much grain with Rhea. Ser Jon finally arrived after the new year with twenty young rams, strong and with thick wool. Northern sheep had bigger horns and shorter ears than their Vale counterparts. Now all that remained were the Velaryons, Corlys had agreed to help her and lent her two of his trading ships, though Rhea claimed he’d eventually claim his price. One of his ships was heading to Ibben, the other to some distant kingdom called Omber.

Breeding began in the chosen villages. The ewes accepted the Northern rams and soon enough they had new lambs. She often travelled to the villages to observe them and hear the shepherd’s explanations on how they were different from the others. Some six moons later, they began growing their wool. The crossbred sheep were slightly larger and had inherited the Northern breed’s curly horns. The rams who produced the most wool were chosen to breed with the ewes that produced the most.

When the shearing festival came, and the first shear of the new sheep, the villagers watched carefully as the wool was measured and cleaned. The new breed’s wool was noticeably thicker and as soft as the Vale sheep’s wool. She thought it was too soon to tell, but the villagers were certain of which rams were the best. They wanted to introduce the rams to the rest of the flock, but Elaena wanted to wait for another generation, and her word was final. They would introduce new ewes to the Northern rams and have the best of the new rams breed with their sisters and cousins. The Vale rams had the misfortune of being the gift to the villages.

Her little betrothed, Andar age eight, began accompanying her to the villages—likely at his mother’s insistence, fearing the marriage would not come to be. He had been pestering Ser Simon for some time, wanting to squire for him. His mother would then loudly complain that a bastard knight was not fit for “the future lord of Runestone”. Ser Simon merely remained quiet, and if asked for his opinion he would say that he needed no squire. Andar spent his time in the village playing at knights with the local children, chasing after the lambs and following Ser Simon whenever he got bored. Andar rarely spoke to her, preferring the company of children his own age; but, when forced to by his mother, he’d call her “his lady wife-to-be”, to his mother’s nodding approval.

Her own mother told her it was already a successful venture, the new sheep gave out more wool, and insisted she take a break and enjoy herself for a while. It would be some time before the next generation was born and her new sheep arrived. She accepted her mother’s words and locked herself in her pottery workshop. She wanted to make a bronze statue.

She had clay, and plaster to make her mold. After his trip to the North, and his father’s orders, Jon had become her errand boy—being sent here and there on her orders. So now he was sent to Gulltown to buy wax for her. Relying on her memory, she had been making a bust of her grandfather, Yorbert. She showed her mother, who agreed it was her father’s likeness. With wax and bronze at hand she began her work. She acquired Ser Jon’s assistance as well as the castle’s smith, Pate.

With their help she made a plaster mold of her clay Yorbert. Pate then poured hot wax on the mold, and once it cooled, she added in the details to it—the lines around his eyes that always crinkled when remembering Runestone, the hairs of his beard and eyebrows, the scar below his ear. She added channels made of wax and bronze pins. And once more covered the entire thing with plaster, inside and outside the bust. She added it to her kiln and waited for it to harden.

Her mother, who had already made space in her office for the finished bust, had left for one of her usual hawking trips. Pate was pouring molten bronze into her mold, when riders brought her mother. Her horse had gotten spooked by something and she’d fallen and hit her head on a rock. Maester Rookwill began shouting orders to the servants and sending his assistant to bring him this and that. Upon seeing Rhea, unresponsive, Septa Mallory collapsed. Elaena didn’t understand what was happening. Just a week past, Ser Jorah had sent a raven about a pirate stronghold that Prince Daemon was storming. Her father wasn’t there to kill her mother. Rhaenyra's wedding had already passed and her mother had still been alive, was her death unavoidable?

For six days her mother did not wake. Elaena and Septa Mallory, who had suffered a nasty fall, did not leave her side. They lit candles to the Seven, prayed together at her bedside, fed her with milk and honey and had even brought beds to her mother’s room. Elaena knew how lack of hygiene killed, so she’d commanded for the servants to clean her mother’s room daily and change her sheets daily. Maester Rookwill cleaned her head wound but despaired upon seeing the cracked skull. He had seen strong men killed by wounds such as those. He removed the fragments of bone that he could and, after feeding Rhea some milk of the poppy, nailed a small circle of bronze to her skull, covering her brain.

On the seventh day, Rhea opened her eyes. With a weak voice she asked for water. She tried to stand up, but maester Rookwill refused to allow her to do so. She had a fever and felt numb. During that night she began moaning in pain, so the maester gave her milk of the poppy. On the eighth day, she cried for her mother and her father. Elaena ordered Ser Jon and Pate to open the plaster mold, remove the pins, polish the statue and bring it to her. During the afternoon, they brought the bust to her. Rhea smiled at her father’s likeness and went to sleep.

On the ninth day, she said she felt better and stood from her bed. Both Elaena and Maester Rookwill tried to stop her, but she was tired of the bed and Runestone needed her. She ordered a breakfast of mutton and bacon prepared and went to her office. However, after eating, she collapsed shaking and stopped breathing. Her mother was dead. Septa Mallory began wailing and tearing at her hair. Ser Gerold claimed it was murder and grabbed the maester, Maester Rookwill, pale as a sheet, began shaking his head. Ser Gunthor, hearing the commotion, picked up his niece’s body and took her back to her bed, silent and solemn. Elaena followed behind him, as Ser Gerold dropped the maester and rushed behind his father. Seeing her mother’s unmoving body in her bed, Elaena, Lady of Runestone, wept.

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Sheep begin arriving at the Vale, and they are starting to breed. Added a bit of sheep worldbuilding, I've an idea of how I want the final sheep to look like, but that'll come later. Off-screen, Jace was born and probably provoked a lot of drama that Elaena doesn't want to get involved in. But Corlys was happy enough to lend a hand, and postpone payment.

And well...
Change comes to Runestone, she only knows the show, so this came a bit as a surprise to her. Was it murder as Ser Gerold thinks? or was it merrely an accident? Up next, Regency and troubles inside House Royce.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

115 AC

He was free. He would have kissed the messenger if his breath hadn’t stunk. After many long years chained to his Bronze Bitch, Daemon Targaryen was finally free. He had tried to get rid of that marriage, but that cunt Hightower kept whispering in his brother’s ear that since the marriage had been consummated before their Seven, it was unbreakable. Damen the Seven-damned gods of the Andals and their primitive ways. Any halfway respectable place east of the Narrow Sea allowed divorce, but his family had gone native and turned into Andals. His grandmother had forced the marriage, and his brother’s needs had forced his hand. But she was dead now. He was free.

He was tired of the Stepstones, with its pirates and smugglers that refused to fight and merely hid on caves. And now Tyrosh was outfitting a new fleet, how they managed to do so he would love to know. He had lost many men, Corlys had lost many ships. The old sea rogue had claimed that controlling the islands would give them control of trade and make them even wealthier; however, they didn’t expect how much work keeping the damned islands was. Smugglers dodged their patrols, slavers attacked their camps, pirates went after Velaryon merchant ships and now the Dornish. He had conquered his kingdom, forged it with Fire and Blood, but the enemy was still there, hiding in their caves like rats. He was tired, they spent more coin than they got out of the Stepstones. The Triarchy was preparing something, he knew, Ryndoon was just the start, and their new friends in Dorne were proving much more resilient than the pirates ever did. Corlys wouldn’t be able to complain, he had to take care of his orphan daughter, and Caraxes could do little against cave-dwelling Dornishmen and their love of poison. His ancestors should have finished burning seven-damned Dorne to the ground.

He gave the command, told his men to go home. Got on his dragon and abandoned his kingdom. If Corlys wanted to keep the two islands remaining to them, he could send more men and more ships. Runestone was his daughter’s now; if he didn’t hate life in the Vale as much he’d have seriously considered staying there. Runestone had some wealth, however, he could do great things with that wealth. Dorne and the Triarchy would probably fight each other over control of the islands soon, and he would be ready. His daughter was sure to fulfill her filial obligations and provide him with funding.

He flew without stopping to Dragonstone. Rhaenyra did not live in the fortress that Viserys had taken from him, remaining at court. He ordered the Dragonkeepers to look after Caraxes and went into his old rooms to sleep. After so long of what passed for food in the Stepstones, Dragonstone’s fare was welcomed reprieve. He packed some old clothes for the funeral of his Bronze Bitch and set out for Runestone. He had made good time to the Vale, but he wasn’t the first to arrive. Jeyne Arryn was already there, with her wife and their ladies. Andals were truly backwards, he thought with a smirk, in the east no one cared if a woman had a lady lover but here, the Arryn woman was hiding it, and badly at that.

His daughter received him with bread and salt and commanded one of her servants to show him his rooms. She was usually a girl of few expressions, but her mother’s death seemed to have exacerbated that. He had seen her last during Rhaenyra’s wedding, though they did not speak. When he’d first seen his daughter after she was born, he’d briefly thought that Royce had given him horns, but that silver streak soon corrected that belief. And as she grew, she looked less and less like her Andal mother and more like one from his family. Tall and slender, like him, she now came up right below his chin. She had his nose and cheekbones. The shape of her mouth brought back memories from one of his aunts, though he couldn’t quite place which one. Even her hair, though brown like her mother’s, had a certain shine to it that made it look like polished bronze. The only other things she had from his Bronze Bitch were the grey eyes and wide hips, not common on the woman of his family. She had grown into a comely girl, which he approved of, the seed was clearly strong and she was more him than her mother.

Most of the Vale lords made the journey to Runestone. A letter from Rhaenyra had arrived offering her condolences, and those of Viserys, and lamented her absence. Rhaenyra was with child again. He had not met the brat yet and there was already another on the way. He was not welcome in Runestone, the many relatives of his wife looked at him with barely veiled contempt. Even the brat that was betrothed to his daughter glared at him. He was used to contempt and the bronze-mongers meant nothing to him.

His daughter spent the entire funeral clinging to Arryn and her companions. Andal funerals were dull affairs, with droning septons and an excessive use of incense that offended the senses. A feast, a burial with her ancestors, and it was done. The lords began leaving; Arryn was last of all, glaring at him whenever their eyes met. She even had the gall to threaten him, a prince! Any harm coming to Runestone and Elaena would see him expelled from the Vale, never to be welcomed again. He was tempted to do something, but not even Viserys would forgive him for touching the Warden of the East.

Once everyone left, his daughter finally approached him.

“Father,” she had a soft voice. “I need speak with you where none can hear.” She led him to her new offices, where a bust of Yorbert Royce sat next to a newly made one of Rhea Royce. His Bronze Bitch was now bronze, he laughed, though stopped when his daughter sat and looked him in the eyes.

“I need a regent,” she began. “Maester Rookwill claims Ser Gunthor has the strength at arms to defend my seat, he also claims Ser Gerold an able administrator.” She took a deep breath. “I trust none of them,” her hands began shaking. “He did not even wait for my mother’s body to be cold before he sent for all his cronies. The castle is full of distant relations, and none I care for.” Her old sworn shield had come for the funeral but had long since left back to his castle.

“You need me,” a smile touched his lips. “Who better to defend your rights than dear old father.” He took his own seat, leaning back. “Sweet Jeyne Arryn warned me away.”

“She is my friend and worries for me,” she smiled, he didn’t remember her ever smiling. “I do not need a regent to look over the taxes, count the coppers, care for the flocks or direct the servants. I need a warrior to defend my rights, to keep my uncles at bay and meet any challenge to my rule.” Her grey eyes, cold eyes he realized, locked with his. “I neither need nor want a regent to rule in my name, and that is all that Gunthor wants. He would convince the knights he is a better fit for my seat and expel me from the castle, when Jeyne would march to set things right, he would attempt to place his goodson on the Weirwood throne and when you hear of all of this, I expect you would come and burn them all. Burn my home,” she muttered angrily. “I will not have it, Runestone is mine.”

Daemon was pleasantly surprised at her anger; his daughter was a dragon after all. He stood to look around him as he thought. The bronze busts over the fireplace, a sword of Valyrian steel that hung in the wall behind her, shelves full of scrolls and books, tapestries of some forgotten king and a dragon egg. The egg he had placed on her cradle, long ago turned into stone just like his. He was not welcome in King’s Landing; at least not welcome the way he wanted. Rhaenyra had been married off to the son of Corlys, of all people. Whatever chests of gold he once had, had long been spent on the Stepstones. All that remained to Daemon Targaryen were his name, his sword and his daughter. As per their marriage contract, any child of theirs who inherited Runestone would do so with the name Royce, but he didn’t care: she would always be a Targaryen.

“I’ll be your regent, Elaena,” her eyes relaxed. “But I wish to know, whatever will you do to dear uncle Ser Bronze Giant.” He wanted to know what this daughter of his was willing to do.

“Do to him?” Elaena doubted, briefly, before her eyes hardened. She thought of his words, of her mother, of Ser Osfryd and his son Ser Arnold and Gerold Royce, of Maester Rookwill always at her uncle’s side. “If the Gods are kind, he dies like he lived, fighting the Mountain Clans. If they are unkind and he moves against me, being kin will not stay my hand.”

Daemon Targaryen smiled, told his daughter to grab the Valyrian Steel sword, the symbol of the Lord of Runestone, and to follow him. In the Yard, where the sounds of Caraxes could be heard, he summoned the household and the many Royces to hear his words.

“My beloved daughter has lost her mother,” he stared at Ser Gunthor. “Elaena Targaryen, your new ruling lady, has asked for my support on these difficult times, my support as regent.” Whispers and grumbling, but with a wave of his hand and a roar of Caraxes they quieted down. “I expect your full cooperation in assisting my daughter during this most trying of times, your support of my dear daughter and of me, your new Lord Regent,” a loud rumble came from Caraxes, and a smiling Daemon looked over his audience. “You are dismissed.”

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Being regent was not the most exciting thing. He discovered that his distaste for the Vale wasn’t merely due to his Bronze Bitch, but the land itself repulsed him. His daughter, it turns out, was entirely devoted to her lordship. She woke up early, looked at ledgers with the maester, had lessons with the old septa, then went to lessons with the maester, looked at more ledgers and met with petitioners. Her mother had turned her into a pious and diligent lady. Daemon thought that if Uncle Vaegon and Aunt Maegelle had had children, they would probably have been like her.

Daemon had been entertaining himself sparring and training with the knights. Not long into his regency, a Velaryon ship arrived bringing the battered Ser Jorah Royce and the remaining knights of Runestone. He was thinner from malnutrition, had bags under his eyes and constant battle had driven him to drink. Daemon had forgotten about the Royce knights, sending them off to defend an island. An island which ended up being one of the first attacked by the Dornish. Several of Ser Jorah’s companions had fallen to poisoned arrows, some to disease and the rest to the swords of pirates.

Daemon did change things in Runestone, however. The old guard commander was a friend of Ser Gunthor’s who had held his position for nearly four decades. He decided to grant him a peaceful retirement in whatever farm he’d crawled out of, and gave his position to the Stormlander, Ser Simon Storm. He’d grown fond of the bastard. A corpulent young man, who was in the process of growing a beard. Daemon had trained his Gold Cloaks, one of his greatest successes in his opinion, and so he decided to train the household guards and knights and train the bastard to command them.

The younger knights, many unaware of the mutual disdain held by Daemon and House Royce, flocked to the Rogue Prince. Daemon trained them, drank with, went to the brothel with them and recounted his war stories to a captive audience. Soon Ser Gunthor, officially still the castle’s Master-at-arms saw himself set aside for the more vigorous prince. As the days passed, guards and knights were becoming more attentive to their duties and Elaena found herself followed everywhere by at least three guardsmen.

Elaena eventually began leaving Runestone to visit her domains, and Daemon followed. Though he wished he hadn’t. They went to quiet little villages full of sheep, where she talked to shepherds and peasants for hours. A ship had come from Corlys, carrying some breed of Ibbenese sheep, large, wooly, with a black head and long horns. His daughter was giddy with excitement over her new sheep, and she would not stop talking about them when the first lambs were born. So many villages, so many sheep, and nothing for him to do.

Then there were the septries. At least the brothers made good beer and boasted that come winter they could use ice and snow to chill it and it made its way all the way to Oldtown. He made them promise to send him some come winter. Dairy cows were kept by the brothers, and each septry made its own kind of cheese, all of which he had seen in Runestone’s table. They were boring fellows nonetheless, praying, growing vegetables, making beer and writing copies of the Seven-Pointed Star. Elaena had asked them if they could make copies of other books, which she’d pay for, and it wasn’t long before the library of Runestone was sent to the many septries of her land.

Then there were the motherhouses, where Daemon could finally answer his age-old question: are septas born sour-faced or where they raised that way? There he could see the old septas chastising the young ones for every little thing they did wrong. They lived similar lives to the brothers of the septries, minus the beer, but spent a large amount of time sewing clothes for the poor and making religious tapestries. His daughter also had them copy the books in her library. When the maester heard he was having women read the books and copy them down he nearly had a fit, but a glare from Daemon kept him quiet.

Some excitement finally came around when Elaena’s betrothed, Andar, drowned. The child had gone swimming and been pulled under the current. Most were content enough to rule it as a sad accident, but Daemon could smell something going on. He took the Stormlander and drunken Ser Jorah along with him as they rode into the closest village to interrogate the locals. One old man, with the help of forty stags, remembered a knight passing through the day the boy drowned. A washerwoman who had been downstream from the drowning also saw a knight ahorse, and she saw the man’s face.

Ser Aegon Panton, he had to smile at the gall of the hedge knight’s parents, had served Runestone for twenty years. He was one of Gunthor’s closest friends. It was him the washerwoman remembered seeing. After some sharp questioning, the knight confessed to having killed the boy, but would not say under whose orders. He turned him over to his daughter, who locked herself in her rooms for the whole afternoon, until finally emerging come nightfall and sentencing the night to death. Daemon took his head on the morning.

Once the guardsmen were good enough to protect his daughter, he began to fly more on Caraxes and further away. Driftmark was close, and Corlys had always been welcoming. He decided to visit with the excuse of thanking him for the sheep, not that he cared. The old Seasnake didn’t resent him for abandoning the Stepstones, at least not outwardly; their war had been ten times more expensive for him than it was for Daemon. Cousin Rhaenys did not seem as happy to see him, but flying with Laenor and Laena was the most fun he’d had in weeks. Here he heard the whispers about Rhaenyra’s son and laughed himself to sleep.

He had last seen Laena at Rhaenyra’s wedding, and she remained as beautiful as he remembered. She was followed everywhere by Corlys’s walking headache: a drunken and disgraced Braavosi who’s betrothal to Laena was proving more and more troublesome. Thus, he decided to do something about it. Laena could be the Valyrian bride he had always desired; she was beautiful, she rode Vhagar, and she was fabulously wealthy—a welcome thing since his daughter kept an iron hand on her purse. Some insults to the drunk, a duel where he might as well have been fighting a child, and Laena was his.

Corlys approved, Rhaenys begrudgingly approved, Laenor approved, his daughter had even sent him a finely embroidered groom’s cloak as a wedding present. So why would Viserys vex him so? What issue was it to him who he chose to marry? He had not even been granted the time to enjoy his newly-wed life before Viserys let it be known his marriage was not welcome tidings. He asked Ser Laenor to assist his daughter if she ever needed a Dragonrider and, with his new wife, left for the east.

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117 AC

They had been gone for nearly two years. They had travelled as far as Qohor before they settled down in Pentos, where their twins were born. The girls were now strong enough to travel, so Laena had taken them with her to Driftmark. He’d followed behind her with the dragons. In his absence Rhaenyra had had her second son, who by mere coincidence also looked like Ser Harwin, her sworn shield and was with child yet again. Laenor had relayed to him what his daughter had been up to, and she, surrounded by the knights and guards he trained, continued to do as she had when he was there; that is, look at sheep, visit villages, talk to septons, brothers and septas.

While Laena was introducing the girls to her parents, he left for Runestone. Viserys had forced his hand, and he had to leave the Seven Kingdoms. Laenor had visited Runestone a few times, showing off Seasmoke to any potential threats. The errant regent was returning. From what Laenor had told him while laughing, his daughter had ruled Runestone as if she was an adult and if any complained, asked they travel to Pentos to complain to Daemon in person. It seemed that Laenor visited Runestone more often than he did King’s Landing.

Autumn was in full swing, and atop Caraxes he could see the hundreds of peasants involved in the harvest. As he got closer to Runestone he could see his daughter’s handiwork: a sea of grazing white clouds. When he landed in the castle’s yard an escort of knights was already waiting for him. He remembered most of them from when he trained them, and judging by how many of them were there, they remembered him. He was taken to his old rooms and told that “Lady Elaena will see you during dinner in her office.” He washed up, had a quick nap and finally set out to meet his daughter. He’d left her alone for, so he’d forgive the insult of being summoned to her office.

She had changed in just two short years. Nearly a woman grown, she came up to just under his eyes. Her hair was long and set on a long braid that reached her hips. It might have been all the septas she met, or it might have been his blood, but as the baby fat had melted off her face it had left her with a harsh look on her face. She had been comely as a young girl, but womanhood had brought out a beauty common to their house—and an even greater likeness to him. Rhea Royce left nearly nothing of her, he thought, she looks as if I had married a sister. Her shoulders were still narrow, and her chest not bountiful, her hips remained quite wide, and her legs were long.

“You’ve returned, father,” her voice was soft and quiet. “I had not thought to see you for many years.”

“You have sisters now,” he sat, she remained standing. “I had thought Viserys would forgive me in no time and I’d be back, but after Laena grew large with child we chose to stay, and Baela and Rhaena, your sisters, were born weak and we would not risk the journey.”

“I see,” her eyes softened, and she took her seat across from Daemon. “They, my sisters, are well now?”

“Well enough, I’ve asked Viserys to allow me to present them at court,” he looked around the room and noticed it changed. The bronze busts remained, with the Valyrian sword now between them, the dragon egg was still there as well, though the tapestries of ancient kings had been replaced with tapestries depicting nature: forests, fields, rivers and many animals. The shelves had more books now, probably from her faithful friends. The furniture was changed as well, Rhea’s rustic and simple taste had given way to elegance—though judging by the wear, these belonged to some long-dead Royce. “I noticed you have more sheep now.”

“Yes,” at that she gave a satisfied smile. “We finally have a breed of our own.” A servant brought their dinner, pork not mutton. “Before you leave you must join me and see them. And before the year is gone, before winter comes, there will be a tournament to celebrate my name-day, you must come and ride in the lists, if you win and crown me then all will be forgotten.” She gave him a glare the Old King would have approved of.

He was in a good mood come morning when his daughter showed off her animals. She did not seem particularly angry with him. Winning a tourney in the Vale would be the simplest thing, he’d bring Laena and show off. As they were leaving the castle he noticed the pig pen close by. “Feeding sheep to Seasmoke was not cost effective, he eats pig now and so will Caraxes when under my roof,” said his daughter when she saw him looking at them.

They came upon the closest herd and her daughter began speaking about crossbreeding Northern and Vale sheep and then bringing in the Ibbenese sheep. She kept speaking about animal husbandry, but he didn’t care enough to remember every single detail she had seemingly committed to memory. The sheep themselves looked like any other as far as he knew.

“…so you see, the wool is quite dense and finer than what we used to raise. Not to mention longer,” she spoke, the shepherd standing near them nodded with pride. “The Ibbenese sheep were bigger than ours, and now we’ve managed to make our breed just as large. Only the rams have those long spiraled horns but they are quite friendly,” as she spoke more villagers came close to hear her speak. “Do you see their brown faces? It is not quite the color of bronze, but now everyone has been calling them Royce Bronzeface,” she said with pride, reflected in the shepherds. “Their wool grows so quickly that we can shear some of them twice a year, but with winter coming we’re letting them grow and fatten,” she took his hand. “Feel it,” it was soft.

After a long day of looking at sheep, they finally returned to the castle. His daughter was clearly excited about the beasts, but he couldn’t understand why. So long as she was happy however, and from what he could see, the many Royces that lived there were quite pleased with his daughter. Gunthor remained the same miserable old knight, but who cares about him?

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Viserys welcomed him and the twins with all the pomp usual to his court. It was as if he had never left. He finally met Rhaenyra’s sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, and couldn’t help but notice Ser Harwin standing guard behind her. He stayed in King’s Landing long enough for Rhaenyra’s third son, Joffrey (Joffrey? What was Laenor thinking?), to be born. Then he left for Driftmark. Not long after, Rhaenyra moved her family and retinue to Dragonstone.

The time for his daughter’s tourney finally came. Laena knew he intended to crown Elaena but still asked to come with him. Laenor also joined them. Rhaenyra wanted to go as well, but a sudden chill in Joffrey stopped her. Once they arrived, his daughter welcomed them. She kissed Laena in both her cheeks and gave a hug to Laenor but merely bowed to him. She’d asked if they wanted to bring the twins, but they stayed behind with Rhaenys.

Her daughter seemed to want to compete with Viserys on this tourney. She included some questionable events, for the lowborn, but the scale of the event had brought contestants from all over. The entire Vale had come to ride, as had every hedge knight who heard of it. The prizes were ridiculous, he never knew his daughter was as big a spendthrift as Viserys. Two hundred dragons for a singing competition, four hundred for the archery, eight hundred for the melee and twelve hundred for the joust’s champion. She had asked him to win for her forgiveness but had also added in twelve hundred dragons for him.

“I am glad you came, Lady Laena,” she spoke to them during breakfast. “We met so long ago, and I want to know the mother of my sisters.”

“It’s my hope you will cherish and love them as I do,” Laena smiled at her.

“I’m afraid we arrived too late for your lowborn’s tourney,” Laenor interrupted her sister, with a full mouth. “I was quite excited to see the mud wrestling.”

“They were quite exciting events,” Elaena explained to Daemon and Laena. “Mud wrestling, axe throwing, the largest crops, the largest sheep,” she smiled at the memory. “The prizes were not as generous as those for the main events, but they were still large enough to change lives.”

The singing competition was born by a Braavosi minstrel who had travelled, hearing of the large prize. He sang of Aegon’s Conquest and the ancient Royce line. Daemon heard his daughter ask one of her servants to approach the third place—a Riverlander—and offer him a place as her personal singer. The archery contest was won by Ser Tristan Waynwood, but every contestant of skill and with no name also received an invitation to join the Runestone garrison. The melee was won by one Ser Joffrey Arryn, to the cheers of Lady Arryn.

Until, finally, on the second day, came the time for the joust. His first opponent was some Vale lordling, who only managed two passes. A hedge knight came next, and they broke six spears before the hedge knight fell, his daughter would probably offer this one a job as well. A knight from House Waxley, Ser Joffrey Arryn, Ser Simon Storm, the hedge knights Ser Pate of Gulltown, and Ser Pate of Duskendale. All fell before him, until he met the strongest opponent the Vale had to offer.

Ser Mandon Lynderly remained the deadliest swordsman in the Vale, and his skill with the lance was not far behind. Their first pass saw his lance hit Daemon in the shoulder, whilst his broke on his shield. He managed to remain ahorse, but just barely. Their second pass was better for Daemon, with both lances breaking on the shields. The third, however, saw Ser Mandon hit him skillfully under the shield; the hit was not strong enough to push him off, but it had taken the breath out of him. Ser Mandon was the more experienced jouster; he had not spent the last two years gallivanting in the east. Daemon needed to think quickly, for his skill ahorse might not be up to the task.

Their fourth pass found Daemon feinting and managing to hit Ser Mandon on the shoulder. On their fifth and sixth, Daemon’s feints got ever more complex, relying on the lightning quick reflexes of Ser Mandon to respond to them, all the while Ser Mandon kept accurately targeting Daemon’s holes in his defense. Until at their seventh pass, just before crashing Daemon dropped his elbow at the last moment, catching him by surprise and hitting Ser Mandon below the neck and finally pushing him off his horse. The audience, which he had stopped hearing halfway through, cheered his name. Riding around the arena, with the Crown for the Queen of Love and Beauty in his lap he shouted:

“Today, on my daughter’s nameday, there is no fairer maiden,” the smallfolk cheered the loudest. “To the fairest maiden in the Vale!”

When he handed his daughter the crown, she gave him a genuine smile. His daughter’s smile and twelve hundred dragons, a good day for Daemon Targaryen.

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Here we rush through the regency, through Daemon's eyes. The chapter's name is about him, and he really is a Daemon first kind of guy, but does care for others.
The Stepstones were a doomed campaign from the start, without enough support.

Elaena needed a regent, legally, but didn't actually need one. Daemon is happy enough to lend his name, train and spar with knights that admire him, torture a guy and then leave once he runs out of things to do.
He doesn't really get Elaena's likes, and finds her kind of boring. But that's okay, parents don't necesarilly have to find what their kids do interesting.
Took advantage of him to further describe Elaena. She's not actually that serious, it's just that Daemon doesn't get many smiles from her.

Andar was always meant to die, he was my way to stick to canon. After Rhea dies, a nephew takes over, but next we see the Vale is the ancient Bronze Giant, Ser Gunthor who's in charge. Did he order the boy killed? Maybe, or maybe it was just an overzealous follower thinking that's what the boss wanted.

I skipped over all of Daemon's life in the east, since it doesn't really matter for the fic. And he got back in his daughter's good graces.
Spoiler: it wasn't really because he won, but because he cared enough to send Laenor over. I'll be exploring that particular friendship later on, and with Laena.

Elaena is now an adult, in control of Runestone, and with sheep bringing in money. Enough money to pay for a big tourney.

Next up: winter in the Vales brings trouble.
Thanks for reading

Chapter Text

118 AC

Viserys the Peaceful. She now understands why her uncle is called so. Their little peninsula saw no banditry and the roads were safe; a young maiden could walk from the furthest village all the way to Gulltown and face no danger. These were years of plenty, she realized, and had to be taken advantage of to their fullest. Oft people only realized how plentiful a time was when it was no longer so. These were times when it was not uncommon to see fat and wealthy peasants, town fairs paid for by the villagers themselves and merchants travelling with little to no guards. At least when it did not involve the Mountains of the Moon, of course.

She was now Lady Elaena Royce of Runestone, per the marriage contract between her parents; signing her letters with that name took getting used to—for years she had signed as Elaena Targaryen. Winter had left Elaena with a lot of free time to think. There would be no shearing, and it wasn’t wise to increase the size of her flocks during the cold season. She was still ecstatic at having bred a soft wool sheep breed, and although the rams from distant Omber had arrived and their wool was reportedly excellent to use in tapestries, they had not had the time to breed their own variety. Winter was a quiet time in Royce lands, farmers left their fields fallow and retired to their homes and sheep were kept close to home lest they be lost to the elements. In Royce towns, stockpiled wool was spun by the snowed-in townsfolk, ensuring a steady stream of cloth entering the markets of Gulltown. Their trade ships had left with the first snows, first to the Dreadfort to fulfill their part of the bargain and then making constant trips to White Harbor.

Having a large and unoccupied workforce, who were quite willing to earn some additional monies during winter, she began construction works around the fishing village where their docks lay. A large, three-floor workshop that would be full of spinning wheels, which carpenters were already working on. She had some ideas about construction and the styles she would like to see but decided to leave it to the locals; best to do it fast and efficiently and only care for beauty once growth wasn’t the immediate concern. Another workshop came next, dedicated entirely to dyeing the yarn and a final, larger, workshop full of looms—each floor dedicated to different weaves, and eventually a workshop dedicated to making tapestries. The various towns in Royce lands had experienced workers so consistent work and salaries should entice people to move to the growing settlement. Old king Jaehaerys had added that right to his book of laws, smallfolk were free to move to the land of other lords, to the annoyance of quite a few of them. She was more than willing to poach artisans and workers from Gulltown by offering better salaries.

Speaking with shepherds, farmers and weavers led to her people having a very positive opinion of her. She soon noticed that after listening to what they had to say, and actually paying attention to the knowledge they had, they began to listen to her as well. When she began looking for solutions for the problems they brought to her, word spread and people from villages she hadn’t visited yet lined up to meet with her. Her mother received petitioners every fortnight, she received them twice a week—repaying the loyalty of her people was a worthwhile use of her time. They came to speak about logging rights in this and that forest, about farmland distribution between two villages or seeking permission to construct buildings, some even came with marital troubles and after following the laws left behind by Queen Alysanne, more and more women made the trip to seek her. Smallfolk had no voice in this society, and listening to their problems and looking for solutions had earned her their esteem. Lords were meant to protect and give justice to their smallfolk.

She was reminded of the politicians of the place from before. Did the elected princes of the Free Cities go around talking to voters, she wondered. She began inviting the various inhabitants of the castle, and the castle town, to sit with her during dinner. If merely listening to people helped create bonds of loyalty, then she would sit with every person in her household. From their afternoon dinners she learnt more about her land than she had ever known. Orrel the stablemaster knew more about horses than any knight, Pate the cook could identify every herb in the Vale by its smell, Tansy the chief maidservant knew every folktale and local legend, Harrold the chief forester knew the forests of Royce lands like the palm of his hand, Septon Lomas had friends in septs all over the Seven Kingdoms and had apparently been able to predict the election of the two last High Septons, every one of her vassals had knowledge to share and the highborn weren’t usually interested in their knowledge. But the change in attitude was noticeable: Septon Lomas no longer spoke so heavily in favor of Ser Gunthor and went back to sermons on the Smith, his favorite aspect; the maester no longer sat always at the Bronze Giant’s right; and Ser Gunthor no longer had his large knightly following.

She learnt of an interesting, and unintended, consequence of the long peace from Ser Simon, when she dined with him. Knighthood was harder to come by, for squires where knighted at later ages than before and not all squires would necessarily see a knighthood. A squire being knighted was not the end result of squiring, a knighthood had to be earned; either by a deed of arms in battle or a good showing in a squire’s tourney; and in the other kingdoms there were only so many squire tourneys, and the long period of prosperity had resulted in only small bands of bandits and poachers going around. The Vale, alongside the Dornish Marches, remained the exception, however. Constant fighting against clansmen, and Dornishmen, resulted in a steady supply of new knights. According to Ser Simon, Reacher lords and Stormlords would oft send their sons to squire in the Marches so they’d have a chance at a knighthood earned in battle. Ser Simon had acquired his after joining an expedition to capture a group of bandits in the Rainwood who were demanding tribute from logging villages. According to him, many lords, who mayhaps eighty years past fielded large regiments of mounted knights, now fielded many squires—skilled and armored as knights, but yet without the title. Lord Connington was one such, Ser Simon’s father oft bemoaned about how in his grandfather’s day three hundred knights called Griffin’s Roost home, and now it was only two hundred.

Torbeck, the steward, had retired last year and Ser Gerold had taken his place. During their shared dinner, he spoke at length about winter preparations and what was expected of a lord. Elaena at times thought the man a bore, overtly proud and too rigid in his thinking, but he was certainly capable at his new job. His first task had been to ration their last harvest to last the winter, and he had filled their granaries with enough grain to feed her people and her flocks for three years. He was cautious in his rationing and obeyed the common wisdom of long summer, long winter. Guards were posted at all granaries, and by all accounts were bored with nothing to do, and small caravans would travel the villages and towns handing out their share of the food.

Septa Mallory had died soon after Elaena’s majority. She had never truly recovered from Rhea’s death and had only held out until she could see Elaena grown. Elaena had wanted to bring in a new septa from one of the motherhouses in Royce lands, but they hadn’t trained and been taught to attend nobility. From Gulltown they sent her a new septa: Septa Roelle. She was a young woman, some five years older than Elaena, and of noble birth. She didn’t need a septa anymore, but, in seemingly no time, her cousin Mya had had many more children, six in total now. The eldest, Allard, was ten and the youngest, Alyssa, was four. Mya was now her heir, with her many children coming after her.

Mya kept pestering her to marry, it was clear she didn’t want the responsibility of being Lady Royce. She had given her a list of every eligible lordling in the Vale, some outside and some even outside the Seven Kingdoms, and even a few Essosi suitors. As far as Elaena was concerned, marriage could wait. She was just six-and-ten, and after seeing her companion Delia be married off at three-and-ten and forced to have a son not soon after—it nearly killed her, and the maester said it was likely she would not survive another pregnancy—she decided she would not marry until at least four-and-twenty. She knew she eventually had to marry, and hoped she would meet a good person; that was all she wanted, not great wealth or large holdings, better a second son without ambitions on her land. As she predicted, her family objected to her decision, but she found an unexpected ally in the maester. It turns out that maesters had been recommending for centuries that lords shouldn’t marry off their daughters so young but were usually ignored—alliances were more important. Though the maester did think that four-and-twenty was a tad excessive.

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With all the free time that winter had given her, she decided she would make a bronze relief. A large one, to be placed over the keep’s great doors, nearly five-and-ten feet tall and forty wide. On the left she would put scenes from the First Men Royces of old and, on the right, from the Andal Royces. She had asked Maester Rookwill to go through their records and seek interesting and important Royces to be immortalized in bronze, paying special attention to female Royces. Elaena knew the power of symbols: every time a guest entered the great keep, they’d be greeted by the masterfully made history of the Royces, and particularly the female Bronze Queens and Ladies of old, from whom she descended. In a martial-oriented kingdom that exalted knighthood, every little thing mattered.

Maester Rookwill had already found one whose history was exactly the sort of tale that Westerosi loved: Amerei Royce, she was the eldest daughter of a Lord Royce nearly eight centuries past, and had two younger brothers, who were twins, Waymar and Andar. When their father died, the twins fought each other in a bloody civil war that ended when they killed each other in battle outside the gates of Gulltown—both were trying to court Lord Grafton into their side. Waymar and Andar had left behind a son and a daughter, respectively. Before their backers could continue the war, now in the name of the children, Amerei seized the lordship and the children and, with the assistance of King Boros Arryn, forced both sides to surrender. She declared her nephew the heir and betrothed him to her niece. Once young Roose Royce earned his spurs he married Elinor Royce, and so Lady Amerei abdicated the lordship and took a septa’s vows. Elaena had already started to sketch the model of Lady Amerei, who, in her septa’s robes, stood crying over her two dead brothers with two small children clutching her skirts. The story had the perfect mix of religious piety, familial duty and violence that Westerosi loved.

When Gerold and Gunthor heard of her plans for the doors, they loudly approved and began telling her stories of ancient Royces whenever they remembered a long gone relative; Kings Robar II the Just and his son Willam the Unjust, brothers Martyn and Mandon Royce who fought the Starks in the Three Sisters, Mad Daryn Royce who granted a castle to his horse, one-armed Patrik Royce who won Lamentation over a horse race, Queen Anya who reportedly lived to one hundred by bathing on the blood of her enemies and was succeeded by a great-great-great grandson and many other colorful ancestors. Once the initial design was done, she told them of Lady Amerei and showed them her sketch, they had declared her a worthy Royce to inaugurate the relief and that Elaena would create a sculpture to rival the one of Alyssa Arryn in the Eyrie. For all the differences she had with him and the mistrust she still felt for Ser Gunthor, the old knight was nothing if not proud of the name Royce. The relief would be a long and complex project, potentially taking all winter, if not longer.

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Laenor found her in the middle of reading through the history of one King Vyron Royce, who was charmingly called “the Bane of the Rivermen”. He began visiting Runestone after her father asked and they’d struck up a friendship. At first, he would just come in to check on her, offering his services as a knightly Dragonrider and leaving the next day, but then he’d began staying for longer periods of time, talking with Elaena and exploring the Vale atop Seasmoke. Life in High Tide was not particularly comfortable for him, and ever since Rhaenyra moved to Dragonstone he was frequently questioned about his continued choice to live in Driftmark. His father disliked Laenor’s friends and oft complained to him that he wasn’t fulfilling his duty as Rhaenyra’s husband. His mother, while not as vocal as her husband, apparently pursed her lips whenever Laenor spent time with his friend Ser Qarl.

Laenor and Elaena enjoyed many of the same things. He’d grown up around the collection of treasures that Corlys had brought from the east and had developed a keen eye for art and enjoyed talking about tapestries, having claimed several of his father’s collection for his rooms. He once took his favorite to show Elaena, it was a swan ship from the Summer Islands sailing in a deep sea-green background, with krakens and other creatures swimming around it, adorned with colorful feathers around the sides. He had wanted to travel east and see the wonders of Yi Ti like his father before him but wasn’t allowed to, at first because of his youth but then because of his marriage. He enjoyed flying on Seasmoke and sailing but felt as if shackles were placed on him. In the Vale he found a sense of freedom, in its gentle hills and ancient forests with plentiful game. Before Elaena knew how, Laenor had made friends with many of the knights in her service and began going hunting with them. When a group of villagers came seeking help after a shadowcat was attacking their flock, she asked Laenor to lead the hunt for the creature. He declared that hunt, which took five days near the Mountains of the Moon, as one of the best to ever be in the Seven Kingdoms and he wanted to bring his sons with him when they were old enough to join the hunt. Elaena received a cloak of beautiful shadowskin from Laenor.

Since the return of her father, and his marriage to Laena, Daemon and Laena had become close companions to Rhaenyra; and Laenor still stayed in Driftmark. Laena had invited him to join them flying, and even though he loved nothing more than soaring the skies with Seasmoke, he never joined them. After a particular night of heavy drinking with the knights, he complained he was born a Velaryon of High Tide, unable to take to the seas and travel as far as the wind took him; complained that his father was overprotective of his heir. After the birth of his youngest, Joffrey, he had moved to Dragonstone for a moon but eventually returned to his home in Driftmark, Dragonstone was not a welcoming place to him. He loved his sons and being with his family, but did not feel that Rhaenyra was family. He wished to teach his sons to fly, the eggs of all three had hatched, but Rhaenyra insisted her uncle Daemon was the better teacher.

From Laenor she learnt what Rhaenyra was doing as Princess of Dragonstone, and she was shocked. The princess had left most duties to the steward and the maester, held court rarely and usually only for the highborn and appeared everywhere with Ser Harwin Strong, who many pointed to as the father of her children. Queen Alicent was stacking the court against her, and she did nothing. She was Jeyne’s cousin, Elaena knew that they still sent ravens to each other, but Rhaenyra had seemingly learnt nothing about the troubles that Jeyne had faced as a female ruler; even now many lords disregarded her opinions about how to deal with the clans, second-guessed her over every single troop movement and argued with her over winter rationing. Before the birth of her sons, Rhaenyra went on quite a few progresses around the kingdoms, meeting lords and charming vassals, but those had all stopped. She now travelled only from Dragonstone and King’s Landing and the only lords she met were only those of the Crownlands and the Narrow Sea.

This would be Laenor’s last visit this winter. His father had finally agreed to his requests and Laenor would be leading an expedition around the Stepstones to Volantis. He would be taking Seasmoke and desired to fly as high as possible and look at the ruins of Valyria. Before leaving, however, he asked Elaena to teach him to work with clay—he wanted to give his mother a small bronze statuette of Meleys. He stayed for a fortnight, learning at Elaena’s side in her workshop, before finally (with Elaena’s help) he made a model of Meleys that looked like the dragon, with his mother on top. On a clear day, with calm and cool winds, Laenor Velaryon left for Driftmark, and for Volantis.

Three moons after Laenor left, Laena came to visit with the twins. They arrived on a massive ship with Velaryon sails, so big it could not dock on the Royce docks, so they had to dock in Gulltown. Baela and Rhaena were two and already full of personality. They were small for their age, but full of energy. They looked identical, and were inseparable, but could be told apart by how they acted. Baela ran and climbed everywhere and asked about everything, Rhaena loved listening to singers and dancing clumsily. Both loved dragons, however. Vhagar had stayed behind, but they brought Moondancer with them, as well as Rhaena’s egg. The little green dragon was the size of a medium dog and ran after his future rider everywhere, playing with both of the twins.

“Rhaenyra was summoned to King’s Landing,” Laena explained, as they sat in the Godswood. “And with Laenor away on his little adventure, who better to escort her than our Daemon? I thought it a perfect opportunity for you to meet your sisters.”

“You are most welcome,” Elaena smiled as Baela was trying to climb her mother. “The girls are quite fun to be around, if you and Daemon ever need to, you can send them to Runestone and I’ll look after them.”

“Thank you, but mother won’t ever allow it, she insists on looking after them at all times,” she gave a sad smile. “She sees them much more than Laenor’s sons, and Rhaenyra doesn’t visit Driftmark often. Mother refuses to visit Dragonstone, old wounds that never fully healed.” A sad sigh and an attempt at a smile, “Laenor tells me you have been most diligent in your duties, that peasants cheer for their ‘Lady Royce’ whenever you pass through.”

“I have been blessed in that my efforts have been recognized,” an attempt at modesty.

“Your father may not act it, but he listens to all that Laenor says about you,” Baela got bored after reaching her mother’s shoulders and jumped off, grabbing Rhaena by the hand and running around the heart tree, a thick and ancient ash tree. “Dragonstone and Driftmark don’t have trees as large as those, and Laenor has fallen in love with your forests and the hunts in them. Father listened with full attention when Laenor spoke of tracking a shadowcat and bringing it down,” Laena closed her eyes and smiled as the cold winter winds swept past them. “Come spring we really must take the girls to run in those forests, Laenor’s sons as well.”

Laena and the girls stayed in Runestone for a week, before leaving back to Driftmark when Daemon sent word their business in King’s Landing was done. Their ship captain, Elaena was happy to hear, had filled their hold with Royce cloth.

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119 AC
House Tollett asked for aid at year’s start. They were vassals to the Royce’s, despite the long distance between their holdings. Their castle of Grey Glen stood overlooking a bountiful valley near the Mountains of the Moon. After Lady Elaena’s grandfather had defeated a large army of clansmen, things had been mostly quiet in the Vale. However, winter had caused two clans to feud against one another, causing the loser of the two, the Redsmiths, to descend into Grey Glen in force in search of women and plunder. House Tollett of Grey Glen did not have a large enough retinue to protect the entire glen, as they relied on the protection afforded to them by the Royces.

When weather conditions allowed it, Lady Royce sent forty knights and twenty squires by sea under his command. Whenever the clans made trouble, the knights of the Vale volunteered and even fought each other for the right to be chosen to hunt them down. It was Ser Simon’s first command, and he had to bring honor to his ladyship. Ser Qarl Roncey carried the standard of Lady Elaena: the ancient runes of House Royce. They sailed around the Vale and into the river that had been called Andal’s Way since the coming of the Andals and disembarked a day’s ride away from Grey Glen’s. Halfway there they were joined by twelve knights led by Lord Amos Coldwater, whose daughter was married to Lord Tollett.

Ser Simon had lived in Runestone for the past five years, but this was his first time seeing the Vale itself. It was the most beautiful landscape he had ever seen, and his childhood septon’s stories about the Vale being promised to the Andals by the Seven came unbidden to his mind. Even now, in the depths of winter, he could see the slow-flowing rivers, the famous black soil and the many lakes, frozen during this season, all gently covered by pure white snow. They arrived at Grey Glen shortly before nightfall. It was a modest stone keep, built next to a large lake, called Lake Tollett. The lake was surrounded in its entirety by villages, and the villagers had dug out many canals to water their fields, giving the lake the look of a watery sun.

Lord Edwyle Tollett welcomed them with enthusiasm. The villages closest to the mountains had been raided, and many of his smallfolk had run to the safety of Grey Glen. He commanded thirty knights and could raise one hundred men-at-arms and many more levies. That night, while the knights feasted and rested, Ser Simon went through the maps and reports on clansmen movement gathered by Lord Tollett. Lady Elaena had trusted him with command, and a mission, and he would see it through. His right-hand man, Ser Orren Royce, a very distant cousin, was a veteran of many raids into the mountains, hunting after the clansmen and knew many of the strategies the tribes liked using.

Come morning, seventy knights set out to hunt down the Redsmiths. A crofter’s son had hidden under the floorboards of his house whilst the clan attacked his farm and had seen the path they had taken into the mountains. Ser Orren and himself had planned out an attack strategy, groups of three men-at-arms would each hide in the farms close to that path; once a group saw the raiders coming, they would use smoke to signal the knights, who would ride hard and fast to meet the clans in battle. Lord Tollett was no warrior, so his son, Ser Jon Tollett, commanded the knights of their house. Lord Coldwater had given command of his to Ser Garrett Stone. Ser Simon had command of all seventy mounted knights, the largest force he had ever commanded in battle.

They sat hidden behind a hill as they waited for the smoke signal. Ser Simon looked around him at the knights he had trained with and grown to care for. Ser Benfred the Grim was long-faced and grey-haired, despite being under thirty, Ser Hugh Stone was the bastard son of a septa kidnapped by a clansman and would challenge to duels any who insulted his mother’s virtue, Ser Bryce Coldwater had sworn his sword to Lady Elaena after her mother’s death, Ser Pate of Gulltown was a hedge knights whose good showing in the melee brought him to Lady Royce’s attention, Ser Jorah Royce whose time in the Stepstones had driven him to drink and gave him night terrors, and many others. He knew all their names and stories and would lead them into battle and possible death. Ser Hugh was the oldest among them, he had taken part in many raids into the mountains, finding clansmen villages and hunting them down, liberating the women and putting everyone else to the sword.

Life was like that in the Vale. The clansmen raided, the knights hunted them down and pushed them further into the mountains, where land was barren, and living was harder. Lady Elaena had given him another mission, she wanted information about the various clans, their feuds and, if possible, locations. If he could capture one and bring him to her? Better. She had an idea for the clans, and he thought it sounded reasonable. She wanted to ally with the weakest clan, help them fight their enemies and survive the winter, and use them and their knowledge to defeat other clans into submission. Going after the clans would just ensure that they helped each other, so she would be playing their petty rivals to her benefit. “Divide and conquer,” Elaena Royce had said.

As he waited, Ser Simon thought of fate. His father was the younger brother of the disgraced Roy Connington, when his exiled brother died, stabbed by a whore, he inherited Griffin’s Roost. Simon’s mother was a merchant’s daughter; his merchant father had provided the money needed to see him knighted. His father had been married thrice, and it had not been until his third wife that he had fathered sons, having had only daughters before. Unella Penrose gave Ser Simon’s three little trueborn brothers: Raymund, Steffon and little Alyn. After Alyn’s birth she petitioned his father to cast him out and his father listened to her. He gave him a fine warhorse and a set of armor blazoned with his personal sigil: a white griffin under a stormy sky. A hedge knight’s life was not for him, so he made his way to King’s Landing where a royal wedding was holding the largest tourney he had ever seen.

There he could make his mark and find a new home. Once he learnt that not long before a member of the Kingsguard had died, he gave it his all to earn a white cloak. A bastard could serve with honor and dignity in the Kingsguard. But he lost. The eventual champion defeated him, and his great opportunity was lost. But Lady Elaena saw his skill. He had thought she was older, at first, due to her height, but she was still just a child. A child who saw him fight and offered him a position of honor in her guard. He was a sword sworn to Runestone, to the oldest house in the Vale, to a king’s niece, a descendant of the Conciliator and the Good Queen. He had trained with the Rogue Prince; he commanded Lady Royce’s guard and had been granted command against the clans and trusted to share in her plans. Men looked up to him now. He had even found love, a cloth merchant’s daughter from Gulltown named Ginger. She smiled often and liked to joke that his hair was even redder than hers. Her father had allowed him to court her and come spring he wanted to marry her.

He was deep in thought when Ser Pate saw the smoke. “Knights, ahorse and with speed!” he called out. They trotted in close formation, horse-shoulder to shoulder. Close to the farm, the clansmen noticed them and began to run back towards the mountains. They were around thirty, and only five rode horses. With shouts of “Royce!” “Elaena and Runestone!” and “Grey Glen!” they charged the raiders. Ser Simon, with a yell of “A griffin! A griffin!” broke his lance on the unarmored chest of one of them. What followed was no battle, running clansmen were cut down one after the other. The few who stood their ground were rewarded with a lance to the body.

Ser Myles Moore, a skilled tracker, managed to find their tracks leading from the mountains. Twelve knights, led by Ser Simon, would continue on foot in the rocky terrain. The others would wait ahorse, ready in case the clansmen overpowered them or attempted to flee into the valley. Sers Simon, Myles and Hugh Stone went in front, their rear was protected by Sers Benfred and Jon Tollett. Nightfall came quickly during winter, and soon their pace came down to a crawl as Ser Myles looked for the trail.

With a sudden shout, the clansmen fell upon them. Armed with bronze, stone and rusted iron they were nonetheless fierce foes. Gone was the advantage of horseback. “Lock shields!” Ser Simon shouted, as the Royce knights heeded his order and stood against the charge, their backs to a thick set of trees. In the gloom of night, he counted thirty men, and the only choice they had was to fight, they would not be allowed to run for reinforcements. Ser Myles blew into his hunting horn, and a raider took the chance to stab him below his armpit.

“A griffin! A griffin!” came the battle cry as he brought down his sword on the man in front of him. The raiders outnumbered them, but they had no armor and their weapons were worse. Ser Simon had to believe they were advantaged and fought accordingly. Ser Benfred broke a raider’s skull with his mace before being pushed back by a large man with a greatsword. He would have taken Ser Benfred’s head in one broad swing if the injured Ser Myles hadn’t tackled him. They wrestled on the ground, Ser Myles tried to stab him with his dirk, until another raided stabbed the knight in the back of the neck with his spear. The large man stood and went back to batter their shield wall.

Seeing an opportunity as the large man lifted his sword, Ser Simon pushed him back with a heavy swing of his shield and before he could recover, plunged his sword through his belly. Seeing the big man fall, many of the clansmen lost courage and ran, but the remaining few kept fighting fiercely. Out of the corner of his eye he managed to see two drag a knight in Tollett livery to the ground. Ser Simon could not afford distractions, however. He stood, shield to shield, with the knights to his side and defended his position.

No matter how many he managed to kill, it seemed there were always more. The clansmen that had run had returned with help, he assumed. A stone hatchet hit him in the shoulder, and he thanked the Smith for his work, before severing the man’s hand. Ser Hugh, on his left, was not so lucky and the rusty sword that found his shoulder hit true and he fell to the ground. There was a hole in their formation, soon they would be overwhelmed. But the sound of horns turned the tide. Ser Myles had been heard and twenty mounted knights charged through the trees to the cry of “Bronze and Iron!” and “Runestone!”

The raiders began running, heading through narrow pathways where horses could not follow. Tired, Ser Simon looked around him. Of the twelve that had come with him they had lost five. Ser Myles lay in a pool of his own blood, Ser Orren had lost an arm and bled out during the fighting, a knight of House Tollett had not managed to join the shield wall and found himself surrounded, the young knight that was dragged down was hacked to pieces and Ser Hugh was in the middle of dying. Around them were the bodies of twenty clansmen. He commanded any surviving Redsmiths to be taken as prisoners, and, carrying their dead, made their way out of the forest.

Lord Edwylle declared their hunt a resounding success. They had killed a large warparty and lost only a few knights. He gave them use of his dungeons for their captives and feasted the victorious knights for a fortnight; partly to make sure the raiders had been dissuaded. Of their three captives, one was an old greybeard, missing an eye, another was a youth who had not woken from his injuries and the last one was a woman. When they came to the old man, he bit his tongue off before talking to the “Andal whoresons.” The young man, who’s injuries the maester refused to treat, died soon of them. The woman proved more talkative, if only to insult him.

“You are the firekissed Andal who killed Uthor son Uthor,” she said when Ser Simon came to talk to her. “He was a great and brave warrior and now he is dead,” she spit on the ground. “Come to claim your prize like your fellows, Andal?”

“I come for information,” Ser Simon calmly replied as he sat across the prison bars, he would give Lady Elaena what she wanted. “Tell me about the Redsmiths, tell me about your fight with the Sons of the Mist.”

“I’ll tell nothing to bronze lapdogs,” she growled. “When the Andals came they whipped the Royces and turned them into their dogs, they abandoned the true men of the Vale to worship their false Seven. They are oathbreakers, cravens and grovecutters.” Nothing Ser Simon said could get her to speak about the clans. When a villager spoke against her, saying she had killed a farmer in his village, her fate was sealed. She was hanged like any criminal and her body was left on a tree by the mountains.

He had been successful in his defense of House Tollett. Lord Edwyle thanked Lady Elaena Royce for her quick and decisive assistance in front of the knights and his household and gave a letter to him to hand her personally. Secret business, he said. The knights rode back to the great river, where their ship to take them home waited for them.

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The Vale was his, by all rights. When his uncle was killed by the clans, the Vale needed a strong hand. It should have gone to his father, but Yorbert Royce and the Old King made sure it went to his cousin. A girl child whose stewardship of the Vale had made the clans bold. Royce wanted a long regency to do as he wished and had paid for his ambitions with his life when the clans, knowing a woman could not defend the Vale against them, rose up.

Arnold’s father had attempted to right that wrong. The Old King was dead, King Viserys cared little about what happened in the distant Vale. But Royce had outfoxed him. He had surrounded Jeyne with the daughters of important lords who had called their knights to defend their kin. He himself was in Gulltown, trying to bring Grafton to his side but that copper-counting cousin of his had convinced the lord of Gulltown not to back them. In his absence, his father had died; cut down as if he wasn’t the rightful lord of Mountain and Vale by that snake Lynderly.

Now was the time to press his claim. Jeyne refused to marry, to the annoyance of the lords. But he knew better, she was relying more and more on his cousin Joffrey, a green boy in real war. Arnold wasn’t a green boy, he had been fighting the clans for the past ten years. She had spurned his own offer on marriage and was clearly going to give Joffrey her hand in marriage, a simple boy from a destitute branch of the family who would do what his betters told him to. Arnold had to think of his own son, Eldric, eight years old and motherless. His mother, Betha Royce, had died trying to give little Eldric a sister.

Jeyne wanted to rob Edric of his birthright and Arnold had to stop her. Templeton was with him, as were Coldwater, Tollett, Sunderland and the other Sistermen, Upcliff and Waynwood. Waxley and Belmore would fall in line, he knew. Jeyne was now without followers, only the Redfort girl. Grafton followed the money, and Arnold would lead his greedy little nose like a mule follows a carrot. Dutton had asked for Eldric’s hand for his daughter, but he was sure he could convince him to back him without the need of marriage. His goodfather, Ser Gunthor, assured him he could slow down Lady Elaena’s response and convince her that having a blood tie to Lord Arryn was better than bonds of friendship.

The knightly houses of the Vale, those who defended it from the clans, knew that the wildlings were restless and Jeyne was no good at war. Winter had already brought raids, and the knights from the Eyrie had been slow to act. The Vale needed a strong man at its helm, not a woman. Come spring, when Jeyne busied herself with the season’s first flowers, he would cut her off before she could scurry back up the mountain and force her submission. Lynderly had injured himself dealing with the clans, his horse breaking his leg. Corbray had died and his sons were arguing over that sword of his. Old man Redfort had finally died, and his son was more concerned with his new northern wife than his sister. Hunter might be troublesome, but Arnold had more men. Never had the Eyrie been as ripe for the taking.

He was no kinslayer, Jeyne could live out her days as a Silent Sister. Redfort would dip his banners in exchange for the sister. Lynderly would go to the Wall, for the crime of killing the rightful lord of the Vale. If Hunter wanted to continue fighting, he would root him out and hang him as a rebel. All he had to do was wait for spring, he repeated over and over to himself as he moved through the streets of Gulltown, looking for whichever tavern Grafton was at.

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Elaena settles down for winter and begins doing what Ned Stark got up to, but arriving at that from a different place. Winter gives smallfolk a lot of free time, mainly those who work the land so they take on temporary jobs for extra income.
Laenor, unlike Daemon, likes the Vale. He's got a complicated family life, looks up to his father and wants to do like he did, but isn't allowed--he's too important to risk. So he sails around Blackwater Bay and close to Driftmark.
On what Rhaenyra is up to, or not up to as is the case, it comes from what I feel Targaryens fail at doing. Politics, dragons are so mighty and powerful that they don't really bother with it. A dragonrider's word are basically orders, who's going to say no? But what happens when both sides have dragons? Rhaenyra was raised as heir, lords swore to her (only once, mind you), she has family ties to the Velaryons and Arryns and she is a dragonrider, as far as she's aware, does she need more?

Laena doesn't bring Vhagar over because carrying to rowdy toddlers on it is complicated business. She knows an entirely different Daemon than Elaena.
On her dialogues about Laenor, and Laenor's visit, I tried to put myself in his shows and how his life might be seen by Westerosi nobles.

Clansmen raid, Ser Simon fights, Elaena had some plans but she probably underestimated the hatred the clansmen have for lowlanders.
Clans raid, but the Knights of the Vale also hunt them down, at times unprovoked. So there's no saints here.

Ser Arnold's part is entirely subjective, centered on his perspective of things and how he sees the various pieces in the Vale.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

(Little warning, the first part of the chapter includes violence against women)

119 AC

Septa Roelle was born a Lannister of Lannisport. The second of eight children born to a third son, who was himself the son of a second son. Her father was a bitter man who resented his cousins and the meagre role he held in the city. He was a drunk who hit his wives and children. When her great-uncle, the Lannister of Lannisport, wished to make a favorable deal with the Great Lion’s Sept over the sale of incense, he promised one of his many relatives to the Faith. Roelle, who had seen her mother, her sister and a stepmother die in childbirth asked her father to be the one chosen. Her mother had died giving birth to Imry when Roelle was six, her elder sister was married away when she was twelve and died in childbirth not a year later, and Lady Lysa had died giving birth to Marla when she was ten. She was terrified of her father, of childbirth, and of men. Her father had waited just six moons after Lady Lysa’s passing before marrying again and when he was deep in his cups, getting tired of Lady Jeyne’s sobbing he’d threaten Roelle that he’d marry her off to the first rich lord who asked. When she offered her father that she’d join the Faith, he, wishing to gain favor with his uncle, sent her away to the motherhouse the very next day. She was one-and-ten.

She loved the Gilded Motherhouse of Lannisport. As old as the city, or so it was told, and the largest in the Westerlands. The septas were strict, but kind. Her family was allowed to visit her, she was visited by her brothers and sisters—those born to Lady Jeyne included—but he never came. The day she asked to join the Faith was the last day she saw her father, and every morning she thanked the Seven for that. She took her vows at the young age of five-and-ten and, being of gentle birth, was made to take the lessons necessary to become a lady’s septa. She knew in her heart that becoming a septa had saved her and serving the Seven was her calling. She was taught engaging ways to teach children in the ways of the Faith, to teach young maidens about their eventual marriages and what they’d expect, taught manners and how to teach them, how to teach discipline to lordlings and little ladies, embroidery, music, singing, poetry and many other womanly arts. It would not be until years later that she would learn where the money that had paid for her lessons came from.

Her life changed drastically two years ago. In the motherhouse she learnt things about herself that would likely never have come to the surface had she been forced into marriage by her father. She loved women as others loved men. She would stare in the baths and dream of her fellow initiates and septas. She knew it was wrong to feel lust over a septa, and after taking her vows she knew it was wrong to feel lust at all. But she could not help it. Even less so when she fell in love for the first time in her life. She was seven-and-ten when she met Nelly. She was a merchant’s daughter of six-and-ten, left to the protection of the motherhouse while he sailed away to distant Qarth. She was tall and comely, with soft brown eyes and pretty smiles. They became fast friends, spending their free time under the trees in the gardens, singing together and talking and laughing and holding hands. Until one day, with a bravery she didn’t know she had, she kissed Nelly. And she kissed her back.

For nearly a year, behind everyone’s backs, they loved each other. If it was possible to give your maidenhead to another woman, she had done so. Nelly was gentle with her, and, despite being a year younger, was both taller and more confident. She would take her on walks along the docks, and dress her up as a servant of her merchant family to sneak into inns, where they would spend their nights together. As far as the motherhouse knew, she was visiting family. Roelle knew it would never last, one day Nelly’s father would return and take back his daughter; but while it lasted she would love her with all her heart. But soon they were found out, by Mother Carellen of all people.

For the first time, as she beheld Mother Carellen at the foot of the bed in their inn, she feared the consequences. She would be expelled from the order, sent back to her family, to him. She attempted to speak to the Mother, but she merely turned away, leaving them here. Nelly tried to console her, telling her that she would take her on as a servant, that she wouldn’t need to return home. But all she could do was cry. She stayed with Nelly for an entire week in that inn, until she felt brave enough to return to the motherhouse.

Nothing had changed. Nobody knew about her and Nelly and most merely asked if everything was all right with her family. For a fortnight, nothing happened. But Mother Carellen eventually called for her. Feeling as if her feet were made of lead, she walked to the Mother’s office. She expected her to scream at her, to tell her to get out; but she merely talked calmly at her.

“You are not the first to be caught in your position, nor will you be the last. It will never happen again, understood?” the mother told her, firmly but gently. “Take this letter, you are not to open it until you get to your new home,” Roelle had just stared blankly at her. “You are to leave for the Motherhouse of Maris in Gulltown before the moon turns,” she would always remember that she gave her a sad smile. “I will grant you leave from your duties so you can say goodbye to those you love in the city.”

She had said her goodbyes. To her brothers and sisters, to Lady Jeyne who she had grown to care for, and to Nelly. Nelly held her tightly and begged her to run away with her, told her that she had money, and they could make new lives for themselves in the Free Cities. But Roelle could not, she had to keep to her vows. With tears in their eyes, they kissed one last time and Roelle left for Gulltown.

What awaited her was an unexpected promotion. She was to finish her training to be a Lady’s septa but also became the second to the local Mother. The letter she had brought with her explained everything. Lord Lannister of Casterly Rock had funded the education of his distant relative. She had never met Lord Jason, and the only time she had been to the Rock was as a babe, when her father introduced her to the previous lord, Lord Tymond. Lord Jason wanted a septa of Lannister blood to raise Lannister children, but after her mistake he was sending her off to the Vale. Lord Jason claimed he would make sure she was sent to the Eyrie, to become Lady Jeyne Arryn’s septa and he expected ravens to be sent home, to Casterly Rock.

Her duties as assistant to Mother Alys helped her distract herself from the hole that was growing in her heart. The motherhouse was on an island, beyond the docks of the city, and offered her a place of quiet reflection where she would try to remember Nelly one day and try to forget her the next. She oft cried herself to sleep, it was at night when she best remembered Nelly’s smile and her singing her bawdy tavern songs when they lay in the inn’s bed. For nearly two years she lived like that, the pain slowly fading away, until a letter came from Lord Jason. She was to become the septa of Lady Elaena Royce, and their deal remained: she was to send him ravens about her new lady.

Lady Elaena was a young maid who had recently lost her mother. Her father was the infamous Prince Daemon and Roelle thought she could see the fabled Valyrian beauty in her new lady. A tall beauty, with wide hips and, though a bit narrow, shapely shoulders. Bronze haired and with a striking streak of silver framing the right side of her face. She did not smile often, and she talked little, but her grey eyes spoke enough. Gentle grey eyes. Roelle hated that she thought she was betraying Nelly by thinking her new lady to be the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Her voice was sweet and soft, her singing sweeter still. She was kind to her servants, gentle in her words and beloved of her smallfolk.

Her main responsibilities were looking after the little nieces of Lady Elaena’s, her heiress’s four daughters Barba, Willa, Rhea and Alyssa, and seeing to the Lady’s spiritual needs. The little girls, all ladies in making, were enamored with Lady Elaena’s pottery work. They sat in her workshop to watch her work, and the Lady eventually began to teach them to work clay as she had. The girls loved their aunt, and, with Roelle denying in her thoughts how much it thrilled her, insisted on taking their lessons close to her and their play time close to her.

Their long winter break saw her join her Lady in a curious project. Probably inspired by her father’s actions with the City Watch, Lady Elaena was giving cloaks to all her sworn knights and guardsmen. Thick woolen cloaks for the cold seasons and lighter ones for the warm seasons, they were to be bronze colored and embroidered with ancient runes of protection. Despite Roelle being a devout worshipper of the Seven who did not believe in the power of said runes, she could not refuse her Lady when she asked for her help embroidering. Barba, the oldest of her nieces at eight, was the only one skilled enough to help with the cloaks, so the other three continued practicing their stitches while Lady Elaena, her ladies and Roelle worked.

It was not long after Ser Simon left to fight the clansmen in the land of one of Lady Elaena’s vassals that criminals were brought to be judged, it was Roelle’s first time seeing her lady’s justice at work. A horse thief, a raper and a wife-killer. The first to be brought forward were the hedge knight who accused a peasant of stealing his horse.

“M’lady, I was passing through your lands, making my way to Gulltown, when that cur thought to steal my horse,” the hedge knight, a Ser Pate of the Fingers, spoke his case. “Me and the squire where sleeping in an inn when that poxy bastard ran off with my sweet mare.”

“T-twas not so, m’lady Royce, ‘twas not so!” cried back the peasant. “It was him that done it, took me mare and ran off, he did! Please m’lady Royce, please!” The peasant was close to tears. Thieving was punished with the loss of a hand, stealing a horse was a hanging offense.

“You would accuse a knight of stealing?” the red-faced knight was about to start shouting when Lady Elaena interrupted him.

“Be silent, ser,” her eyes were hard, and the knight quieted down, Roelle saw that her Lady was staring at the twitching squire. “Justice is found in my hall and ‘tis a crime to lie before a lady seating in judgement, come forth boy,” she beckoned at the squire. “Knights vow to be true, boy, be knightly and I vow to you I shall have you squire for one of my knights. So tell me true boy, what happened?”

“Twas Ser Pate, m’lady, I says him not to, but he says a knight needs a horse and a peasant don’t,” the boy, ten namedays mayhaps, was shaking. “Please forgive me m’lady, I didn’t want to.”

“Restrain the false knight,” Lady Elaena ordered as Ser Pate tried to attack his squire. “The horse shall be returned to goodman Orrel,” Roelle didn’t know that her Lady knew the man. “You Ser Pate, have forgotten what it means to be a knight, so I shall grant you a kindness and allow you to request to take the black so you may remember what it is to be a knight. Or you can hang.” The knight, future black brother, was escorted to the dungeons as the next men were brought forward.

It was an ugly case. Tansy, the maid assigned to see to Roelle’s needs, told her all about it. A drifter come from Gulltown had crept into a farming hamlet where he had raped a woman. The farmers had caught him the next day and brough him to Lady Elaena to seek justice. But the woman’s husband had sought his own justice, his honor drove him to kill his own wife. The farmer claimed she had dishonored him, and he was merely doing his duty. Thankfully Lady Elaena thought otherwise and had sent her guards to imprison the man.

“You are accused of rape,” the maester spoke to the raper. “The evidence has been heard and you are found guilty.”

“I will take the black!” the man shouted. “I will take the black!”

“You are in your right,” Lady Elaena grimaced. “But you will not escape punishment, the watch shall receive a gelded brother,” her Lady signaled to a guard and the shouting raper was taken to the dungeons. “Gag the murdered and bring him forward,” Lady Elaena’s eyes turned hard as stone. “When your wife was attacked you thought yourself insulted and took out your wounded pride on an innocent. There will be no mercy for you, as there is none for such as you in my lands. Ser Norville,” she called for the executioner of Runestone. “Hang this man.”

That night, Lady Elaena sought her out. She called her to her office to speak of the Seven. Shaking she asked her about the Mother’s mercy and the Father’s justice. In that moment she was no longer Lady Elaena Royce, but a young girl seeking comfort after calling for a man’s execution. After assuring her that justice had been made, that crime had been punished and that she was not a bad person, all that Roelle could do was hold her crying Lady. It was there that she realized she was in love, and it was there where she forgot all about the orders of her distant relations.

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It was her first time sentencing a man to die. When Ser Simon had set out, she had not thought of it that way, even if he was off to fight and kill in her name. She had looked the murderer in the eyes. She had seen the fear in his eyes, and that hardened her heart. He would see no mercy from her, she would not let him escape justice by joining the Night’s Watch. That night she had sought out Septa Roelle’s knowledge of the Faith, mayhaps seeking absolution or to be justified. That night she dreamt of the murdered woman and forgot her guilt.

Ser Simon returned soon before her nameday. He carried a message from Lord Tollett warning of a plot to place Ser Arnold Arryn on the Weirwood throne. Lord Tollett was unsure of the potential success of such a plot and would prefer to follow his liege’s lead, claiming Coldwater would also follow his lead. Come spring, Ser Arnold would muster as many men as would follow him and march to cut off Jeyne from the mountain castle. She got to devising a plan quickly. When her mother had helped defeat the earlier rebellion she had been richly rewarded by Jeyne, and Elaena just so needed a grand reward to continue with her plans. She wanted a city charter for her fishing village, to create guilds and expand her docks.

She sent ravens to Tollett and Coldwater, commanding them to keep their knights close to home for the clansmen were still a danger. She knew Tollett would understand the message beneath her orders. Getting a message to Jeyne was more troublesome, she did not trust it to go by raven. Ravens were oft waylaid by predators or intercepted, and secrecy was of the essence if they wanted to catch Ser Arnold with his breeches down. She sent Jeyne a gift of fine cloth, escorted by two knights and ten men-at-arms, with a secret message hidden beneath the cloth. A warning to Jeyne about the impending trouble and a pledge of assistance.

Her nameday feast was a humble affair, and a raven came announcing spring soon afterwards.

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120 AC
Spring had come and the snows in the passes had melted. The time to act was now. Before she could summon him to her office, alongside Ser Gerold, Ser Gunthor came to her. Revealing that Ser Arnold would soon be in possession of the Vale, it would be in their better interest to have a blood relative as Warden of the East—Ser Arnold was married to Gunthor’s late daughter, his only son was Gunthor’s grandson. He attempted to convince her, and probably would have been more forceful in his attempt had Ser Simon not been there, but nothing would change her mind. Gunthor could not have the ear of the Lord of the Vale, and that was not even considering the friendship she shared with Jeyne.

Gunthor would not convince her against it, and did not dare to oppose her when she was surrounded by knights more loyal to her. She called her banners; her knights would march. But there, Ser Gunthor had gained a march on her. With his authority as master-at-arms, he had sent many of them on routinary patrols across her lands, to defend them from potential clansmen descending the mountains now that the snow had melted. It was the standard procedure when spring came, but what was not standard was the number of knights he had sent on patrol. She would be forced to march with only a hundred mounted knights, and half as many squires.

Ser Gerold also opposed her plans, but his opposition was of a different nature. Elaena intended to go herself. Her mother had marched with the army when Ser Osfryd had rebelled, and so would she. In the armories of House Royce there were even ancient armors meant for women. She would not take part in any fighting, but it would be silly not to wear armor. It was a long shirt of bronze scales, with a bronze brigandine inscribed with ancient runes to protect their wearer, greaves, gauntlets and a gorget, all in bronze. The chest plate was meant for a larger woman; thus, she was forced to stuff her chest plate with balls of wool. She would be wearing a bronze helmet as well. After Gerold failed to convince her otherwise, he had the twenty knights who would protect her swear an oath that no harm come to her else they would give up their swords and become begging brothers as penitence.

Ser Gerold stayed behind as castellan, but she took Gunthor with her, not trusting the man to remain at Runestone. Ser Simon commanded their company of one hundred and fifty horse, and they set out at a brisk pace. There would normally be no comforts on the march, as time was of the essence, but Ser Gerold still insisted she take maidservants with her, so three girls who know how to ride horses were sent to attend her. Their march through Royce lands was quick, but they met an unexpected force outside the walls of Gulltown.

Carrying the yellow burning tower of Grafton, an army of three hundred marched northwest. Ser Simon counted fifty horsemen and two hundred and fifty infantrymen. The Graftons could not call on as many knights as other houses in the Vale, but the city watch of Gulltown was large and as well-trained as men-at-arms could hope to be, and if he needed to do so, Lord Grafton could call on the largest peasant levies out of all of House Arryn’s vassals. Riding forward, accompanied by ten knights, came Lord Grafton himself. She had met him a few times already, a balding man with a pot belly and shaking hands that betrayed an over-indulgence in wine.

“My Lady of Royce well met!” if the man was nervous, he did not show it. Elaena’s force was all ahorse, and Ser Simon assured her that if need be he could sweep their opponents away.

“Well met, Lord Lucas,” Lucas Grafton had not come armored, he parleyed with her with his finest silks. “What bring the Lord of Gulltown in force to cross through my lands?”

“Why, umm, I was, umm,” the lord of Gulltown began to stumble with his words, when a young man stepped forward. Tall and slender, dark haired and blue eyed, the man wore the Arryn sigil upon his breast, though his falcon was colored gold.

“Lady Royce, allow me to present myself,” he knelt before her and kissed her hand. “I am Ser Benedict Arryn, eldest son of Isembard Arryn, and I command this here force you see, in Lord Grafton’s name, of course. We march in defense of the Maiden of the Vale, having heard of her cousin’s intent to press his claim.”

“Aye!” Lord Grafton quickly added. “We were marching in assistance of the Lady Jeyne.” He took a long swill of his canteen, the shaking of his hands somewhat stopping. “It would be in both of our interests, My Lady, to join our forces and march together. Gods know the clans will think twice to stand against the two greatest of the Vale lords,” he winked at her.

“Aye, my Lord, let us march together,” she had to think quickly, not showing any doubt nor making it seem as if the men with her took the decisions. “Let us make haste!” She ordered her men, Lord Grafton and Ser Benedict rode back to their army and began their march. Normally an army of footmen would slow them down, but the narrow mountain passes made sure that horse and men walked at the same pace.

She rode in the center of her force, surrounded by all of one hundred and fifty horsemen. Crossing into the mountains, Ser Benedict sought her out and asked for permission to ride by her side.

“My lady, I wished to offer my compliments on that fantastic cloth coming our of your lands,” the knight genuinely said. “My father has been purchasing it and selling it as far away as Oldtown,” Isembard Arryn was the wealthiest man in the Vale; he was an influential voice in Gulltown’s merchant guild, owned the largest trading fleet in the Vale and had opened many doors usually closed to merchants thanks to his lofty name. “It is rare for a fellow lord to care about the betterment of their domain in such a manner.”

“My gratitude, Ser,” it was good business to stay in this man’s father’s good graces. “I am thankful of the trust your father has given to our cloth, such that he will send it out to such distant ports.”

“Think nothing of it,” Ser Benedict smiled, he had all his teeth, she noticed. “My grandmother was a merchant’s daughter, you know? As is my mother” he spoke after a silence, with a look that challenged those who’d insult him. “Many lords even refuse to treat with us, so I wish to offer gratitude for your courtesy and after all this business is done, to invite you to our manor in Gulltown, my father would be quite pleased to meet with you.”

“I will certainly consider it, Ser Benedict,” Elaena cared little if he had merchant ancestors, but she now realized the man was thinking of a potential betrothal and she would need to tread carefully. Benedict Arryn was handsome enough, and wealthy, from a family who knew trade and business. But she had heard, from Ser Gunthor of all people, that the man had purchased his knighthood and had fathered three bastards from three different women. “Once this business with Ser Arnold is settled, we have spring and summer to do with as we please,” Ser Benedict nodded at her and rode to the back to rejoin Lord Grafton.

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Going around Lake Waynwood, they came upon one hundred knights and twice as many men-at-arms carrying the red castle of House Redfort. Jessamyn’s two brothers led their force. Lord Byron and Ser Adrian rode over to treat with them. They greeted Elaena kindly, but were clearly surprised to see Grafton with her. They all had come with the same objective, so their forces were joined and marched to the Eyrie.

Lord Byron knew the terrain, and his scouts had reported the movements of Ser Arnold’s forces, so he was given command over the entire force. Other lords had pledged support, but according to Lord Byron, they could crush the forces gathered around Ser Arnold with the men they had. Beneath Ser Arnold’s falcon, no house of any importance raised their banner. In her command tent, the largest that had been brought (at Ser Gerold’s insistence), they planned the battle. Lady Jeyne was holding strong in the Gates of the Moon, Ser Arnold was building siege equipment. Most of their cavalry would ride around the Giant’s Lance, taking care not to be seen, and when their infantry engaged with Ser Arnold’s forces, their cavalry would strike from behind. Capturing, or killing, Ser Arnold was their main goal.

Lord Byron, as well as Lucas Grafton and Ser Benedict, insisted on leaving an honor guard around her. Grafton lent her two squirrely looking knights, who happened to be distant nephews of his, while Lord Byron had left his young brother and a burly knight with her. Her sworn twenty remained around her, as did Ser Gunthor. Ser Adrian Redfort was her age, recently knighted this winter after a skirmish with the clansmen and tall and strong as an oak. He was nearly of a size with Ser Gunthor and would likely grow just as large. His voice, however, was remarkably soft.

“Worry not, Lady Elaena,” he spoke after their forces had left. “My brother will see things through, and I shall protect you if need be.” He slapped his arm, showing off his muscles.

“Gods willing it shall not be, ser,” Elaena had full trust in her knights, Ser Simon was commanding her forces. “Tell me, how is the Lady Marla? She had told me she was with child, last time she sent me a raven.”

“She is doing quite well,” the large knight looked surprised. “I have a nephew now. Forgive me my Lady, but I had not known you knew my brother’s wife.”

“Why, I was the one to introduce them, it was during-” she was interrupted as a group of three men, in Arryn livery chanced upon them. One of them, more brave than clever, charged them and was swiftly cut down by Ser Adrian as the rest of her guard surrounded them. The others, clearly smarter, quickly surrendered and were tied to a tree.

The sound of battle began getting closer, until she could see the Grafton banners, slowly moving towards them. Something was going wrong, it seemed. She could not see their cavalry.

“Ser Adrian, five men are enough to guard me,” she pointed at his trumpet. “Ride with the rest of the knights, make as much noise as you can and hit them in the right flank, where that banner of locked hands is,” the large knight seemed to wish to argue, but a look in her serious eyes was all it took for him to make his mind.

Leading a force, that included a reluctant Ser Gunthor, they charged the right flank. Ser Adrian was a strong warrior, cutting down the panicked footmen as the Grafton men-at-arms retook their ground. But it was Ser Gunthor who drew all eyes, the Bronze Giant was once famed as the strongest warrior in the Vale and no man amongst Ser Arnold’s rebels could stand against him. To her eyes, it truly seemed as if he alone turned the tide of battle. When, with a great cheer, a large force of horsemen emerged from their rear, carrying a burning Arryn banner, the rebels still locked in fighting dropped their weapons and surrendered. Lord Byron joined her after he had seen to the surrendering army. He was livid with her, as were many of her knights, but none could truly fault her for sending reinforcements to the battle.

Ser Arnold Arryn had been captured. His army had been a mix of hedge knights, minor landed knights and their levies, and few household knights from lords unwilling to fully commit. When he saw the incoming knights, he had split his force into two, sent the larger to delay the knights whilst sending the smaller but more experienced to break the infantry and capture their camp. When Lady Jeyne had seen the locked armies, she ordered her men to sally out and join the relief forces, allowing the knights to quickly ride down their enemies and come to the aid of the infantry. Elaena’s forces had lost five-and-thirty knights and twelve squires; but three-and-thirty squires would be knighted.

It was whispered that the Knight of Ninestars had called his banners of nearly one thousand men to join Ser Arnold but had been unable to move in time. Many other lords were supposedly on their way to assist him, but Ser Arnold’s rebellion was nipped in the butt before it truly could start.

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Lady Jeyne received her captured enemies and victorious allies in the Gates of the Moon. There she would stand in judgement; there she would reward her allies. Lady Jeyne wished to discuss rewards with the individual lords before announcing them to all. Lords, knights and ladies were still making the journey to witness the result. Some of these lords would be punished, for they intended to rebel.

Before Elaena’s meeting with Jeyne, a kneeling Ser Gunthor stood before her.

“Please, my Lady,” he took her right hand with both of his. “I know I have done you wrong and I will accept your punishment, but please do not let my grandson become a hostage in the Eyrie.”

“You wish for me to speak in favor of Eldric,” Eldric Arryn was ten namedays and would likely become Jeyne’s hostage.

“He is all I have left of my Betha, please do not let him become a hostage,” she felt tears hit her hand. “I swear by the Gods Old and New to obey whatever order you will give me, but please, do not let her take him.”

“I will see what I can do,” having Gunthor neutered would be helpful, but she did not expect him to kiss her hand. He shuffled back to their assigned rooms, as she walked to Jeyne’s solar.

“Elaena!” she smiled, but that smile soon turned into a frown. “What is this I hear of you sending your guard away to do some foolish maneuver? You could have been hurt!” She walked towards her and began to search for any injury, Elaena noticed she was now quite taller than Jeyne. “You seem fine, but I shan’t have you do anything of that sort again. Now, sit and let’s talk of your reward.”

“I promise to not risk my life like that again,” she sat next to Jeyne. “Where is Jess? I thought she was your greatest advisor,” she smiled.

“Berating that foolish brother of hers that abandoned you,” she huffed, which provoked Elaena’s laughter.

“Let us talk business then,” Elaena finally replied when she could stop laughing. “I would like a city charter for a town in my land, so I could create artisan’s guilds and expand my docks.”

“Ah,” Jeyne’s smile fell. “I am afraid that will not be possible, Lord Grafton’s assistance was paramount. I received your message, but before that I had received his and he proved instrumental in turning others from rebellious thoughts,” she tried to give her a smile, an awkward one. “If I grant you that reward, I risk upsetting Grafton when he has done me such a large service,” Jeyne stood, and paced around her room whilst Elaena grew cold. “I know! I shall grant you leave to start one guild, for clothmakers, grant you leave to raise walls in that town of yours and to grow it to its fullest. You may also construct a small dock as those you already own and a large one so those large ships your Velaryon friends use can dock close to you.”

It was something, she guessed. But still less than what she had thought. She wanted guilds for dyemakers, tapestrymakers, builders and seamstresses as well. Her disappointment must have shown on her face, for Jeyne quickly grabbed her by the hands.

“Oh, please don’t give me that look, I may not be able to grant you the charter now but tomorrow is always a new day,” she smiled at her. “Please, ask me something else and I shall grant it.”

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“All stand for Her Ladyship, Jeyne of House Arryn, Lady of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East!” cried the herald, it had taken nearly a sennight for every lord to arrive. “Ser Arnold Arryn, step forward.”

“Cousin,” Lady Jeyne looked down at the chained Ser Arnold as he was brought before her. “You have attempted to take my birthright with spurious claims about your skill in arms and the frailty of women,” snickers were heard in the gallery. “When your father rebelled, I had offered him to join the Night’s Watch, you shall not receive said curtesy. You will join me in my climb to the Eyrie and take your place in a sky cell, of your choosing,” she waved him away. “Let him remain so he sees what troubles he caused his allies.” Many minor knights were called and attained, hedge knights made to take the black, and levies pardoned, until finally an important lord was called.

“Ser Jonothor Templeton, Knight of Ninestars, step forward!” The old man approached Lady Jeyne. He was stooped and nearly blind, helped along by his two grandsons.

“When Ser Arnold plotted revolt, you intended to join him, and the only reason you have not been attained is that no Templeton fought against me,” the knight swallowed nervously. “For the next five years your grandson and heir shall serve at my pleasure in the Eyrie, your second son is to serve Lady Royce for two years before he is allowed to return home.”

“Thank you for your mercy, my liege,” the old man knelt. Once the punishments were done, Jeyne had taken for herself hostages from all houses in the Three Sisters and House Dutton.

“Lord Lucas Grafton, step forward,” the herald cried as the currently sober lord walked up to the dais trying to ignore the glares that Ser Arnold shot his way.

“When Lord Lucas heard of a conspiracy against me,” Jeyne began. “He did everything in his power to warn me and assist me. He spoke to his friends in my favor and led his men to fight in my defense,” there were some cheers amongst the audience, from Gulltowners chiefly. “All properties held by Arnold Arryn in Gulltown are to be seized and granted to Lord Lucas. For the next seven years, the taxes of Gulltown will be reduced and the Falcon’s Harbor shall be opened to ships bearing Grafton banners,” there were cheers as Lord Lucas stood. Seven years of reduced taxes had cost her her full charter.

“Lady Elaena Royce, step forward,” this was the first time many lords laid eyes on her, and she could feel chills on her skin. Jeyne announced the rewards they had discussed beforehand, as well as something else.

“Ser Arnold’s only son, my nephew and kin to Lady Elaena, shall be fostered at Runestone where he shall become Lady Elaena’s cupbearer and serve at her pleasure,” upon hearing that, Ser Gunthor thanked the Gods and vowed to keep his oath, while Ser Arnold gave a smile so small that none noticed.

Lord Byron Redfort was the next to be rewarded, followed by knights and even some men-at-arms. After court had ended and Jeyne began her climb up the mountain, Elaena turned back home. With the younger Templeton knight she was unsure why Jeyne had granted her, and her cousin Eldric in tow. Ser Olyvar Templeton was a quiet young man of three-and-twenty. Skilled with the sword, but no great warrior like his brother. He had brown hair, so light it could be blonde, and blue eyes, tall and more pretty than handsome. He would serve his new Lady with honor, and regain his family’s honor. Young Eldric was an Arryn in every way possible, skinny, blonde, blue-eyed and with an aquiline nose. She had decided the young boy would become Ser Simon’s squire.

Once she returned to Runestone, she heard the news that Laena Velaryon had died in childbirth a moon before. She had missed the funeral.

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We start the chapter with the new septa's POV. I'm trying to get better at characterizing characters, so I can nail down Elaena better. She is gradually going native.

A women's position in this society is not a nice one. Septa Roelle was one of the first characters I thought of when imagining the beats of the story, and might still have a larger role. Knowing about the rumours going around about Jeyne Arryn, you can probably tell the sort of plan that Jason Lannister thought of.
Through her eyes we see Elaena sit in judgement, and teach art to her little nieces.

She moves fast to help deal with Ser Arnold, but is beat to the punch by someone else. Ser Arnold was right about Grafton following the money, it just happened that he wasn't the one with the better offer. They move quickly, so Ser Arnold can't gather all of his forces-though they still get punished.

I introduce some new named characters, and most of you can probably figure out what they'll be up to with Elaena.

I also had a question, when winter comes and the lords of the Eyrie descend the mountain. Do they take their sky cell prisoners with them or leave them in the cold?

Thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

120 AC

Ser Gunthor Royce was tired. That morning, for the first time in many years, he prayed to the Crone. He had long worried about the future Runestone. Yorbert had been a good lord, a good knight and a good regent. He had only been survived by a daughter; and while Rhea was a competent Lady, and Royce to the marrow, her husband left much to be desired. Daemon Targaryen was a villain and a fiend. They had once thought themselves blessed by the Good Queen with this royal match, but it had been a curse. Daemon did not take long to insult not just Rhea, not just House Royce, but the entire Vale. Gunthor could confidently say that Daemon Targaryen would not be a welcome guest in any castle in the Vale.

For a few years, the Targaryen princeling scorned Rhea and it seemed the succession would eventually pass to another Royce, but the villain had managed to father a child on poor Rhea. He had placed his grubby hands on their home. As she grew up, Lady Elaena looked more and more like that cur Daemon. He was angry for many years. When Lady Elaena named her father as regent he had despaired over their holdings, expecting the prince to ruin their House. He was thankfully wrong, and the prince abandoned their land. The rule of the land was left on the small shoulders of Lady Elaena, and the Royce household.

It took him a long time to see that she was not her father, that Rhea had raised the girl. Lady Elaena was diligent and pious, respectful and temperate, everything her father wasn’t. She respected the Seven when that villain Daemon spat only insults to their ways. She knew the Vale in a way her father had never cared to learn. When she began spending coin and bringing in sheep from afar, he had worried the girl was brain-addled, her father and grandparents (Seven keep good Prince Baelon by their side) were abominations born of incest after all. He understood what she wanted, when a knight was in want of a great horse, breeding was usually the way. But breeding sheep? Though after his son Gerold had shown him their profits from her wool trade, he comprehended what the girl wanted.

She was a proper Royce after all. He had worried she’d have a woman’s heart and not be able to rule in the Vale, but she acted quickly when Tollett called for aid and did not waver when calling for executions. She was growing up to be a good Lady of Runestone. But the Eyrie was another matter. Ser Arnold had married his daughter; his grandson Eldric would one day rule the Vale. But Lady Jeyne was favoring her distant cousin. Arnold was sure she would marry the lad and deny him his inheritance. He knew Elaena was fostered with Jeyne and liked the lady, but she was coolheaded enough that if Jeyne could be quickly removed, Gunthor would be able to convince her of the benefit to Runestone of having their blood in the Weirwood throne.

He was not fast enough in getting the knights away, on important duties afar. But it would not matter, Lucas Grafton double-crossed them. Arnold had come to tell him that Grafton was with them, that he had pledged his swords to their cause. But instead, that snake had revealed their plans to Lady Jeyne, had bribed other lords against them and convinced them to abandon their cause; and for that, he had been richly rewarded. Seven damn Grafton to the deepest of hells for his betrayal. When the command to attack Arnold’s forces came, he had no choice but to obey, for he was a knight of Runestone.

Before the trial he managed to talk to Arnold and hear his plea. He wanted Eldric to be raised away from Jeyne Arryn. She would unman his son to remove a rival to her rule. He begged Gunthor to find a way to take the boy, to raise him in Runestone as he had been. To make him a knight and a worthy future Lord of the Vale. He had approached Lady Elaena, willing to beg and offer whatever he could in return for her assistance in securing Eldric. He did not expect her to approach Lady Jeyne, but she managed to get the boy fostered at Runestone. But considering the face that Elaena had made after leaving Jeyne’s office, she must not have gotten all that she wanted as a reward.

Elaena had asked him to leave his post as master-at-arms, and as he had sworn to obey her in all matters, he had no choice but to agree. She at least had the grace to appoint the knight he recommended, Ser Robert Stone. A solid man and a skilled knight, he would do well at the training of new knights. Gunthor was now devoted to the education of his grandson, Eldric. His other grandson, Jorah’s boy and his namesake, had middling talent in arms so Lady Elaena decided he would become a septon. Jorah didn’t seem to mind his son not becoming a knight, and Gunthor had promised his cooperation in everything. Lady Elaena had allowed him to remain a knight of Runestone and he intended to die a knight of Runestone, hopefully after seeing Eldric seat the throne of his ancestors. He had sworn his oath to Lady Elaena, and he would keep it or be damned by Gods Old and New.

Eldric would receive a Lord’s education in Runestone, and a knight’s education as well. He didn’t even have to ask, and Lady Elaena sent him off to lessons with the maester and the septa as if it was natural to do so. The boy was made a squire to Ser Simon Storm and Gunthor thought that if he wouldn’t be able to teach his grandson then Ser Simon was the best knight for the job. The Stormlander was skilled with the sword and brave in battle; Jorah had told him of their foray into the mountains and their success fighting the clans. He was skilled with sword and lance, chivalrous and kind to smallfolk. Lady Elaena had brought home a worthy knight. Gunthor had to make sure Eldric was prepared to become Lord Arryn.

The news of Lady Elaena’s stepmother dying came at a terrible time. She could not drop everything and sail away to meet with her father and half-sisters. The Feast of Arrival was upon them and no lord of the Vale could afford to miss it. It was held in Gulltown every seven-and-seventy years and it commemorated the arrival of the Andals to the Vale. Solemn services in the sept would be followed by a celebration lasting seven days, where high and lowborn alike took to the streets of Gulltown. Smallfolk from all around the Vale, and even some from other places, made the long journey singing old songs like Off to Gulltown, Forty-four sons and Hugor’s Promise, no one wished to miss the once in a lifetime festival. Runestone had been preparing for months and as much as it pained her, Lady Elaena had to go to the Feast.

The Feast is said to be thousands of years old, established by King Artys IV Arryn “the Merrymaker” to celebrate three hundred years of Andal rule in the Vale. The Feast was held in Gulltown but had always been organized and hosted by House Arryn. Maybe once it was a more formal and religious affair, but nowadays the streets rang with music and drink flowed freely through the city; or so he had heard from his father. The last Feast happened during the reign of Maegor, years before Gunthor’s birth; to appease the king and not draw his ire for celebrating the Faith so openly, they had built a statue commemorating the cruel king’s victory over Jonos Arryn. And Elaena, though she was a Royce now, would be the first of the dragon’s lineage to attend the Feast of Arrival and with King Viserys sending a letter requesting she stand in his place during the festivities, she had to be there.

Before Arnold’s ill-fated attempt to retake his birthright, Lady Elaena had already extended an invitation to Jeyne Arryn to visit Runestone before the Feast and see the new gates. And what gates they were! Gunthor thought luck favored them in that Elaena had been born to their house, able to make such wonders (and what luck that she was not Daemon writ small). After her stepmother’s death she also sent letters of invitation to Driftmark, but Ser Laenor had been the only one to come. The villain Daemon had gone to Dragonstone with his younger daughters and Princess Rhaenys was in mourning.

Ser Laenor was a proper knight. Gunthor knew dragonblood did not spawn only Daemons, and Laenor was a worthy heir to the Late Prince Aemon, may the Father judge him justly and the Crone guide him wherever he may be. Skilled in the yard, fond of a good hunt, easy to befriend and chivalrous, Ser Laenor was everything a knight should be. Even if the Princess was a Dragonrider and he had given his oaths to the king, he was unsure about a ruling queen but with Ser Laenor by her side the kingdom was surely in good hands. He had heard whispers of the princess giving Ser Laenor horns but they clearly where just that, whispers by jealous rivals. No woman would search elsewhere with the young Velaryon knight as a husband. Those three sons of theirs were sure to grow into great knights with Ser Laenor by their side and, Seven willing, Daemon far away. That Ser Laenor was like old uncle Mors mattered little, when a man’s blood was flowing they did their duty.

“Ah! Your gates remind me of father’s tales of Qarth, cousin,” exclaimed Laenor as Elaena presented her handiwork to him and the Arryn girl. “Its walls were likewise engraved with tremendous skill.”

What artistry had the Crone blessed them with. Lady Elaena had spent her winter locked in her workshop bringing Royces of old to life, nearly five and fifty Royces of old decorated the gates. Mayhaps too many women for his tastes, but their lives were worthy of the Royce name. Largest amongst the kings, there was Yorwyck I, who found tin underneath his castle and became the first Bronze King. Then, with sword in hand and standing on a ship, there was King Morgan II Royce who defeated the Storm King’s fleet in a clever trap. There was Branda Royce who, after her husband’s murder by the Shett kings of Gulltown, sacked the town and forced the king’s children into thralldom appeared with a sword cradled in one arm and a crowned babe cradled in the other. The right side was dominated by the Andal Royces. With his hand in prayer, there was Lord Morgan the Pious, who married an Arryn princess and built the Bronze Sept for her. Lady Lucinda who withstood a year long siege in Runestone, defending against a bastard half-brother who claimed her title. Lady Amerei and King Gerold and many others. And in the bottom corner, with hands as if giving shape to the entire thing, was Lady Elaena, next to a banner quartered with the Targaryen dragon and the Royce sigil.

“You have truly talented hands,” Jeyne’s Redfort companion spoke as she traced the shape of a Royce Queen. “And humble as well,” she laughed when she found the carving of Elaena.

“I see now what keeps you from my Winter court at the Gates,” teased the Lady Arryn. “Next winter I hope you will visit without having to call your banners.”

“Thank you,” Elaena blushed at the compliments. “I will make sure to make the time for…”

Ser Gunthor had already spent hours admiring the doors, so he left his Lady with her friends and set out to track Eldric and make sure the boy was ready for the Feast.

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The Feast of Arrival celebrated the coming of the Andals. Gulltown was full of banners of stars and musicians. Every plaza had held its own small festival. Nobles and smallfolk were generous with their purses for this once-in-a-lifetime celebration. So, Elaena had a plan. She’d stockpiled a considerable amount of cloth, fine and not so fine, brightly dyed and of humbler colors, which she intended to flood the various markets with. She wanted everyone to see her cloth, to ask where it came from and to purchase it. She was certain her fine cloth was the best in the Vale and every Lord and merchant would soon want to buy more.

Laena’s death had come as a surprise. Her sisters were still toddlers, not young girls yet, and she had died. She had even double-checked who the Hand was, and Lyonel Strong remained Hand of the King. She knew things were different from the show, but she didn’t know it was to this extent. If things happened faster than she thought, she had to make sure to be ready. She was not going to try and claim a dragon, much less when Rhaenyra locks all the bastards and dragonseeds with Vermithor. Being a Dragonrider was a sure way to get involved and she didn’t want to die for a throne. And not even mentioning her fear of heights, she still couldn’t climb the tallest tower of Runestone.

Laenor had returned from Volantis after a successful trading voyage. He had sent her messages promising to tell her all about his trip, but his sister’s death had put a stop to that. He had accepted her invitation, and didn’t seem to be upset she had missed her funeral. Neither was her father, who had sent her a letter with Laenor. They both seemed to agree that waging war in defense of your liege was a reasonable excuse to miss a funeral. Daemon’s letter was short and to the points; she’d come to understand he was a man of few words and had learnt to not expect long speeches from him. Though Laenor said Rhaenyra was quite cross with her.

Laenor was smiling too much, Elaena thought. And when they arrived to Gulltown and he began drinking much more than usual, she confirmed her suspicions that he was merely putting on a brave face. She knew very little about comforting someone after a tragedy, so all she thought of was to assign two knights to make sure he was fine and didn’t find any trouble. His drunken antics, and friendly demeanor, soon saw him befriending Lucas Grafton and the other drunk lords in attendance. In the TV series he had “died” not long after Laena, so she hoped she’d still be able to talk to him; she liked Laenor.

The first day of the Feast involved a religious ceremony that lasted the entire day. The High Septon himself had come to Gulltown and read from the Seven-Pointed-Star and told stories of the coming of the Andals. As the sun was setting, he told a folk legend from the Reach about the Crone walking into the Citadel, debating with the Archmaesters and convincing all of them to convert to the Faith of the Seven. That was one of the traditions, every day a lord would tell a story they knew about one of the Seven aspects to the crowd. They had drawn lots, and Elaena got the last day, and the Stranger. Nobody had wanted the Stranger, but, after getting chosen, many lords had come to her to tell her stories they knew about brave knights facing their deaths and old kings welcoming the Stranger.

The night of the first day they were hosted in the Arryn manor by Jeyne. Elaena had asked and convinced Jessamyn to sit her next to the High Septon. She thought of something good she could do for the people of the Vale and wished to discuss it with him. She’d told Jeyne her idea beforehand, but as soon as she began talking about allying with the High Septon she had gotten bored and given her permission. Jeyne and Jess weren’t the most pious. The place from before had had had universities, very old ones. This place only had the Citadel. From what she had come to understand of Maester Rookwill’s character and life, maesters jealously guarded their monopoly on education and picking a fight with them meant picking a fight with the Hightowers. The Faith however, still chafing at the restrictions placed on them by the Old King, was ever looking to extend their authority.

The current High Septon, called the Traveling One, was attempting to remind lords of the fealty owed to the Seven by visiting as many of them as he could. He argued that just as they owed allegiance to the King, they owed allegiance to the Seven-who-are-One and wanted to make sure as many lords remembered that. Elaena wished to create a university like in her old world. A place of learning for clergy, that just so happened to also accept non-clergy and teach other valuable knowledges. Students were expected to first earn a Master of Arts, learning grammar, logic, rhetoric, musical theory, astronomy, arithmetic and geometry; and then they could go on and earn a degree in Theology (as well as a few other disciplines that would bring her too close to picking a fight against the Citadel, like Law, Medicine or Natural Sciences). She wanted to convince the Citadel, and everyone, they were merely founding a learning place for septons, while her real objective would be all the people who only got their Mastery of Arts. If things worked out, it would not only produce better educated septons for the Vale, but also a better educated people for the city, for her unnamed fishing and harbor town as well.

The High Septon was sharp and quickly interested. He yearned for the old days when the Faith was more respected at large, and kings would fight to get in the good graces of the Faith. Her plan, he thought, would be a great way to bring back prestige and authority to the Faith. If his septons were better educated and trained in skills usually reserved for maesters then they would be better able to convince lords and smallfolk of the Truth of the Seven. He promised her that as soon as he returned to Oldtown he would set about organizing a delegation of intelligent septons, faithful maesters and the necessary men to discuss the cost.

Elaena then approached Lord Grafton, to convince him to accept, but the drunk lord was deep in his cups and unable to hold any discussion. The man next to him however bowed and introduced himself.

“Lady Royce,” he was an older man, tall and slightly overweight with greying blonde hair, a large moustache and blue eyes. On his chest was a gilded falcon. “I am Isembard Arryn, an… advisor to Lord Lucas. My son, Benedict, spoke fondly of your meeting so I beg you will allow me to treat you as an old friend, seen long ago,” a smile.

“Well met, Lord Isembard,” he kissed her hand. He was no lord in truth, but his station and wealth afforded him respect. “I had hoped to speak with Lord Lucas about an opportunity with the High Septon,” Every person in Gulltown said the man who truly ruled the city was the Gilded Falcon. Upon seeing the interest in his eyes, she laid out her plan and what the High Septon had thought.

“I see,” deep in thought, the Gilded Falcon pulled at his moustache. “It certainly sounds useful, particularly those who will not end up as septons. I could use men of letters and Gods know how much maesters cost,” he dramatically grimaced. “I will convince Lucas. If we have this place be under the authority of the Faith, in land granted to them, there will be no taxes and no greedy lords thinking of today’s gold instead of tomorrow’s,” Isembard Arryn had a quick mind for matters of coin and knew the laws of Gulltown like the palm of his hand.

“I am glad you see the benefit, Lord Isembard,” she gave him a smile. “It may very well be many years before we see the benefits, but you are correct in that those who come out with the knowledge will be well worth the investment.”

“I see Benedict spoke truly,” Isembard Arryn was delighted. “A Lady wise beyond her years and who sees what truly moves our world,” he looked around him until he found his son and beckoned him over. “Benedict!”

“Lord Father, Lady Royce,” Benedict Arryn bowed before her and kissed her hand. “I beg you to allow me to dance with the most beautiful woman in the Vale.”

Elaena, happy that things were going her way, danced two songs with Ser Benedict. For the third, she was asked to dance with Ser Adrian Redfort, sent by his sister, Jessamyn, who cared little for Jeyne’s merchant relations. Ser Adrian, already quite drunk, merely managed one song before stumbling over to his brother Byron, and Elaena was asked to dance by nearly every bachelor in the Vale. The last of whom was her hostage in Runestone, Ser Olyvar Templeton. She didn’t know him very well, he was a quiet young man, who preferred listening over talking.

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The rest of the days passed as a blur. Elaena met every lord and landed knight of importance, and their sons. She had promised her household she would look for a potential husband so she tried to remember as many names as she could. She knew Isembard and Benedict wanted a wedding, though she only knew their courtesies and not their nature. Jessamyn would probably love it if she married Adrian, judging by how often he was asking her to dance.

On the fifth day, in Lord Grafton’s Hall, the maester ran over with a message towards his lord and Isembard rushed over towards Jeyne with the message in hand. Warily, the Maiden of the Vale took the message and read it. After a brief moment, she asked for silence, and stood to speak.

“My lords, tragedy has struck our Seven Kingdoms,” she spoke loud enough to be heard by all in the room. “A fire in Harrenhal has claimed the life of our good Hand and his son and heir,” Elaena noticed Laenor going pale. “Let us pray for their souls and for our King.”

The Hall was silent as a grave, before mutterings began about “the cursed ruin of Harren’s pride” and “the vengeful ghost of Harren the Black”. Elaena knew some of what went on in that monstrous keep, thanks entirely to the place from before, but she also knew who was responsible. That night, after dinner, Laenor begged forgiveness and flew back home.

The Seventh day finally came. Her story was to come with sunset, where it would be followed by a speech bringing the Feast to a close. As representative of King Viserys, both things fell to her. Viserys had sent her a speech of what he wanted to say, so she only needed to read it. She spent her day going over their cloth sales. They sold nearly everything, the lower quality cloth running out in the first days and the highest quality moving much slower. Gerold, who had overseen the transport of cloth and would oversee the transport of coin, declared their commercial venture a resounding success. Until at last, escorted by Ser Simon and a knight called Ser Benfred, who everyone called the Grim, she stepped into the stage built in front of the Sept.

She had considered the stories of knights and kings, but in the end decided on something she remembered of the place from before. Taking a long deep breath, she began: “Years and years ago, long before the days of the dragons, there lived a poor lumberjack in the Mountains of the Moon. He had ten sons and daughters and everything he earnt went to feeding his children. One day, tortured by his hunger, he stole a goat from his neighbor and fled into mountains to eat,” she looked at her audience, listening intently. “When suddenly, as he sat under a fallen tree, a man with a long white beard came upon him and said: don’t you know boy that stealing is a crime and will bring judgement upon you and your own? Best you give me that goat and, together, we can make amends. But the lumberjack was hungry. He looked at the man and saw He was the Father Above and spoke: is it truly just that I who hunger have nothing when others have more and plenty and work less than me? And the lumberjack left with his goat in hand.”

“He sat down next to a creek, when a Lord, all in red, came upon him and said: Boy, I’ve done see what you’ve done, and it was fairly done, methinks. Come with me, give me that beast and I will take you with me to my land where you shall enjoy all my hospitalities. But the lumberjack saw that the Lord was him who rules over the Seven Hells and spoke: you are a liar and hold nothing but torment for all. Go away!” the silent attention that followed gave her confidence.

“The lumberjack ran once again, now to a cave. When a hooded figure came upon him,” at this, many in the crowd gasped. “Boy, he spoke, I am hungry, and you have more than enough, won’t you share with me? And the lumberjack, who had known at once who he was, shared with him. They ate silently, when suddenly, the Stranger stood and spoke: you have done me a kindness, and a kindness I will return. Have this, and the lumberjack was handed a flask full of a sparkling liquid, with this you shall be the most famous healer. When you come upon a sick person, you shall see me. If I stand next to their head, the Stranger explained, then with that medicine you shall heal all maladies. But!” she shouted, trying to scare children listening. “If when you see the ill, I stand by their feet then you must not do anything, there is no saving them. And with that, the Stranger vanished.”

“The lumberjack returned home and soon heard his neighbor had been kicked by a mule and laid close to death. Visiting his neighbor, laid out on his bed, he saw the Stranger standing next to the man’s head and so, uncorking his flask, he saved his neighbor’s life. In no time, the lumberjack had become a very famous healer, and a very rich healer. Merchants from afar, lords and princes sought him out for his healing powers. Whenever he saw the Stranger at the feet of the sick, he would beg forgiveness and say he was unable to help.”

“But one day,” she lifted a finger, “the King of all the land called for the most famous healer. The king’s only son was deathly ill, and he was promising a lordship to whoever could heal the boy. The lumberjack, hearing of the great reward, eagerly promised the king that he would heal his son. But when he arrived at the prince’s room, he saw the Stranger standing by his feet. The lumberjack worried, what would happen to his reward if he could not save the boy? But he had a clever idea, he would cheat the Stranger,” unbelieving snickers and gasps. “He asked the royal guards to lift the prince’s bed and turn it around, and once the Stranger stood by the prince’s head, the lumberjack healed him.”

“The lumberjack, quite pleased with himself, left the king’s castle thinking how he could become even richer by turning beds. When,” she paused, “the Stranger stood in front of him and spoke: I told you not to heal those at whose feet I stood. Come with me. And the Stranger dragged the lumberjack to a cave, full of candles. He spoke again: these candles you see are the lives of every man, woman and child. When their time comes, their candle sniffs out. Do you see this? And he showed the lumberjack a candle that had nearly run out. Whose is that? The lumberjack was scared. It was the prince’s candle. But as you stopped his death, you have traded your own life for his. It is your candle now.”

She had gotten the full attention of her audience; she had changed the story a little and was happy they enjoyed it. “Please, forgive me! The lumberjack fell to his knees. The Stranger merely smiled and said: all right, have this new candle; if you can light it before yours goes out then you will be saved. The lumberjack forcefully grabbed both candles, trying to light the new one with the old. But alas, you cannot cheat the Stranger. The lumberjack’s candle went out in his hands.”

The crowd cheered for her story. The smallfolk talked so much between themselves that they did not hear the King’s speech about unity, peace and the bright future of his chosen heir. Jeyne congratulated her for her story and requested ten more, since she knew interesting tales. Come morning, Elaena returned to Runestone. A month later, a raven came announcing the “death” of Laenor Velaryon and inviting her to the funeral.

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He was dead. It was not a burnt body. It was Laenor’s embalmed body. Surrounded by the Silent Sisters, her friend’s body lay peacefully. By his side, clutching a bronze Meleys, sat a silently weeping Rhaenys Targaryen. Elaena had come to Driftmark and arrived before the king’s party. The castle was in mourning, Lord Corlys was shouting angry orders and commands, offering fortunes for his son’s killer. Princess Rhaenys had not left her son’s body.

“Elaena,” Rhaenys stood and gave her a hug. “It is good you could come, Laenor always spoke well of you.” She could feel the warm tears falling on her dress.

“M-my condolences, princess,” Elaena was weeping as well. She had thought Laenor would be safe, running away to a life of freedom.

They were hugging when Rhaenyra came into the room. Her eyes wide, they suddenly turned hard.

“It is good you could come this time, cousin,” she seemed to want to say something else, but Princess Rhaenys gave her a look that could curdle milk and Rhaenyra left. Her father was the next to come by and hugged her, before nodding at Rhaenys and leaving after Rhaenyra.

The funeral was in High Valyrian. Elaena did not know it. Daemon had left books in Runestone and tried to teach her, but he wasn’t patient enough to teach a language. After Ser Vaemond, nephew to Coryls, said something, Daemon giggled. Must be that joke about Velaryon blood, she gathered, though Corlys, Rhaenys and Viserys glared at him. The king had come with what appeared to be the entire court.

During the gathering after the ceremony Elaena sat next to Rhaenys, who brought Baela and Rhaena to sit with her; Rhaena remembered her, but Baela didn’t. She watched the Royal Family. She’d never seen most of them. The king was balding, fatter than ever and, judging by the heavy gloves, had lost a few fingers. Queen Alicent, in her thirties, was still an attractive woman and birthing four children had done little to impact her figure. Aegon was a pimply teenager, though only three-and-ten he was drinking heavily. Helaena was one-and-ten, on the chubbier side, and hanging from her mother’s arm while talking to her. The ten-year-old prince Aemond, two-eyed, was fuming about something, glaring at his father. Also, with Alicent was her youngest, six-year-old Daeron. All silver haired, and purple eyed.

Rhaenyra had a mom body, though she remained a beauty she still carried most of her pregnancy weight. She had been a mother at seven-and-ten and had three sons in just four years. Her sons were holding hands next to her, sniffling, all dressed in black. All brown-haired. All brown-eyed. All pug-nosed. Mayhaps that was the reason Rhaenyra preferred to keep court in Dragonstone away from everyone? To keep them away from gossip. Jacaerys and Lucerys were betrothed to her sisters, having been so since they were two.

Her father, who she now knew one could not expect propriety from, and Rhaenyra were making eyes at each other. He was talking to the king but kept staring at Rhaenyra. If they had been the ones to kill Laenor, she would never forgive them. But she didn’t know how to find out. She knew no one in Driftmark who would know anything. Hundreds in Spice Town had seen Ser Qarl Correy stab Laenor and run away, before vanishing without a trace. She didn’t know how the likes of Varys and Littlefinger gathered information. Jessamyn relied on a network of maidservants, trained in the Eyrie and sent away to work in other castles but she had no such network.

“Daughter,” Prince Daemon walked towards her as soon as Rhaenys sat up. “It is good you could come. Those Valemen certainly prefer fighting each other over fucking their wives,” he was drunk. “Come with me, meet Rhaenyra’s sons,” he led her towards them, and to Rhaenyra’s scowl.

“Boys, this is your Aunt Elaena,” Rhaenyra told her boys. “You have not met her yet; she did not come for your Auntie Laena.”

“It is nice to meet you,” she knelt to speak with them. The boys were staring at her hair and at Daemon.

“You were father’s friend from the Vale!” Lucerys, age five, suddenly exclaimed. “He said you were nice,” and he hugged her. Joffrey soon followed his brother’s lead.

“Yes,” Elaena hugged back the boys, who had lost the only father they ever knew. “He also spoke about you, he wanted to bring you to Runestone to hunt,” which drew laughter from Daemon.

“You’d be bored senseless there, boys,” he said as he took Rhaenyra’s arm in his. “There is nothing in the Vale but rocks, sheep and Andals.”

“Cousin Jeyne is from the Vale, uncle,” Rhaenyra used her free hand to gently swat Daemon. “Be nice,” she turned towards the still kneeling Elaena. “Jeyne tells me you did not come because some silly cousin of hers rose in revolt,” her voice wavered. “I do not see how that might stop you from coming to say goodbye to family.”

Laena had always been nice to her, and she would have liked to say goodbye. But she had a duty. She disentangled from the boys and stood up, more than a head taller than Rhaenyra.

“You must forgive me, cousin,” she looked her in her purple eyes. “As Lady of Runestone I had to gather my knights and be there for the peace.”

“Oh! I’d forgotten,” before Rhaenyra, whose glare had softened, could speak, Daemon suddenly spoke. “I wanted to introduce you to Ser Daeron Velaryon, one of the many nephews that Corlys has,” he hiccupped. “He’s of good Valyrian stock.”

“That’d be a fine match, you know,” Rhaenyra smiled at her uncle. “We are the Blood of Old Valyria and it’s important to keep it pure,” spoke Rhaenyra, surrounded by her sons. “You really should speak to Ser Daeron, he’s a fine sailor and last I heard his father was seeking a match for him.”

“I appreciate the introductions, but mayhaps this is not the best time,” she did not wish to return from a funeral with a betrothal. “You must ask Ser Daeron to sail to Gulltown and come meet me, if he wishes to,” it would not do to scorn the match.

“And what are two of my favorite people talking about,” arrived the king, who ruffled Joffrey’s hair. “Ah! Niece, it has been a long time. How was that Feast of yours, I so wished to attend but matters of ruling made it quite difficult,” he shrugged.

“Everything you could wish for, uncle,” her father began moving away, silently, as soon as the Feast celebrating the coming of the Andals became the topic of conversation. “Every street had its own musician, every market drew people from as far as the Fingers and the Twins, there was a different feast every day and all the lords and ladies of the Vale where there, dancing to music and telling stories.”

“Oh, I can just picture it,” King Viserys closed his eyes. “If only I was younger and with more of vigor, I might have made the trip,” he opened his eyes and looked at his daughter. “Did you not want to go to the Feast, Rhaenyra? Our beloved Ser Laenor was there.”

“Joffrey got sick,” she smiled at her youngest. “And I could not picture a festival celebrating the coming of the Andals to be that… worth my time,” the king’s smile fell slightly. “Boys, go with your cousins,” she sent them off towards Baela and Rhaena.

“The High Septon was there as well,” Elaena added, wishing for alone time with the king. “He was quite the interesting man, very knowledgeable on matters of the Faith, and of the workings of the Faith itself,” at that, Rhaenyra disentangled herself from them and went over to Daemon.

Elaena decided to rope in the king into her university scheme, talking about the training of septons. He was surprised at his niece’s piety, not expecting it from a daughter of Daemon’s, but she managed to get his promise of a sizeable donation. While talking, Elaena noticed just how close her father and Rhaenyra were getting as they talked. How they stared deeply into each other’s eyes as they talked softly.

“I remember now,” the king chuckled. “It was Maegelle and Vaegon, Daemon said you were more like their daughter than his.”

“Your Grace,” the queen approached. “I wondered where you were. Lady Royce,” she greeted.

“Your Grace,” Elaena curtsied. “I was telling uncle about my meeting with the High Septon.”

“His High Holiness is a most exemplary man,” Alicent answered. “He is devoted to spreading the reverence the Seven are owed from Dorne to White Harbor,” she smiled. “I am glad you made his acquaintance and heard his message. Faith is of utmost importance,” she looked at a weary Viserys. “Are you well, husband?” a tired nod, answered by a comforting hand on the shoulder. “Did you speak to your niece about that idea you had?”

“Idea? What idea?”

“About Ser Tyland.”

“Oh, that, of course,” he recovered quickly. “You are unwed Elaena, Ser Tyland is a diligent man, a hard worker of impeccable lineage and virtue and, I am guessing quite importantly for you, does not stand to inherit anything so he would have no issue with your children taking your name,” the king closed his eyes with a look of pain and grabbed his wife’s hand. “Think it through dear,” the king walked away, leaning heavily on his wife.

“What did you say to Aemond, he has been on the worst of moods?” she still heard their conversation as she remembered the handsome Lannister knight and how connected to the war the handsome knight was.

“Oh! I don’t get that boy, I merely tell him we could go to Dragonstone and if he was bold enough, he could claim an egg or a hatchling,” the king ranted with energy. “He’s the only one without a dragon and I thought he would appreciate the gesture, but there he goes and skulks around.”

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That night, IT happened. Baela and Rhaena had asked to sleep with her so mayhaps that was why the four-year-olds did not go out and fight Aemond. Guards shouting outside her rooms woke her up, though the girls remained sleeping. She placed on a chair a long bronze colored shawl with black opals sown into it, just in case someone called on her. And tried to go back to sleep. She already knew what would happen and cared little for screaming matches.

The King’s party, with an additional dragon, left before sunrise. Rhaenyra was the next to leave, without saying goodbye to her or the Velaryons, though her sons did say goodbye to their grandparents. Rhaenys, desiring some quiet, asked Elaena for an invitation to Runestone for her and the twins, she would get Daemon to agree. Daemon, with a hangover, asked her to walk the beach with him.

“You missed quite the affair last night, daughter,” he was walking with his eyes closed, looking towards the sun. “Quite the sordid affairs, our family matters.”

“I heard, father,” she looked at the man, almost forty, wrinkles were beginning to show in his face and his hands. “A lost eye, a dragon claimed.”

“Aye,” he sighed. “Trouble is coming, with that cunt whispering in my brother’s ear,” he spat out his words. “His fault you have no dragon, House Royce should not be granted a dragon he says, you already had an egg and it never hatched, he says,” he was ranting now. “You’re my daughter, mine!”

“Father?” she had never seen him as angry as he was right now.

“Forgive me,” he began taking deep breaths. “Laena taught me how to breathe like this. It had been years since I’d seen that smug cunt Hightower and now that brat of a grandson of his rides Vhagar,” he closed his eyes again. “The Gods mock me, three daughters, one dragon and Viserys will not allow you into the Dragonmont.”

“It’s all right, father,” she really did not want to meet one of the unclaimed dragons. “Some things are not meant to be, your father had many siblings without dragons.”

Daemon stared at her, deeply. Before sighing and taking her back to Driftmark Castle. She sailed away for Runestone that afternoon. Back at home, she sent Rhaenys an invitation to stay in the Vale awhile, she would come with the new year, after seeing her affairs in order.

Not three months after the funeral came the news that Daemon and Rhaenyra had married in secret. Every merchant spoke of the wrath of King Viserys. Before the year’s end, Aegon the Younger was born to them. Elaena just had to laugh; they had only been married for some six months.
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And so, we start with Gunthor. I am not 100% happy with how that turned out, but I wanted to show how I imagine the thinking of most knights is. Clearly prefers male rulers and heirs over female, though their oaths are their bonds, and they swore to protect Rhaenyra's rights. And if we go by canon, Gunthor was probably Lord of Runestone during the Dance, and fought for Rhaenyra. Also his view of Rhaenyra's children, bastardy is whispered and rumoured, and unless you saw them, might as well think it's all slander. And he likes Laenor, so how could Rhaenyra not?
I also took advantage of him to describe the relief. And a bit of Vale politics, made up some kings, songs, etc.

Then there's the Feast. Always felt they were lacking in festivals and religious celebrations, so I made a big one up, took inspiration from Rome's Secular games. The Story is a fairy tale, written down by the Grimm Brothers, very old. I tweaked it a bit to include references to the Seven and stuff from different real world versions of the tale. Didn't think I would put it in complete, but I ended up doing so.

I like the religious university scheme. Way I see it, you are not picking a fight with the Citadel, you are making school for Septons.

Laenor died, I didn't care for the cop out from the show. Seasmoke is unbonded, Daemon is ambitious and a rogue. But he liked Laenor. Rhaenyra liked him too, but not as much as she liked Laena.

Also pretty funny to consider Aegon the Younger's birthday, maybe they even rushed the marriage because Rhaenyra was pregnant.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

120 AC

Ser Olyvar Templeton, three-and-twenty, was a hostage. He was the youngest of seven, the second son after five daughters. His family supported Ser Arnold Arryn, his eldest sister had been Arnold’s mother, and because of that, had been punished in his revolt. They had not called their banners, though they planned to. Arnold was defeated too quickly and his father wished to wait for the first sowing. His aging father, Ser Gerold, had still been punished, nonetheless. Olyvar’s nephew and future Knight of Ninestars, Ser Luceon, was taken as a hostage by Jeyne Arryn, and he had been ordered to serve the Lady Royce for two years.

Olyvar’s older brother had died of a chill during the winter, leaving behind three sons. The defense of their land, with Olyvar and Luceon away, would fall to his young nephew Ser Lyonel. Theirs was an ancient line, descended from Ser Luceon Templeton who fought alongside Ser Artys Arryn when the Vale was conquered by the Andals and from Arnau Templeton who came from Andalos. Though a knightly house they ruled over wealthy estates and their power rivaled many lords. Their keep at Ninestars was the oldest Andal-built keep in the Seven Kingdoms. No other house in the Vale could claim a land as densely populated as theirs; every parcel worked on by a farming family that had been granted some property rights until the end of days; many of these families even traced their descent from the Andal warriors who followed Arnau Templeton across the Narrow Sea. Farmers lived in large longhouses hosting proud and wealthy families and the many farmhands that made their living in their land. They could call on forces larger than several lords and for hundreds of years had stood amongst House Arryn’s foremost vassals.

It all came with a risk, however. Ninestars stood in a large valley in the Mountains of the Moon, one of the few controlled by the Andals. They faced constant raids by the clansmen and many a Templeton Knight had died fighting in the mountains. A large lake guarded their southern border, and a wide river connected them to the Vale proper, but elsewhere they were surrounded by mountains and hidden passes. Smallfolk in their land were used to fighting against the clans and many kept heirloom weapons of their own, guarding them as jealously as if they were Valyrian steel. The wealth of their land had also resulted in a larger than average force of light cavalry and outriders; wealthy farmers owning agile steeds well suited to the mountains. If House Templeton moved in force, the Knight of Ninestars could call on nearly three thousand men, with close to half being mounted.

He would serve Lady Elaena Royce for two years. From the day he entered Runestone he decided to make the best of it. The knights who served House Royce were skilled and experienced and there were always men training in the yards. Olyvar was a good swordsman, but there were better warriors and Runestone would grant him the opportunity to improve his skills. He did not have many duties, a patrol here and there, so he could train as much as he wanted. While he wasn’t the most gifted of swordsmen, jousting was his true calling. He had yet to participate in a tourney, but was already the best lance in Ninestars and he had yet to meet his match in Runestone.

After Lady Royce returned from Driftmark—Olyvar had wished to go, he had never seen a dragon—she announced that a tourney would be held after the new year to celebrate her sister’s visit. Olyvar had gone to Lady Royce’s nameday tournament years ago but had been unable to take part, as he was still a squire. He was twenty when he was knighted, old for a squire, but his father refused to grant knighthoods not earned in battle. He had finally been knighted during the winter after a skirmish with the Painted Dogs. This would be his first chance at becoming a jousting champion.

After Lady Royce’s return, Olyvar was assigned to her escort as she travelled her lands. He joined Ser Simon Storm, who had the command, Ser Benfred the Grim, Ser Jon Royce and Ser Ossifer of Orsey, along with six men-at-arms. Ser Simon was skilled with the sword, tall, red-haired and strong; Ser Benfred looked older than he really was, due to his greying hair, and fought dirty; Ser Jon was not remarkable in any way, neither in skill or appearance; and Ser Ossifer, a former hedge knight who’d found a place in Runestone, was the best jouster he had ridden against in Royce lands, broad of shoulder and strong-legged. The men-at-arms, Pate, Luwin, Ronnet, Petyr the old, Petyr the young and Hugh, were judged the best swordsmen of the garrison and, thus, were usually the ones assigned to guarding Lady Royce alongside the knights. Sometimes they were joined by the steward, Ser Gerold, or by the comely young septa.

Lady Royce was diligent. She took her duties as Lady seriously. Olyvar had heard tell of her father, the prince, and his insults and disdain for their home and the whispered accusations that named him Lady Rhea’s murderer, so he had worried he’d be sent to serve a spoiled princess who detested the Vale. But Lady Elaena was a lady of the Vale. She attended the castle septon’s daily services, listened to the advice of her septa, answered her vassal’s plea for aid against the clans quickly and decisively, provided for her knights and cared for her smallfolk. She was fond of music and poetry; her personal musician Arron of Fairmarket had a good voice and a talent for the courtly songs that ladies loved. She supported the holy brothers and sisters living in her lands. She dispensed justice with honor and chivalry in mind and deliberated carefully before deciding. Her high birth had not seemed to blind her, as she listened to the council of her advisors.

She was also the most beautiful woman that Olyvar had ever seen. His father had been a squire in the Old King’s court and, with his eyesight nearly gone and so many years since, still spoke of the beauty of Good Queen Alysanne. He spoke, almost with reverence, of the queen’s beauty and, only when deep in his cups, of his regrets at being unable to woo Princess Daella. Seeing Lady Elaena Royce, Olyvar understood what men said of Valyrian beauty. With shining bronze hair and expressive grey eyes that told much and more of her emotions, only a streak of silver betrayed her ancestry. Her hair smelt of flowers. She had a pretty nose and high cheekbones, her lower lip was slightly thicker than the upper . Her smiles were small but came easily. She was tall, coming up to his nose, with a modest and shapely bosom alongside long legs and wide hips that spoke of easy births. When she walked in front of him, he tried to hide his blushing.

She liked to travel around her land. Smallfolk stood at attention to greet her, and she even knew some of their names. She travelled between the various villages overseeing her sheep—thick wooled animals with brown faces, a creation of the Lady apparently—and speaking to herders about increasing the size of the herds and deciding where to graze and when. Lady Royce was very involved in the smallest details, not many lords cared as much about overseeing their land in such a manner. He had yet to visit the fishing town where the docks were, but he had heard from other knights about its rapid growth and the construction of workshops.

They visited many septries and motherhouses. Lady Royce was working on something with His High Holiness and sought the assistance of the brothers and sisters of the Faith. They were copying books and exchanging their additional copies with each other; Lady Royce desired to expand her book trade beyond Runestone and had asked Olyvar about the communities of the Faith in Ninestars. Olyvar had once thought to join a septry; not out of a particularly powerful faith, but out of a desire for good food. The Septry of the First Mountain was one of the oldest in the Vale, founded by one of the first converts from the First Men; they lived alongside a small river that led to a modest lake, from which they fished for lampreys and kept swans, ducks, geese and bees, and they made a savory ale famous in many taverns of the Vale. No one in Ninestars ate better than the brothers of the First Mountain. He did not know of a richer septry. His father had laughed when he heard his reasoning and refused to send his son to the Faith for those reasons. He could not tell her Ladyship much, the brothers and sisters kept books but he did not know which exactly.

Royce country was one of gentle hills, full of green, and craggy coasts. Farmers mostly grew carrots, onions, oats and barley. The fields left fallow were full of sheep. Close to the villages, smallfolk kept small plots where they grew herbs. Small forests dotted the landscape, and smallfolk explored their depths in search of mushrooms and wild berries. Farmers were not as organized as in Ninestars. Back in Olyvar’s home they banded together to organize their farmland, so one could see fields of corn, winter wheat or rye, or whatever was being grown that season, spread well beyond the horizon, seeming to reach into the mountains. He knew a large part of Royce farmland lay in the Vale itself, but this was still good farming land. And, seeing how the Lady was ordering an increase to the herds, she would likely soon own the largest herd in the Vale.

Elaena Royce was young and beautiful like the Maiden, but she ruled more as the Mother would. She nurtured her land with a careful and steady hand, cared for her smallfolk and protected them from injustices levied against them. If the best lord strives to rule like the Father, he thought, then it stands to reason that a lady strives for the Mother. His father oft claimed Queen Alysanne could have ruled the Seven Kingdoms and they would have been just as well ruled as they had been with the Old King. Mayhaps a ruling Lady was not as terrible as men said. Arnold spoke of Lady Jeyne’s many faults and the weakness of women, but Olyvar thought she hadn’t done a bad job ruling the Vale and Lady Royce had more than proven that women could rule.

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121 AC

A year had passed and Olyvar wished to stay in Runestone for longer. He had struck up a friendship with Ser Simon and learnt much of fighting from him. The Stormlander had been surprised his bastardy had not proven a large issue in the Vale, Olyvar had told him what his father told him after being knighted: “For a knight it matters not on what side of the sheets you were born, or if they were made of silk or common hay, if you sleep on hedges or in a lordly keep; what matters is the strength of your sword arm, your valor and chivalry. You have bled fighting the clans, you are one of us now.” The knights of Runestone were some of the best in the Vale and Olyvar was proud to have made a place of his own in the castle.

With the new year, Rhaenys Targaryen and Lady Royce’s sisters came to visit. They had not brought the great Meleys, having come on a ship; but did bring a small dragon, closer to a dog’s size than the beasts of legend he’d always envisioned. Little Moondancer, however, was still a handsome creature and would surely grow to have legends of its own. Princess Rhaenys was a dark-haired beauty with a sad look on her lilac eyes that only brightened when with her granddaughters. She had lost her only two children the past year and grief followed her. Lady Elaena’s sisters were five and small, but loud and always running everywhere. They loved music just as much as their elder sister and Princess Rhaenys had brought with them a dancing instructor. She commented during one dinner that it was the only way to get them to sleep; tire them out with dancing lessons.

When not with her granddaughters, Princess Rhaenys spent her time walking the castle’s gardens, riding the fields and hills close to Runestone and going hawking; Lady Elaena rarely went hawking but joined Princess Rhaenys. They took the young twins riding through the countryside, taught them to swim in a shallow pond and all three joined Lady Elaena in her workshop. The twins wanted to make a bronze Caraxes for their father and recruited Lady Elaena; Princess Rhaenys wished to make a bronze Sea Snake—the ship, not the man.

They intended to stay for a few moons and the young twins became quite excited once they heard of the coming tourney. There would be a melee, a joust and an archery contest as was usual, but Lady Elaena liked elaborate and large tourneys. They would hold a singer’s contest, wrestling, horse races, axe-throwing, prizes for crops and animals and even a drinking contest. The last tourney that Lady Elaena had held had been large and extravagant and this one seemed no different. Prizes were outrageously large, though he stood guard through a long conversation between Lady Elaena and the steward about cloth incomes, sales rights and taxes and profits. Apparently, they were planning on profiting during the tourney.

When Ser Simon married—a comely merchant’s daughter named Ginger, nine-and-ten, who laughed prettily, had a crooked smile and red hair, though not as red as Ser Simon—Olyvar began thinking about his own marriage. As a second son far from the succession, his father had not looked deeply into potential matches for him and left it to him to seek out a match. He had grown to love Lady Elaena’s stewardship for her people, seeing in her the ideal of a righteous lord; and, that she was beautiful, only added to his infatuation, thus he decided to attempt to court her. During the Feast of Arrival he had seen the many young knights and lordlings dance with her and attempt to court her, but Olyvar knew he had an advantage over them. He had served her for a year and knew what she liked and what she did not.

The upcoming tourney would be his best chance to approach her about a potential match. He would win the joust and crown her Queen of Love and Beauty, but it was the singer’s competition where he would stand out. Lady Elaena loved music, she overpaid visiting singers, particularly those few with songs of their own and kept a musician as a permanent retainer. The septa of Ninestars had always complimented his voice during the hymns and he could say, with pride, that his voice remained rich and as good as any singer’s. He would impress her with a song of his own, dedicated to her, hopefully win the contest, and ask for her favor for the joust. The only songs he knew were religious hymns, so he was spending all his free time trying to turn one into a love song. Hopefully septons won’t mind.

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This one's shorter than usual, I had a pretty busy week but wanted to introduce a potential match. Nothing is decided quite yet, but he does have an advantage over any others. Ser Olyvar is quiet and observant and has been watching Elaena for a year.

House Templeton are landed knights but always mentioned when talking about the strongest vassals of the Vale, so I decided to give them densely populated land that can provide a large army. My thinking behind how their land is set up is: Hugor and his descendants were promised kingdoms beyond the sea, and technically all Andals are his descendants as he is their spiritual father, so the promise of land went to every warrior strong enough to claim land, not just knights and kings. Ninestars, as an isolated valley, keeps more of the original divisions of land claimed by Andals, with petty landowners descended from warriors in service to the early knights. Their homes are large family homes, where generations of relatives and their workers live, a bit like longhouses and early Roman houses-with communal areas, a large firepit for cooking in the open, space for whatever animals they may own. They have wealthy smallfolk who own land, and regular smallfolk who work for them. If not for the proximity of the clans, it might just be the best place to live for smallfolk.
And the old Knight of Ninestars is an Alysanne fanboy.

I also wanted to show another Valeman's perspective on Royce lands and the change, the growing fishing village with the workshops (still without a name) will be coming with the tourney.

The tourney, and, more importantly, Elaena's relationship with her sisters comes next chapter.
Thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

121 AC

Elaena liked achieving multiple things with a single action. She was holding a tourey to commemorate the visit of her sisters. She wished for her sisters to have fun and create some fond memories of their time with her. She was holding the tourney in the growing town where her docks lay and wanted the visiting smallfolk to spread news of all the work, good paying work, that could be found there. Many thread spinners and clothmakers had already made their way to the town but the large workshops they had built during winter still had space for many more workers.

The town was still nameless, the only things with names there were the tower held by Ser Humfrey Tollett: Greystone Tower and the Motherhouse-by-the-Bay. Ser Humfrey was thankfully an able administrator and could be relied upon to bring order to the growing town and make sure it grew in an orderly manner. She had drawn a city plan and sent it to him so he’d direct where buildings would be built, leaving wide streets so carriages could pass. New houses, wooden for now, were being built along the designated streets. Greystone Tower had been built just eighty years past and granted to the younger son of Lord Tollett to watch for smugglers and defend from any raiders. The tower overlooked the bay and docks, and Elaena intended to increase its size to deter any brigand who’d target her growing industry. House Tollett of Greystone Tower would not own the industry, just as they had no rights over the docks, but she would make sure they saw some benefit so as to keep them honest.

Before her sisters could arrive, she travelled to the town to oversee the growth of the town and the tourney itself. It had proven troublesome to trade the cloth herself. House Royce did not own many trading ships and crops were still the bulk of their exports; onions were always in demand. As of now, merchants from Gulltown travelled to her land, bought cloth and returned to Gulltown from where it would be sold or shipped away. She first had thought of investing her growing fortune into building new ships, but there were no shipyards in Royce lands. She then thought of buying them from Gulltown or Driftmark, both places had shipyards of their own, but commissioning a ship had been far more costly than she had expected. She could have bought two large ships, but then she realized she had no captains nor skilled sailors to captain them; and what was stopping a captain from running away with her ship? They had built a large dock for a large ship capable of transporting even more cloth or crops and had no ship and no crew for the nonexistent ship. Ser Gerold recommended entering into a contract with an existing captain, she would fund and stock his ship and in return he would deal exclusively with them, bearing Royce sails; and, once they had enough gold saved up, she could outright buy those ships and hire the captains. The Free Cities had gigantic populations and an ever-growing need for cloth and Elaena wished to sell directly to them, not with unknown merchants as intermediaries but with merchants in her employ. Ser Gerold also spoke of purchasing a warehouse in Gulltown; a suggestion that Elaena thought easier to do accomplish.

Gerold was averse to overspending. He insisted on discussing every minute detail and specific way they could recover the tourney’s cost. Merchants’ stands, many of which would sell cloth, had to pay for the right to set up and would pay a fraction of their profits. Same with the inns and taverns that had sprung up with the town’s growth. During the Feast of Arrival, they had sold all the cloth they had taken to Gulltown and she expected a repeat. She kept a close eye on Runestone’s finances, and their cloth sales had already brought considerable wealth, Gerold was a worrier who liked having more than enough gold stockpiled.

She arrived at the town on a carriage accompanied by her ladies, Mya, Barbrey and Cella and Septa Roelle. Her other handmaiden, Delia, had been married for close to six years and had already had three children, despite being only twenty. Barbrey’s father was looking for a suitable match and Cella Tollett’s father had agreed to let her stay unmarried for now—he saw a benefit in her staying as lady to Elaena. Cella was a third daughter, her eldest sister was married to Ser Humfrey, and she’d become her assistant in her pottery workshop. Mya had finally stopped having children after the sixth. Her two sons were squires to Runestone knights and had become fast friends with her ward Eldric Arryn. The four girls would become her ladies-in-waiting once they were old enough and Mya was expecting her to find them good matches. She was uncomfortable with that, making matches for girls younger than eight. They enjoyed spending time in her workshop and helping in their little ways. Roelle, the comely young septa from the Westerlands, had become a close friend, she was kind and a good listener. Sometimes she could swear she saw something in the septa’s eyes, when they talked late into the night. But Elaena convinced herself she was imagining things.

A wooden palisade had grown around the town, with enough empty space inside to continue growing. Ser Humfrey received them outside of town and guided her through the town. The homes of smallfolk were small and wooden, and, she thought, temporary. Once wealth flowed through the town, they would begin building in earnest. One of the inns that had been built stood out, it was larger than the others, with three floors and sizeable stables—Ser Humfrey explained he had funded part of its construction—and would probably host most of the visiting nobles. None of her ships were docked at the moment, but littered all over the beach were small fishing boats. By the docks were three massive silos and an old warehouse where their crops waited for transport, the cloth warehouse lay behind the silos, close to the workshops. The workshops were large square buildings made from brick and covered with painted plaster. Walking through the muddy streets she realized they needed cobbled streets to make it easier for carriages. They set up the tourney grounds in a flat area outside the city and Elaena returned to Runestone after leaving a steward to oversee the construction of stands and everything else that would be needed.
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Runestone was truly hers now. Her mother had austere tastes and liked a rustic simplicity in how she decorated the castle. Not Elaena. Her great-grandsire and his Grafton bride had expensive tastes. In one of the storage rooms she had found dusty old tapestries and beautiful furniture. After some cleaning and a visit to the carpenter, the furniture now decorated her office and the Bronze Hall. The tapestries were mostly religious in nature, the sort that Ser Mandon would proudly show off in the Gates of the Moon. She hung a few of them, the ones that kept the most color, and sent others to a workshop in Gulltown so they could copy and learn—her growing town had no tapestry makers. Small bronze statues began showing up in more and more places and she had begun her next project: large statues of the Seven for the sept.

Her halls rang with music. Arron, her personal musician, had invited fellow musicians, each with their own instruments, and they filled her halls with their music. One of them, Pate, despite being illiterate, had shown a deep innate understanding of verse and meter and became songwriter of their little troupe. Dinners were always accompanied by music with drunk knights shouting out requests and singing along. Whenever she spent time with her ladies, music accompanied them. Reading in a circle was a popular pastime amongst ladies and reading poetry accompanied by music had proven even more popular. Her little nieces, usually bored when they gathered to read, had become enamored with poetry and begged Mya to give them more music lessons. There were several different styles of lyrical poetry and Elaena was happy to learn her musicians could play the accompaniment to some of them. Her favorites were the Marcher poems, though her ladies cared little for them. They spoke of Marcher knights challenging Dornish knights to battles of wits and the back and forth that ensued. Mya, enforcer that she was amongst her ladies, preferred the love poems of the Reach and the sweet harp that went with them.

A few days before her sisters were set to arrive, Cousin Willam returned. Ser Willam now, he had been knighted by Ser Mandon Lynderly during the winter and had finally made his way home. Many knights, mostly the older ones who knew the boy, decided to test his skill as soon as he arrived, and Elaena witnessed her cousin defeat all challengers. Ser Mandon had trained him well and he’d become a dangerous swordsman. Willam had grown tall, nearly to his grandsire’s height, and was strong as a bull. They would be holding a feast to celebrate his return but held a smaller breakfast with just the family, and Maester Rookwill, before it.

She remembered Willam as a bully who lorded his authority as a Royce over the younger squires but Ser Mandon had straightened him out. He was chivalrous and pious and lamented over his past behavior. Gerold spoke about finding him a suitable bride, now that he was a knight, but Willam still dreamt of a white cloak and would not marry. He wanted to apologize to his younger cousin, Gunthor, for his youthful behavior. Gunthor the Younger was in Gulltown, preparing to become a septon, so apologies would have to wait. Willam also surprised her when he gave her a gift, thanking her for sending him to Ser Mandon. A silver mirror from Myr that he had purchased at Gulltown with his allowance. The meal was going quite well, she thought, when her relatives ambushed her.

“We must speak, Elaena,” Mya was looking her straight in the eyes. “We have accepted that you will marry at your chosen age, but you are not looking for matches. I have made a list of suitable matches.”

“If you wait too much,” explained Ser Gerold with a grimace. “You will be left with child grooms or old men,” Mya nodded emphatically. “Thus, we have made a list for you to consider.”

“I-I have been considering,” stammered Elaena, pale and mortified. “Benedict Arryn has made his interest clear; I was offered an introduction to a nephew of Lord Corlys and Lord Redfort has spoken to me of his brother, Ser Adrian,” she had decided against mentioning Tyland Lannister, handsome but forceful and very involved in the coming war.

“The merchant’s get?” Gunthor disliked the Gulltown Arryns. “I know not the Velaryon but Ser Laenor was a fine man, what do you know of this Ser Adrian, lad?” he asked Willam.

“A skilled knight,” Ser Willam had met many young knights and lordlings during his squiring. “Father says you wish for a spineless husband who will stay quiet and do as he is bid,” Elaena went red at that, was that what Gerold thought, she wondered. “Ser Adrian might just be the one, then,” he excitedly explained. “He does nothing without his brother’s leave and Lady Jessamyn is always commanding him to do this or that, and he never complains. Why, I remember one time-”

“Obedience to an elder sibling does not mean there will be obedience to a wife,” interrupted his brother, Ser Jon, who everyone knew was under Mya’s thumb.

“Be that as it may,” cut in the maester. “You must choose a husband and,” an awkward cough, “make an heir before your body no longer allows it. The Good Queen had children well after the time a woman should, and it came with great risk to her body.”

“Show me the list,” Elaena wanted the awkward conversation to be over as fast as possible. All she could think of were the lists of rams chosen to be sent to different herds.

“Let’s start with the Graftons,” Mya began with a victorious smile. “Lord Lucas has three sons: the eldest, Ser Marq, is already married, but the middle son, Ser Jon, remains unwed. The youngest, Matthis, is a boy still.”

“Ser Marq is a fine knight,” Ser Gunthor commented. “He commands the Guard of Gulltown, and his brother squired for him, so he ought to be a fine knight as well.”

“We would prefer if you did not marry a Gulltown Arryn,” spoke Ser Gerold. Their blood ties to merchants were not well thought of by most nobles. “But if you can’t be convinced otherwise, Ser Benedict is wealthy and is named Arryn at the end of the day. Isembard rules Gulltown in all but name and his eldest is the only suitable match named Arryn.”

“There’s Ser Joffrey,” cut in Willam. “Though he might as well be a hedge knight with how distantly related he is to Jeyne and Eldric.”

“Melcolm is a boy lord, seven namedays,” continued Mya. “Lord Waynwood’s only son is a boy as well, but he has five younger brothers.”

“They’re already married,” mentioned Willam. “Ser Ryam, the youngest, wed a landed knight’s daughter three moons ago.”

“Eon Hunter,” Mya continued as she scratched out the Waynwoods from her list, “is the younger son of Lord Hunter, still a squire at twenty, but I am sure he will soon earn his spurs.”

“Eon Hunter? If you want to marry a craven who refused to march against the clans, go ahead cousin,” sneered Willam, “how Lord Baldrick fathered that one, I’ll never know.”

“Our Ser Olyvar is not a bad choice,” began Gerold before his son could continue his rant. “The Templetons rival many lords in power and wealth, and his nephew, the future Knight of Ninestars, is betrothed to your old companion Lanna Belmore.”

“There’s also Ser Corwyn Corbray,” Willam offered as he began counting with his hand, “he wields Lady Forlorn and spoke of his father seeking a match for him. Ser Mandon only has one nephew, who will be lord of Snakewood. Lord Ruthermont’s brother, Ser Davos, is recently widowed. Ser Arron Hersy, a second son, earned his spurs with me and is a brave knight.”

“Corbray will not do,” Gerold spoke. “Those two brothers are likely to kill each other for that sword of theirs and Corwyn is ambitious enough he might try to use Runestone to take Heart’s Home.”

“Old Lord Lymond is a good lord, and a good friend, we squired together,” explained Gunthor. “But you could not ask for a worse father. Those two boys have been at each other’s throats since the day they could walk and Lymond encouraged it,” he sighed, but quickly added, “good knights the both of them, however, but giving the sword to the younger has likely soured relations between them.”

“Well, we can leave out any Sistermen,” Elaena added after Gunthor’s silence, she had met Lord Sunderland once and had seen his webbed fingers. “I danced with Tom Moore during the Feast and I don’t care for him,” he had, with the strong smell of wine on his breath, spoken of a woman’s position in a household before his father dragged him away. “I thank you for the information and will take it to heart, and I promise during the coming tourney I’ll seek out these suitable matches and make a decision.”

“That is all we ask, My Lady,” spoke the maester with a kind smile. The rest of her family seemed relieved, but Mya looked at her with suspicion and Elaena knew she would be making sure she met with as many potential husbands as possible.

Willam’s welcoming feast saw the hall fill up with over a hundred knights and some of their wives. Fine ale from the septries flew freely and knight ballads were sung. There were gifts for Willam during the feast, to celebrate the knighting of a promising Royce. She gave him an ancient set of bronze armor, inscribed with runes of protection, as befit a knight of their house. Gerold gave his son a warhorse, big and mean; Jon gave his younger brother a fine castle-forged steel sword with a beautiful hilt; Mya had embroidered a cape for her good-brother; and Gunthor gave his grandson a saddle inscribed with runes that had belonged to his father before him and would protect him.
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Princess Rhaenys arrived on a carriage from Gulltown. Baela and Rhaena were too small, and she did not wish to risk carrying both on Meleys. They did come with Baela’s dragon, however. Moondancer was the size of a dog and enjoyed spending its time playing with its rider. Rhaenys Targaryen had lost her two children in one year and her husband had left for the Stepstones not long after Laenor’s funeral. After Daemon and Rhaenyra’s secret wedding, they had announced they’d be taking the twins to Dragonstone, so Rhaenys asked to spend a moon with them and took them to Runestone, away from courtly intrigues.

For a fortnight, Elaena spent nearly all day with her sisters. Her aunt was spending her time in the castle’s Godswood reading from her growing library. Baela and Rhaena followed after her while their grandmother rested. They joined her in the workshop, they sat near her when she held court, they claimed the seats next to her when she hosted the castle’s ladies, and they insisted she tell them stories before bed. Her sisters became friends with her nieces and began taking their lessons together. Before long, they had insisted on all sleeping in the same room.

They liked dancing and enjoyed that Runestone was full of music. Rhaenys mentioned that their father had sent for a dancing master from Pentos who would be waiting in Dragonstone for his pupils. Baela liked to sing and Rhaena looked wistfully at the lute. When, during a meal, Rhaenys saw her granddaughters staring at the musicians and their instruments, she commissioned child-sized instruments with dragons and seahorses carved on them and promised she would find them music tutors.

Eventually, Princess Rhaenys grew tired of reading in the Godswood and began riding out to the nearby hills and forests. Cousin Willam was first to volunteer as her guard. Not long after she expressed a desire to go hawking. Elaena didn’t care much for it, her mother had taken her hawking a few times, and she had died in a hawking trip. She wished to be a good host, however, for Laenor’s grieving mother so she went with her. Rhea Royce loved hawking and bird breeding, and Runestone still housed several birds of prey. Rhaenys became enamored with Rhea’s favorite bird, a large eagle called Bronzewing that she spent years training. Maesters called them Moon Eagles, they were the largest breed of eagle west of the Narrow Sea and the undisputed apex predators of the Mountains of the Moon; Bronzewing had been Rhea’s pride. Elaena hawked with a gyrfalcon named Ironbeak, the bird her mother had used to teach her.

They went hawking quite frequently. Rhea Royce and Rhaenys Targaryen would have enjoyed each other’s company. Bronzewing managed to completely enchant the princess, who then sent a raven to Driftmark asking Corlys to get a pair of eagles for them. Elaena thought riding through nature was more enjoyable than hawking, but the time spent with her aunt is enjoyable, nonetheless. Rhaenys is fond of hawking, though not with the passion that Rhea had; so, Elaena is able to share some of the lessons her mother had strived to teach her. And while Rhaenys was very indulging with her granddaughters, she deemed them too young to join them hawking.

“It has been far too long since I could indulge in so much hawking,” Rhaenys told her one day. “Corlys once owned a great sea bird from beyond Mossovy that went after gulls and could even dive into the ocean and return with great fish in its beak,” she had a melancholic look on her face that Elaena had noticed always came when she spoke of the Sea Snake.

“Mossovy lies far to the east, am I correct?”

“Aye, in the Shivering Sea,” Rhaenys closed her eyes. “I would have gone with him, you know? We were planning on travelling to Yi Ti after Laena’s birth, but my father died,” the forest seemed to quiet so as to listen to her, “and then politics got in the way.”

“Did you ever travel with Lord Corlys?”

“To Braavos and Pentos,” she sighed. “We had intended to visit the Three Daughters but the war in the Stepstones put a stop to that,” after a moment of silence, she spoke again as she watched Bronzewing take a hare, “Corlys spoke of Lorath and Ibben, but I cannot leave the girls alone,” she looked Elaena straight in the eye, “you share a father with Baela and Rhaena, but you also had your mother. They only have Daemon, they are too young to only have him, of all people. So I must take Laena’s place for them,” the Queen Who Never Was cried as an eagle soared.

That afternoon, after their return, Rhaenys took on storytelling duty and slept in the same room as her granddaughters.
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The little troop of girls went everywhere together. If her sisters wanted to watch the court proceedings, the other four were not far behind them. When two knights came to complain about boundary stones being moved and she and Gerold had to look at fifty-year-old maps for an entire afternoon, the little troop was there making a nuisance of themselves in the office. When Baela and Rhaena wanted their grandmother to read to them in the Godswood, the princess read to all six girls. When Barba, her eldest niece, joined her for pottery lessons and her sisters followed, so did Elaena’s own sisters.

Baela was the one who asked the boys to play with them. The Godswood was soon full of children playing Come-into-my-castle, Monsters-and-maidens, and the local favorite Knights-and-clansmen. Rhaenys had been concerned, briefly, that the older boys would play too roughly with her granddaughters, but years of being older brothers, and years of Mya keeping them in line, had turned Allard and Robar into perfect little knights-to-be and Eldric was not far behind in his courtesies. Allard eventually decided her sisters were all right, so he took them exploring the tunnels beneath Runestone. Elaena asked her cousin Willam to look after them in the tunnels, and the young knight was quite excited to guard over two girls named Targaryen.

Moondancer was invited to all the games as well. Elaena had been concerned the young dragon could cause an accident, but she found it behaved like a dog would. It would chase after Baela and the others and be chased in turn. When Baela danced to the music, the young dragon proved it was aptly named and jumped and flew around her. Elaena thanked the Seven, it was a small dragon, and it ate less than the hounds. Caraxes was expensive to feed, and she did not want to imagine what a larger dragon like Meleys would cost to feed. All the girls loved the days that Moondancer played with them, but at bedtime Rhaena would always cling to her egg.

Her sisters wanted to make a bronze Caraxes, to give to their father, and dragged Rhaenys into her workshop. After an afternoon of watching everyone try their hand at pottery, the princess decided she would make a bronze model of the Sea Snake. Elaena had been thinking of making a life-sized equestrian statue of Yorwyck Royce for her new town but soon found herself as a teacher. Thankfully Cella Tollett had become skilled enough that she could help with the teaching.

Storytime had Elaena thinking back to the place from before. The troop of girls was far too young for the grislier stories she knew. With every subsequent night she discovered more of what sort of stories they liked. Tales of knights and maidens were favorites, followed closely by fables of talking animals. She decided against speaking of Lancelot and his love for the queen and Roland—adapted for the Marches and the Dornish—was not particularly well received by the girls. She told them instead of famous Royce knights of old and their ladies, and created a knight, Ser Martyn of the Mountain, who went on adventures she took from other fictional knights.

The secret son of a king, Ser Martyn was hidden away from his father’s enemies in the mountains and raised by holy brothers of the Faith. He defended ladies and fought against evil knights. He wandered the land bringing justice, saving maidens and winning tourneys, assisted by the good witch Rohanne the Green and fighting the evil wizard Barsalen of Tyrosh. The girls asked for stories of Ser Martyn the most, and, when he finally met his lady love, Maid Marianne, a princess of the Vale, their games in the Godswood soon turned into Martyn and Marianne; Eldric was usually chosen to be Martyn, though Baela also liked playing the knight, and Allard and Robar had to play the part of last night’s story’s evil knights.

Watching the children play knights and correct each other on the proper conduct of a knight, Elaena remembered the purpose of fables and morality tales. Maesters taught lessons and at times children grew bored and didn’t heed the lessons, but if told with a story? The people from before thought that if a medicine was sweetened it went down easier, if a lesson was sweetened with a story, it was learnt easier. Septa Roelle had beautiful handwriting, easy to read, so she recruited her for her project. After breaking their fast, when she had a short reprieve of the constant company of children, they sat in her office as she dictated exemplary stories that she remembered; stories like The Emperor’s New Clothes, The Dog and the Bone, The Lion and the Mouse, other fables she remembered and some she made up, half-remembering the lessons. Roelle was sharp and soon caught up on what connected the stories, and began to offer stories of her own, many of which were taught in motherhouses. Elaena wanted at least fifty stories, most of which would be changed so all characters were animals, and a frame for them: a maester teaching a young lord who came too young into his lordship by using morality tales, all with a moral lesson that all lords should know, for the benefit of the smallfolk and those with no power.
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The tourney soon came along and her court made the two day journey north. Her sisters had become quite attached to her and both insisted on sitting on her lap on the carriage trip there. Her father liked participating in tourneys but not hosting them, so this was the first tourney the twins were old enough to remember attending. She had included many events, thinking that the melee and the joust might be too much for girls as young as them, but they were quite excited for the two and Princess Rhaenys had assured her they were old enough for it.

The tourney grounds were massive. A city of tents and pavilions had sprung up outside the walls. Elaena’s own pavilion had been set up inside the walls. It was a massive thing, made for a war by an ancestor and reupholstered on her orders. Tired of all her things being brown, she instead had it be pale green and embroidered with black runes. It was large enough, so Princess Rhaenys, her sisters and nieces would stay with her. Encircling her tent, her various knights set up their smaller tents.

The tourney’s first morning involved the livestock competition. Nobles may not have cared much for a competition involving sheep, but the horse breeding contest had drawn many knightly eyes. Near the town’s gates were a group of mummers with a dancing bear that she had found. Halfway through judging the winning sheep, Ser Adrian Redfort approached her. He had come to compete in the joust and been attracted by the horses.

“Lady Royce,” he kissed her hand.

“Ser Adrian, ‘tis good to see you,” Elaena could feel Mya’s eyes. “Has your sister come?”

“Nay, my Lady, her and Jeyne could not leave the Eyrie, some business with customs.”

“I see you’ve been to see the horses; any catch your eye?”

“Aye, there was a beautiful destrier, but I’ve not brought enough coin,” he smiled. “Mayhaps after I win.”

“Mayhaps, ser,” the champion’s purse was certainly more than enough to buy the best horses. “Is the joust all you are participating in?”

“The melee, and the races as well,” he puffed up, “I’ve a great filly for running the rings.”

“I look forward to it, I do so enjoy the rings,” she granted the young knight a smile, as he said his goodbyes.

The rest of the day was spent running from here to there, observing and judging on the events for smallfolk. Quite a few lords and knights attended and seemed to enjoy the wrestling. When she saw the look in Baela’s eyes, she knew she’d be wrestling with her sister as soon as she could. The archery contest took place in the afternoon, it was won by a guardsman in her garrison. Unexpectedly, it’s Rhaena who shows an interest in archery. And to close out the first day, the singing contest. While Elaena waits in the high seat she is approached by Lord Grafton and Isembard Arryn. The former’s hands shaking, the latter accompanied by a young maester.

“Lady Royce,” spoke Grafton, “we had hoped to speak with you.”

“Willam, take my sisters in search of the princess, she spoke of the cloth stands,” after they left, the lords of Gulltown sat next to her. “Speak, my lords, how may I assist you?”

“We wanted to congratulate you, my Lady,” Isembard began, “every seamstress in Gulltown has been using more and more of your cloth and merchants from afar come in search of abundant cloth,” Grafton nodded, taking a drink from a flask, “but if you will allow me a request, and some advice?” She nodded. “You have done a great job, setting this town up and filling it with spinning wheels and looms and the like, and I have heard of the smallfolk flocking searching for work,” he took a piece of parchment from the maester, “but I fear ‘tis not enough. Your cloth has attracted more merchants to Gulltown and quite a few of them go home empty-handed.”

“I see,” Elaena understood then that Isembard wished for her to increase production, as the middleman between her and foreign merchants he had made quite a bit of gold. “The town is still growing, and workers are still gathering. But if you have any advice to our benefit, what is it you desire from me?”

“I knew you would be open to cooperation,” Isembard handed her the parchment, it contained a list of ships and the weight of cloth that they left with, as well as dates for when they sailed away. “Those dates to the right signal the caravans coming into Gulltown with cloth, and as you can see, cloth begins to run out rather quickly and merchants leave nearly empty-handed.”

“I see,” and she did see. Isembard Arryn had a nose for profit; he sold the cloth in Gulltown and he had a hand in customs collection. “What are you proposing?”

“I own weaving workshops in Gulltown,” he spoke with his hands. “I would propose you sell wool to my workshops, where they spin and weave, and we come to an accord of what price would benefit most the two of us,” he was watching her intently, “we need not compete with prices, and I have contacts in Essos that could provide you with more and better dyes.”

“’Tis an interesting proposition,” and she was interested, but if she was going into business with Isembard Arryn she wanted a stronger bargaining position. “I would love to discuss it after the tourney ends, I will be sure to extend you an invitation to Runestone,” Isembard looked deep in thought, before saying it would be an honor to receive an invitation and leaving, with a swaying Lucas Grafton in tow.

Elaena waited for her sisters to return as she thought of the proposal. If they wanted to make cloth in Gulltown she wanted to own workshops of her own in the city. If Isembard Arryn wished to bring her cloth industry to Gulltown then she would join as an equal partner and not just grant him the opportunity to become even wealthier. A relationship of give and take, where the two of them would gain.

Her sisters and the princess finally returned, with a servant carrying several bolts of undyed cloth that Rhaenys bought, and sat down next to her. Musicians from as far away as Oldtown and Braavos began to play their music, one after the other. By the third, her sisters were dancing with her nieces. To her surprise, Ser Olyvar Templeton walked onto the stage, accompanied by some of her own musicians. She didn’t know he sang. They began to play a hymn to the Maiden, but once Ser Olyvar started singing it turned into something completely different. He had a strong voice, melodic. Much of the language he used was religious in nature, but it was clearly a love song. The Maiden he offered his prayers to was made of flesh and blood. The blessing he asked of her was of a more corporeal nature. Westerosi had bawdy songs, but Ser Olyvar’s song was much more scandalous. And the ladies listening loved it. Olyvar had likely made his song to court a lady and, judging by the red faces around Elaena, she guessed he would find success. Olyvar, to large applause, ended up winning the contest.

She only found out she was Ser Olyvar’s intended lady when he asked for her favor to wear the next day.
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The second day started with the race, won by a knight in service of House Elesham. It was followed by the jousting rings, Elaena’s favorite event. An obstacle course was set up, with rings hanging on the turns, two riders would race with lance and whoever had the most rings at the end would win. They showed off their skill as horsemen and the agility of their horses without any of the violence, as much as she knew this was a form of training for war. The preliminary jousting was next, where younger knights and hedge knights tried to qualify. Ser Jon Grafton rode and fell against a hedge knight. Baela was staring wide eyed at every joust, standing on her toes so she could see better; Rhaena was watching just as intently, but from her grandmother’s lap. The melee was the last event of the day, where after a chaotic clash Ser Willam Royce remained the last man standing.

That night she held a feast for all the visiting nobles. The bounty of the nearby bay was at their disposal, providing plenty of fish and crab for her guests. There were also lobsters, but nobles refused to touch them. Mya paraded several of her potential suitors in front of her. Ser Arron Hersy was eight-and-ten, short and stout, with wide shoulders and strong arms. His voice was loud and his tastes large, judging by the number of claws at his plate. Ser Davos Ruthermont was five and thirty, bald and sporting a large black beard. He spoke down to her when they talked. The feast was the first time she held a proper conversation with Ser Olyvar, whose song had earned him her favor for the joust. His hair was a light brown, almost blonde and his eyes a light blue. Tall and well built. She was speaking with him about growing up in Ninestars when a drunk Willam approached.

“Is what I hear true, Oly?” he giggled. “Are you to have musician’s apprentices?”

“Oh, this I have to hear,” Elaena added, causing further laughs from Willam and a blush from Olyvar.

“After Ser Olyvar’s love song four musicians approached him,” his words were slurring. “To become his apprentices, so they can learn to make songs like him.” Willam couldn’t stop lauging.

“Please, friend,” Olyvar begged. “No more,” he had been teased by nearly the entire garrison of Runestone.

Later into the night, after Mya had left to put the girls to sleep, Lord Horton Dutton approached her. She had never spoken to the lord, his holdings being far to the north of the mountains. He was in his forties and did not have the look of a knight. For once, a nobleman did not approach her to set up a match with him. Lord Dutton was after Eldric for his daughter. He was her ward, but Elaena couldn’t rush into the first betrothal offered. Eldric would one day be Lord of the Eyrie, he was second-in-line, and his match mattered. She told Lord Dutton she would consider his offer and resolved to send a raven to Jeyne, asking her if she had plans for Eldric’s marriage.
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The last day held the joust. Nobles and smallfolk alike had flocked to her town to watch, and the stands were completely full. The early matches were entertaining enough, but Willam soon claimed the attention of her sisters, nieces, nephews and Eldric, who technically was his cousin. He wasn’t jousting, not willing to risk his new horse, Ser Carrot-eater, and was giving an impromptu jousting lesson to the squires. A lesson that interested the girls as well.

“Did you see that?” he mentioned as a hedge knight fell from his horse. “He’s using an older saddle, not as good as the Westerman saddle more common amongst knights nowadays; the stirrups do not give as much freedom, ‘tis a tad harder to control the horse.”

“See the way Oly rides, loose legs,” Ser Olyvar was facing off against Ser Simon Storm, “Oly was born ahorse, or as close as can be, and trusts his horse to get him there. Riding comes to him as natural as walking.” The Storm knight fell on the fourth pass.

“Ah!” Willam winced as a knight bearing Belmore colors charged the field. “You can tell how firm he couches the lance, see how little it moves, that one is going to hurt.” The knight’s opponent went down, and for one scary moment did not get back up. After a minute he finally got up and limped away.

“That horse is far too skittish, come the crash it will panic and throw him off,” and so it did, as the horse reared back, and the knight fell.

Willam had a comment for every match. Ser Olyvar had reached the finals; he was facing Ser Adrian Redfort. Ser Adrian was larger and stronger, but Ser Olyvar was the better horseman. Elaena had seen enough jousts to know that riding was the most important skill for a jouster. The first pass nearly unhorsed Ser Adrian. Olyvar was precise with the lance and his horse moved as if they were one being. The Redfort knight struck back on the second pass, shattering his spear on his shield. On the third, however, the young knight of House Templeton struck Adrian Redfort in the shoulder and pushed him off his horse.

As the crowds were cheering and Olyvar offered her the Crown of Love and Beauty, Moondancer became excited and took flight. It flew thrice around the stands, spinning and dancing like when it played with Baela and, before going back to its rider’s side, spat out a small burst of green flames. By year’s end, everyone called the town Moondancer’s Port.
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Ser Olyvar Templeton had made a song for her, won the joust wearing her favor and crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty before the lords of the Vale. He was quiet and observant, diligent on duties assigned and from a good family. Rhaenys had been grinning at her during the tourney’s closing feast, teasing her over her handsome knight of Ninestars. Mya spoke of lineages and grandsires, Gerold spoke of alliances and the wealth and power that House Templeton owned. Baela and Rhaena asked her if he was her Ser Martyn.

“He’s handsome enough,” she whispered to Moondancer that night, as the girls slept. “If I must marry in this manner, I could do worse. Their land grows oats in abundance, if my sheep ever need them,” she scratched the dragon’s chin, it had become accustomed to her. “But you don’t know anything about oats, do you?” Moondancer stared her in the eyes, questioning. “Have it your way then, I’ll ride back with him, get to know him and see about making a decision.”

“Ser Olyvar,” she spoke on their way home, “will you ride with me?” They rode in silence for a while, Ser Olyvar rarely started conversations, with anyone. “I will be direct, Ser, what are your intentions and what do you hope to accomplish?”

“As I have stood guard for you,” if her question unnerved him, he didn’t show it. “I have seen the compassion you hold for your people, the care you give to every action you take, how your eyes smile as you gaze at your flocks,” he gathered his courage, “as I’ve seen the manner in which you rule your lands I have come to love you.”

“I see,” she blushed, slightly, “know, Ser Olyvar, that I expect the man I marry to take on the name Royce and I do not want a husband who will try to rule Runestone, him or his kin.”

“Your rule is what drew me to you, My Lady,” he stopped his horse, she stopped as well. “I am far from the lordship, and for you I would take on any name. I’ve no interest in rule and if duty calls, I would be first to stand in your defense,” his horse walked closer to her. “My father is old and his eyesight is almost gone and I would stop my nephews from trying anything untoward.”

“I understand,” her mind was running, she did not wish to simply choose a man after one conversation. She then came to a decision, to test him, his intelligence and creativity. “I have a task for you, Ser.”

“My Lady?”

“Those apprentices of yours,” he winced, “teach them, guide them towards writing a song like yours. Show me what you can accomplish.”

My Lady,” his jaw set, “for you, I shall turn them into Ryndaan the Harpist.”

Not long after returning to Runestone, Rhaenys and her sisters returned to their respective island homes bearing gifts and their completed bronze statues. Olyvar locked himself in his rooms, with four musicians.
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We get a visit by relatives and a tourney.

On the travels of Corlys and Rhaenys I got to thinking, he said something about going to the ends of the world for her and she said she'd join him on dragonback; but as soon as they married and Laena came along, Aemon died and then politics and intrigues and war kept them at home. So they never got to travel the world together.

There are a lot of children at Runestone, there's always someone playing somewhere. Baela and Rhaena are too young, and at that stage where they are stuck at the hip and do everything together, but I tried to give them some spearate interests.

I like to imagine Mya as that meddlesome aunt that always asks you about your relationship status and offers to introduce you to people.

Isembard has a nose for profit and he wants more cloth going through Gulltown.

Had some difficulty with the town name, and I'm still not happy, but I wanted Moondancer involved.

On Olyvar, I've decided to go for a courtly love-inspired romance, so he has some work to do.

I'm no poet, so I just changed some stuff to something by Giacomo da Lentini, but Olyvar's song is something like this:
I have a place in my heart for Maiden reserved,
So that I may go to Heaven,
To the Holy Place where, I have heard,
People are always happy and joyous and merry.
I wouldn't want to go there without my lady
The one with dark hair and pale complexion,
Because without her I could never be happy,
Being separated from my lady.
But I do not say that with blasphemous intent,
As if I wanted to sin with her:
If I did not see her shapely figure
And her beautiful face and tender look:
Since it would greatly comfort me
To see my woman shine in glory.

Up next is a meeting for the cloth industry, and a Royal Wedding, and I guess you can imagine what septon House Hightower got to officiate, specially after Daemon and Rhaenyra married in secret.
I made a little family tree, sucession follows the red line.

Family tree

Thanks for reading!

Chapter Text

121 AC

Halfway through the year, her old sworn shield Ser Yorwyck sent word that the mountain clans were rowdy. Villages near the border of Royce lands had been raided and night fires in the mountains were seen close to Ser Yorwyck’s keep. She sent Ser Simon with fifty knights and their squires to help her vassal and to keep her people safe. Gunthor had insisted they were old enough, so Eldric and her nephews, Allard and Robar, had joined the knights as squires. Mya was worried over her sons, but Willam, for whom Allard squired, assured her they would stay back and see no combat. “They won’t be children forever,” Gunthor had argued, “best for them to see battle early. Know what’s expected of a knight.”

Ser Yorwyck had recently married a distant Royce cousin, sister of another landed knight. Elaena had attended the wedding and asked Gunthor to let the landed knights know where his loyalties lay now. There were some six or seven little Gunthors running around the branch families, they looked to him for leadership and now they knew he backed her rule. She suspected it was not a good idea to assume his blind loyalty to her, so, after Jeyne’s message about Eldric, she included Gunthor in the decision-making for Eldric’s betrothal; she’d give him final word on who he’d eventually marry. Jeyne wasn’t interested in arranging Eldric’s marriage; her exact words had been do as you wish with the boy, marry him to one of your cousins, to a hedge knight’s daughter, I care not. She had then used the rest of both sides of the parchment to tease her about Ser Olyvar’s song.

Olyvar had gone with the knights. Ever since the tourney she found herself looking at him more and more. She had accepted long ago that she would have to marry a stranger for some advantage and that she would need to have children with said stranger. That was the way of marriage, done in service to Runestone. She’d resigned herself to picking a name from Mya’s list, but now? Her aunt Rhaenys had married for love, but she had been daughter of the crown prince and a Dragonrider. Her father, and Rhaenyra, had married for love, but her father was Daemon Targaryen, and he was more than willing to use violence to get his way. But mayhaps with Olyvar she would not necessarily need to marry a stranger. His impassioned words had stayed with her, and she often found herself thinking back to their conversation. When she lay in bed at night, she kept reliving the moment when he said he loved her.

She had asked her relatives for everything they knew about the Templetons. Everyone was looking for some benefit for themselves and she had to know if there was someone behind Olyvar or if he was being truthful. His father was old, blind and had been dying for the past five years. In his youth he squired for a knight of the Kingsguard and before inheriting his father’s seat he served as Knight of the Bloody Gate. From his first marriage, arranged by Queen Alysanne to a Reacher, he’d had a son, now deceased, and four daughters. His second marriage had been to a Waxley and resulted in a daughter and Ser Olyvar. His sisters were all married with children of their own; the eldest had married Osfryd Arryn and was Ser Arnold’s mother. Olyvar’s nephews were young. The eldest, and heir, was betrothed to one of her old companions, fond of hunting, feasting and fighting. The second son was Elaena’s age, newly knighted and wished to serve at the Eyrie and, in Willam’s words, had the wits the Gods had given to stones. The youngest was ten, a squire in Wickenden.

Blood had tied them to Ser Arnold’s cause. But Arnold Arryn was a prisoner, for over a year now. The old Knight of Ninestars was not likely to live long enough to see another war, and his grandsons were not proactive enough to raise the banner for Ser Arnold on their own. They barely knew their pretender cousin, only blood tied them to him, and he had not forged stronger ties with them. House Templeton was one of the major powers of the Vale; only Royce, Redfort, Hunter and Belmore commanded more men. Their harvest was plentiful and their line could be traced back to Hugor of the Hill. She wanted to accept Ser Olyvar’s proposal and begin talks with his family about the dowry (as he would join her family then it also fell on his own family to provide a dower of their own). But first, she had to test his mettle. As tempted as she was to outright accept his proposal, her mother had raised her to understand that Runestone came first. I must be cold as the walls of the castle, who I marry will not only marry me but also Runestone, she kept repeating to herself, usually after recalling Ser Olyvar’s words.

He had taken to his students with all the diligence she wished for. She was testing him, and she wanted him to pass. The first student that succeeded in writing a song in the new style was quickly invited to serve at the Eyrie. That had lit a fire under the other three and whenever they weren’t at Olyvar’s side they were next to Septon Lomas or Septa Roelle, asking about hymns and religious poetry. Olyvar had written her two more love songs. Her personal musicians had quickly learnt how to play them and from there they had spread out across the Vale. Elaena heard from a merchant that Lord Grafton was keeping an eye on the musicians so he could take on the next one to receive Olyvar’s seal of approval.

She asked Ser Simon to put Olyvar in charge of a party and to watch him in command. If she married him, she had to know he was able of commanding armies in her name. Ser Simon had more than proven himself loyal and faithful, so she’d invited his wife, Ginger, to join her ladies; as a merchant’s daughter she was honored and accepted at once. They were expecting their first child and Elaena had the idea of rewarding Ser Simon’s service with a keep in her lands. Her domains were littered with small castles, each with their own modest incomes, that had belonged to landed knights at one point of another and been left empty.

The moment she thought of rewarding Ser Simon with a castle of his own she approached Gerold to get a second opinion. Her steward had proved amenable to her idea. He’d even recommended a castle: a small keep that stood between Gulltown and Moondancer’s Port, half-a-day’s ride from Runestone. Its incomes were meagre, being hilly and forested, but at least two herds grazed in the foothills and there was good hunting in the forest. Gerold had the idea that Ser Simon could maintain the road between the two settlements and charge a toll. He also drew up a list of possible stewards to help manage the keep while Ser Simon continued serving her. Gerold set about preparing the grant and they agreed on landing him once his child was born.

The long peace and the stability that now ruled Runestone allowed her time to breathe. Most herds were now entirely Royce Bronzefaces; young and healthy sheep with plenty of grazing space. The breed she had raised thinking of tapestries ended up being almost identical to the Omber variety. She’d had little success in having tapestries made, the ones coming out of the workshop she’d hired being pretty but not close to the quality of Myr. Cloth was consistently being weaved, and they had a healthy amount of wool stored and prepared. When mayhaps once servants and men-at-arms looked at others for the direction of Runestone, they now looked to her. Maester Rookwill grumbled from time to time about the need of a warrior’s hand to rule in the Vale, but he was nearly eighty and sometimes spoke to her as if she was her grandmother. His oaths tied his service to the ruler of Runestone and that was her, his grumbling wouldn’t change that.

One cool morning word finally came from Ser Yorwyck’s keep. The wildlings had been expelled, things were peaceful once again, there had been no casualties. She invited her ladies to join her embroidering, all to tell them their husbands and sons were coming back. Mya had been so worried over her sons that she had bumped into at least three columns. Ginger was nervous, she never expected she would marry a knight and waiting as he went away to battle had left her scared for her unborn babe. Elaena had also been nervous, for Ser Olyvar, but she would not show it. She would also not tell her ladies that the sash she was working on was meant for him.

Mya sighed with relief when she heard her boys were coming back. As she embroidered runes on the sash, a painstaking endeavor to write the correct rune, she thought of her cousin Mya. From the moment that Mya had been made her chief lady-in-waiting she had run her household with aplomb. She had made a list of matches for her, recruiting the entire family to gather knowledge on the bachelors of the Vale. Mya had even been taking on some of the traditional responsibilities of a Lady of a castle: she directed servants, organized feasts, kept their larders well-stocked and oversaw the castle’s finances. Mya’s daughters, her nieces, looked up to her and she’d taken them under her wing and taught them sculpting. They befriended her sisters and made them feel welcome in Runestone.

Mya had supported her and helped her, and Elaena knew she had to thank her. As she was granting a keep to Ser Simon, she would grant one to Jon, Mya’s husband, as well. She’d let Mya know, in some way, that the castle was a reward for her. A keep to rule over and to pass on to her eldest. She would see her nieces well-dowered and find them good matches, once they were old enough that childbirth was safe. They would marry good and gentle knights and lords. “Thank you, Mya,” Elaena smiled as Mya, who was stitching a sigil on a shirt for one of her sons, looked up and returned a confused smile.

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That night she dreamt. They had celebrated the knights’ victory, and she ate more than she usually would and fell asleep as soon as her head touched her pillow. Ever since her aunt’s visit, she had been thinking more and more about Laenor. So, it came as no surprise her dreams were about her cousin. In life they had gone riding alongside a creek, southbound, one chilly winter morning. Her dream had them in her workshop, working on a dragon.

“What is there to see in Volantis?” she’d asked him when he spoke of his upcoming voyage.

“The Long Bridge is one of the wonders of the world,” he smiled at her, as his hands fashioned a wing. “I’ll bring you a painting,” he hadn’t found one and had died before finishing his own rendition of the bridge. “Father has friends inside the Black Walls, where I’ve been invited to stay at,” he moved on to the other wing. “Some of the palaces were built when Valyria still stood.”

“Sounds incredible, you must bring me the design of the gaudiest looking one, so I can remodel my manor in Gulltown,” she remembers he laughed, but in the dream, he only kept working. “I asked mother about the manor once, why keep one when we live so close to the city.”

“What did she tell you?” In life his purple eyes had smiled at her, in the dream he kept on working.

“Once upon a time, when an Arryn king ruled the Vale, they held winter courts in Gulltown and lords from all over the Vale made their way to the city, House Royce could certainly not be left out.”

“Ah! Why I think there’s an old Velaryon’s personal record somewhere in Driftmark,” he paused his pottery-work as he thought. “A Lord Aurane Velaryon wrote it, he attended one such court to negotiate customs. He wrote more of numbers, taxes and tariffs than of sailing the sea or the men that lived in his time.”

“Riveting reading,” she had japed, bringing forth his musical laughter. But in the dream, he only worked.

“Aye, once I broke one of father’s treasures,” he had grinned, “on accident, of course. My punishment was to read the journals of Lord Aurane. Vaemond told me later that it was a time-honored Velaryon punishment and every Velaryon who sailed the sea had at one point of his life been forced to read it.”

She had laughed. They had arrived at the coast, Elaena had invited Laenor to see the ruins of an ancient castle, half buried under a mound of earth. Local fishermen, who oft travelled to Cracklaw point, claimed it had been built by the King of the Squishers before the coming of the Andals, until a Royce king defeated him and bound him in chains of cold bronze. Laenor loved horror stories, he knew everything about snarks and grumkins and they told each other stories, trying to one-up the other. A retelling of the Flying Dutchman, combined with a curse, had given her eternal victory.

“Do you reckon these squishers of yours and those merlings of mine are kin?” Laenor had japed. He’d then gotten quite serious, “father once told me of the people of the Thousand Islands.”

“Maester Rookwill claims he read from an ancient tome, three hundred years old, that merlings and squishers and other sort of aquatic beings were real and all one and the same and had fought against the First Men,” the dream took them away from her workshop and to the ruins. In life, all that remained were a few pillars of worn basalt with runes carved on them, but the dream had brought them to a great hall of black stone. She looked towards Laenor, whose eyes were wide with fear. Behind him were Laena, Aurane Velaryon with his journal and a thousand more Velaryons.

“I am with him now, with the Merling King,” words bubbled out of his mouth.

Elaena ran from there. With her hand against a greasy wall, she looked for a way out of the accursed castle. Every door refused to open, and she heard something squishing behind her. She ran and ran in an endless corridor until she came upon a window. Outside the fish were swimming, feasting on a dragon. A wet hand grabbed her by the shoulder. She screamed and opened her eyes. She was back in her workshop, and Laenor was still at work. On his hands was a Caraxes made from blood-red clay. The dragon opened with her father’s cruel eyes, purple and full of malice and greed. It opened its mouth and burnt Laenor to cinders.

Elaena woke up and wept. She only managed to fall back asleep once the sun had risen.

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Isembard Arryn had come to visit. They would negotiate a trade deal between Runestone and the wealthiest man in the Vale. Elaena met him in the Bronze Hall, where they would talk. The Gilded Falcon came accompanied by his three sons, a maester and a knight wearing the Grafton sigil. Elaena was flanked by her own maester and Gerold.

“Lady Royce,” all men bowed, respectfully. “You’ve met my eldest, Benedict. So, please allow me to introduce my younger two and my companions,” at her nod, he continued, “this is Archibald,” a heavy-set young man, “and this is Maladon, my youngest,” a nervous looking young man. “With us is Ser Marq Grafton, heir to Gulltown, representing Lord Lucas,” tall and powerfully built, “and my personal maester, Alan.”

“Well met, my lords,” she gestured towards the table set up for them. “Let us speak then.”

“Quick and to the point,” Isembard gave her a wide smile.

“Remind me again, Lord Isembard, you wish to purchase wool directly, over cloth?”

“Aye, more and more merchants come into our fair city,” a nod to Ser Marq, “and have to leave empty handed,” a painful grimace. “In Gulltown I have controlling interests with spinners and weavers and dyers and could truly increase the amount of cloth that is produced and sold in the city. And your sales of wool, of course.”

“I understand your position,” she had thought hard of it and come up with a plan alongside Gerold. “But I am unwilling to fully lose control over the production of my cloth. Jeyne has granted me leave to start a guild in Moondancer’s Port and production will soon catch up.”

“You-“ Archibald had begun to say something, before his father glared at him.

“I have talked to merchants that travel your lands, My Lady, and all mention that, seeing all the sheep you have,” he paused, “there is not nearly the same amount of cloth coming out of your lands. We have an opportunity to bring great wealth to Gulltown,” he chuckled, “and to us. But we must seize it, sell more and take over entire markets.”

I am unwilling to lose control,” she paused as she looked the men in the eyes. Benedict was staring intently at her, Archibald was getting redder by the second, Maladon’s brow was furrowed, Maester Alan was looking through his papers, Ser Marq Grafton was bored, and Isembard Arryn’s face betrayed no emotion. “But I am not unwilling to partner with you, to join our efforts in the growing cloth industry,” he nodded. “If cloth is to be made in Gulltown, as it will continue to be made in Moondancer’s Port, then I also wish to make cloth in Gulltown.”

“Ah!” Isembard smiled. “We can work with that,” with a glance, his two youngest sons and Ser Marq moved away. “What was your thinking?”

“I want workshops of my own in Gulltown,” she sat as straight as she could, “I want at least two weaving workshops of my own, with the buildings and a spinner. A dyer too, mayhaps.”

“I can sell you shares I have in some of them, mayhaps a building here or there and could always convince Lord Lucas to do the same,” his eyes hardened. “But, in return, I want exclusivity. No wool will be sold to anyone else, and we will sell cloth at the same price.”

“How many buildings, which of them are already workshops and already full of workers? How long do you wish the exclusivity to last?”

“I would be willing to sell a warehouse near the docks, a spinner and a weaver. All with workers. But no dyers,” Ser Benedict gave his father a parchment. “We have a controlling share in an additional weaver we could sell, but you wouldn’t own it in full, and Lucas can part with an additional weaver and a dyer. Anything else you wish for in Gulltown you must buy yourself. Twenty years for exclusive access to wool.”

“Ten.”

“Eighteen.”

“Thirteen.”

“Sixteen.”

“Done,” Isembard smiled at her answer, and called for one of his servants, carrying a small barrel.

“Now we toast for our deal,” his servant began opening the barrel, “Maladon will deal with your steward about our initial purchase, boy’s got quite the mind for sums,” the servants began serving red wine to all present, “to you, Lady Royce, and to our growing fortune.”

“Thank you,” the wine was sweet and mellow, much softer than she expected. “’tis a good wine, this.”

“Sweetwine from the Red Fork,” he nodded with eyes closed. “I much prefer its mellow taste to Arbor Red and Dornish Swill. Be careful with it, My Lady, for its mellowness is treacherous” he looked her in the eyes, “we’ve come to a deal about wool, cloth and workshops but there is something else I wish to discuss. I’ve heard you are attempting to make tapestries in Gulltown.”

“Aye, I am.”

“A worthwhile pursuit,” Benedict added, “the markets of Myr have been closed to us ever since…” he looked away as he remembered who Elaena’s father was.

“Ever since my father and his war in the Stepstones.”

“Aye,” a hiccup, Archibald Arryn was on his third cup. “Him and that Sea Snake angered the Three Daughters, and they now treat Westerosi sails as if we carried greyscale. They charge us more and they try to cheat us.”

“Please forgive my son, “Isembard was quick to add. “He is a passionate man and forgets himself.”

“No apologies necessary,” if she became offended every time someone insulted her father, she would be offended her entire life. “My father’s war continues to affect us all. You mentioned my tapestries?” she thought it better to change the conversation.

“The tapestries, yes,” he gave her a grateful smile, “I do not have the eastern contacts that Corlys Velaryon does and have no way of acquiring Norvosi tapestries. But what I do have is contacts in Braavos with painters whose works could be turned into tapestries. Contacts amongst the dyer guilds of Lorath, Braavos and Pentos. And, perhaps more importantly, skilled workers who, alongside your own, could work to create tapestries of our own.”

“This was my idea,” added Archibald with another hiccup. “Go at it together on a workshop, we both fund it, we both profit.”

“I would be inclined to grant you a slightly larger share of the profit,” Isembard leaned towards her, “in exchange for a more personal favor.”

“Speak, my Lord,” hopefully it wasn’t about marriage.

“My only daughter, Alysanne, is six-and-ten, lovely and well-educated,” the three brothers nodded as one, “but I am having trouble finding her a worthy match. I would request you take her on as a lady-in-waiting and find her a lordly husband. Know her dowry is comparable to a king’s ransom,” he wagged a finger, “but her mother and grandmother’s blood weighs more than gold,” his voice was bitter.

“I will do so, send her to Runestone,” all Elaena had in mind were tapestries, “I shall strive to find her a worthy match.”

The feast that night was large. Isembard had brought more than enough wine for everyone. As people celebrated, she hammered out details with Isembard and was promised a tour of the city so she could see her future workshops. As the night went on, and as wine was drank, Isembard became looser with his tongue.

“Your father really put us on the spot, Lady Elaena,” his words were slurred. “The Stepstones are now even more infested with pirates. Its new king, some brigand come from the Basilisk Isles, is more interested in selling captured crews as slaves.”

“House Velaryon is still trying to put things to right,” Benedict cut in, more sober and diplomatic. “But it’s an uphill battle.”

“Pah! In the days of King Jaehaerys this would not have happened,” Isembard was going red, whether from the drink or anger, Elaena could not tell. “If the King still sat the throne, then all it would have taken was a message to the Triarchy, instead Prince Daemon,” said with disdain, “destroyed any semblance of order in the Stepstones and abandoned the islands to the fate of pirates and slavers. Now only Corlys Velaryon is fool enough to brave his ships through the Stepstones. The east is closed off to us with more modest fleets. If only… ‘Tis a damned shame what happened to Prince Aemon and his brother,” he stood up with cup in hand. “To the Prince of Dragonstone and the Spring Prince!”

The toast was well received, particularly by the older people present at the feast, who still remembered the sons of King Jaehaerys. Some men cheered for King Viserys, but the Gilded Falcon and his sons were noticeably silent. “The son is not nearly the man the father was,” he whispered to Elaena. “Neither of the sons, with all due respect to your father,” he quickly added. “The Gods took from us the sons of King Jaehaerys and left us with his grandchildren, all of them a shadow of the Old King” Ser Benedict was trying to get his father on his feet and away from the feast. “His Grace now seems intent on placing his daughter on the throne. I’m no friend to the Hightowers, but a woman? If she was like you, mayhaps, but what I hear from merchants that dock in Dragonstone…” he shook his head as Benedict managed to escort him to their rooms. Elaena merely smiled, amused; drunks were very honest, and she cared not to defend her father’s honor.

Come morning, Maladon and Gerold discussed the purchase of wool and came to a staggering figure. Now she could mayhaps buy a ship or two.

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A sennight after the Gulltowners had left, Olyvar and the knights returned. They’d managed to capture a prisoner, a teenaged raider, who was now safely locked away in the dungeon. Her nephews, Eldric included, had seen the fighting from afar and not taken part, as Willam had promised. Routine returned to Runestone. Once the second of four musicians managed to write an acceptable song, and left for Gullltown, she began inviting Olyvar to walk with her in the Godswood. Always escorted by one of her ladies and a knight, at Mya’s insistence. That day it was Cellia Tollett, who’s fingers were always stained the color of clay lately, and grim Ser Benfred.

“How is the music training going, ser?”

“We’re advancing at a good pace, Ossifer is nearly finished with his and Ryman has finally been inspired by a few hymns,” his smiles were always small, “before year’s end, we’ll be finished.”

“Good,” she turned away and smiled, privately. “Tell me about Ninestars, ser.”

“’Tis a large valley, found and defended by nine knights of the Warrior’s Sons, one of whom was a Templeton. After Artys Arryn was crowned king, he rewarded Ser Luceon Templeton with dominion over the valley,” he closed his eyes. “Cool winds come down from the mountain in the mornings and even in the height of summer it’s never unbearably hot. Me and my nephews, we used to swim in the lake,” a laugh. “My good-sister hated that, there are lampreys in the water and leeches in the tributaries.”

“What did you do in Ninestars? As a boy, as a knight.”

“I loved riding more than anything and rode all over the valley. Much the same as a knight, but with a sword at my side and keeping an eye on the mountains,” they’d stopped before the heart tree, a great ash. “When my father was healthy, we travelled often to a septry, where the brothers ate better thank many lords. They harvested their own vegetables and fished for lampreys and brewed a savory beer.”

“Did you learn to joust from your father?”

“For a while, aye, but it was Ser Harlan Stone, the master-at-arms who finished training me,” they sat under the tree and Cella brought over a basket with their lunch. “On your nameday tourney, years ago, I wanted to ride. But my father was clear, all his descendants would earn their knighthood in battle, not on the lists. What about you, my Lady? You and Septa Roelle have been hard at work at something?”

“We’re writing a book of stories, we’re almost finished. It will contain useful examples of moral virtue and pious behavior for young lordlings. Help teach them, with an amusing tale, what is expected of them,” Cella hid her giggles, once Elaena got talking about her interests it was hard to change the subject. “Roelle has made drawings for the tales, and we intend to take the manuscript to a septry where they will copy it and decorate it. Roelle spoke to me of a Septon Borros in Gulltow, who makes beautiful Seven-Pointed-Stars. He is a master miniaturist who uses many pigments and gold leaf to create works of art. We’ve sent a messenger to Gulltown requesting his services and after hearing of the nature of our manuscript, he’s agreed to make five copies.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“You must read the stories, tell me what you think,” Elaena went on. “One of the copies will stay here, another will likely go to the Eyrie, and I intend to gift one to the High Septon and one to His Grace,” she had thought of giving one to her father and Rhaenyra, but ever since her dream she didn’t wish to think of him. “Hopefully Septon Borros will agree to work again with me. We have one of his Seven-Pointed-Stars here and it truly is a marvel. Vibrant colors that jump out of the page, a masterful dominion over perspective and that is not even mentioning his skill itself,” Olyvar was looking at her with a smile. “Have you seen it? Septon Lomas keeps it locked up in the Sept but does take it out to boast about it.”

“Aye, he showed it to us, me and the musicians, when I took them to learn how to sing hymns. Did you know most of them had never sung one?” he had been surprised at that. “They spent little time on septs and more time on taverns. That’s been the largest difficulty, for their ears to get used to the verses and tones of religious poetry.”

“That’s bound to change then, with our religious university opening in Gulltown,” Olyvar had not heard of that. “I’ve kept in contact with His High Holiness and things are nearly ready. He is travelling for the wedding of Prince Aegon next year and afterwards will leave for Gulltown, accompanied, I hope, by all the wise septons and pious maesters that answered his call.”

“A religious university will affect how many people know hymns?”

“Music will be taught, and we wish for septons all over the Vale, from those in castles and septries to those in humble village septs, to learn in the academy,” she continued talking as she spread jam on a piece of bread. “Learned septons will better teach smallfolk all over about the Faith and may be even able to teach them many more things. And if they know music, then more hymns will be sung all over. Can I tell you a secret?” she leant over and whispered. “I don’t just intent to educate septons, there will be lessons on arts, sums, music, philosophy and many other things and true religious education will come afterwards, once previous knowledge has been mastered. But if any only wish to learn the first half, then that is more than fine with me.”

“You’re making your own half-maesters,” he laughed. His laugh was deep and sounded nice, she thought, with a smile.

Chapter Text

122 AC

The Eyrie, Gulltown, Redfort and High Tide. Olyvar’s apprentices had all finished their training and been invited to serve at great courts. He received more requests from aspiring poets, but Elaena did not ask him to accept them; so, the aspirants went off to Gulltown and the Eyrie. She had worried that the Faith would not look kindly at the kind of poems they were writing, but was surprised when, instead, Septon Lomas began composing poems of his own. If rumor could be trusted, Septon Lomas was dedicating them to a septa in a motherhouse.

Aegon and Helaena’s wedding was on the second moon of the year and Elaena had been preparing for the past two. Helaena was three-and-ten and Elaena was disgusted. When she’d been invited to the wedding and she remembered how young her cousin was she was half-tempted to refuse in protest of her age, but practicality won out. She would go to the wedding, the High Septon would be there as well as many of the lords of the Narrow Sea who she wanted to trade with. She vowed to never wed any of the girls in her charge at such a young age and lit seven candles to the Maiden, praying for Helaena. It was a monstrous world she now inhabited; Helaena, her former lady Delia, Queen Aemma and countless other girls in ages past had all married far too young.

She would be showing off the growing wealth of House Royce. Her position as a niece to the king ensured she’d be granted one of the larger rooms in Maegor’s Holdfast; a room large enough to host guests. She was travelling with enough furnishings to turn her rooms into an advertisement, intending to drape the entire thing in the finest cloth hangings she had. She still lacked fine tapestries to compete with Myr but her workshop had achieved their first success: a view of the bay of Gulltown and its islands from atop the Gull Tower. It could compete only in its use of colors, which showed the deep green waters of Gulltown. Mya and her handmaidens, along with a team of seamstresses, had been hard at work making clothes for her entire party: four ladies-in-waiting and Septa Roelle, all six of Mya’s children and Eldric, six knights, three squires, ten men-at-arms and ten servants. Everyone would be wearing their best, even the men-at-arms and servants, who would be granted doublets and dresses in Royce colors. If their clothes and the decorations in her rooms didn’t do it, then the wedding gifts she had prepared were sure to turn heads and make lords and ladies seek her out.

Jeyne was not going to the wedding, in support of Rhaenyra’s claim. She argued a sudden chill but the message she sent Elaena made her reasons clear. She was sending a gift to the newlyweds, however; a few jewels that had been part of Daella Targaryen’s dowry. She’d also sent a banner of House Arryn and a rather large list of observations and warnings for Eldric, as he’d be representing House Arryn at the wedding. If Jeyne wasn’t going, then Jessamyn was also not going. Two of her foster sisters were attending though, and it had been too long since she’d last seen them. Ser Luceon Templeton had been granted leave by Jeyne to attend the wedding and escort his betrothed, Lanna Belmore. Anya Waxley had married Ser Bernarr Pryor, heir to Pebble, and the two would be attending, with their two children.

She left for Gulltown with her entire party a week before leaving. Elaena wanted to observe her new workshops and look up her new investments. The Royce manor in the city was not regularly maintained and barely furnished. Her grandsire Yorbert had been the last to live in the manor, and that had been for only a moon, years before her mother had even been born. After the wedding she intended to stay in Gulltown for a while to oversee the growth of the cloth industry in the city. Such was the abandonment of the manor that it required construction work to be made livable. Its cellar was flooded, there were holes in the roof and most of the wooden floors had rotted away. She ordered simple and cheap repairs, planning to tear down the manor down and build it anew. A Royce palace, built with beauty in mind, that would also act as the office of her growing cloth industry. Though that was a far-in-the-future plan.

The weaver’s workshop she bought from Isembard was run by a burly man in his fifties named Orrel. At first, she was concerned that he’d prove troublesome, suddenly having a new boss; but it turned out that Isembard bought Orrel’s workshop just five years prior from another merchant, who had bought it twenty years ago. Orrel was used to change and was more concerned with being paid in time than in who was paying. He was a member of the weaver’s guild, apparently a dependent of the seamstress’ guild but guaranteed to grow in importance in the coming years. Fifty people, including apprentices, worked for Orrel and he had enough looms to produce close to a hundred yards of cloth per day.

Her dyer’s workshop was smaller and closer to the walls. Run by an old man called Petyr, it had ten workers, and they specialized in dyeing yarn. Her workshop was by the docks, she would need to hire guards to watch over it. For now, she ordered for five-men-at-arms to be sent over to work as guards. She still needed to come to an agreement with Lucas Grafton over the workshops she’d buy from him, but she suspected she’d be making the deal with Isembard Arryn as well. Lord Grafton never seemed to be involved in anything at all.

Her business done in the city, they set out for the wedding. She’d been concerned that the bronze gift she was bringing for the king would be too heavy for the ship, but Jeyne had lent them her own Gentle Daella, the massive dromond of House Arryn. Eldric going was the excuse given to lend her the ship. Good weather and favorable summer winds carry them to King’s Landing ahead of most guests. She made sure to pack no clothes with any green or black on them and had found her wardrobe favoring the purple dyes of Braavos and Royce browns embroidered with copper threads. The city remains as she remembers, a twisting maze of streets that smelt bad. Were it not for the wide cobbled streets the Old King had placed they’d have been hopelessly lost. The Hook takes them straight from the River Gate to the Red Keep, where the king himself is there to receive her. He looks better than last she saw him, with color to his cheeks and a black glove being all that betrays any illness. He seemed fatter, as well.

“Niece!” the king opened his arms and beckoned her for a hug. “It has been too long, welcome to my city.”

“Your Grace,” she curtsied, then approached him and hugged her uncle. “Uncle, ‘tis good to see you well,” she faced the Queen and curtsied. “Your Grace.”

“Lady Elaena, we are pleased to see you,” Queen Alicent’s smiles had a calm softness to them, the product of hours practicing before a mirror. “Mallory,” she spoke to a woman standing behind her, “show Lady Royce’s party where to take their things. I hope you will join us for a small dinner while your rooms are being set up. Only family and select members of court and the Small Council,” the king smiled expectantly at her.

“Can I take an escort with me?” Elaena did not care to be seated next to Tyland Lannister or whoever they thought of matching her up with. Thankfully she had decided to dress up in the ship when the city came into view. An elegant flowing dress of her best wool that was dyed wine red, embroidered with runes made of copper threads that stood out with the light. Her arms were left bare, the summer heat was unbearable, and decorated with antique bronze bracelets and gold bands.

“Of course, of course,” her uncle swatted away any concerns. “That young poet that Otto spoke of, yes?” and a playful wink. “Come, Alicent. Aemond can lead her to the Queen’s Ballroom,” there was a barely noticeable strain to the queen’s smile, as her second son stepped forward.

Elaena hadn’t noticed him standing behind the king. A lanky boy of two-and-ten wearing an eyepatch and a permanent scowl that spoke of a tendency to brood. Looking up at his cousin there was a slight blush that disappeared as soon as it showed. With a curt nod and a mumbled “Cousin,” he walked over to the doorway and waited for her. Mya quickly took charge of her party and seeing to their lodgings while Elaena offered her arm to Olyvar and made to follow Aemond. Olyvar was wearing simpler clothes, but of fine make. As he led them, silently, she thought of the boy in front of her. The child that would accidentally become a kinslayer and set out on a bloody path of destruction. He dressed all in dark green, almost black, with a three-headed dragon embroidered with gold on his chest. The young prince looked back, from time to time, but remained quiet.

The Queen’s Ballroom was decorated with great banners with the three-headed dragon and the Hightower. The king sat at the head of the table, with Alicent at his right and Aegon, five-and-ten, on the shorter side and pretty-faced though pudgy, at his left. Across from Aegon sat the child bride; Helaena was homely and sweet-looking. The two elder children of King Viserys took after their father, being on the heavier side. The Queen seemed to want Elaena across from her, with which would place her next to Ser Tyland Lannister, but she sat on Helaena’s left and Olyvar sat to her right. The young Templeton knight was visibly nervous, not expecting to meet with the king so soon after arriving. An old lord with two black wings in his doublet and Lord Rosby were next to the Lannister. Aemond took the seat to Helaena’s right and to his right sat Jasper Wylde, Lyman Beesbury and Larys Strong in front of them.

“Ah, there’s Otto now,” the Hand was followed by a silver-haired boy who could only be Prince Daeron, “come, come, sit,” the king ordered. “Once Rhaenyra arrives, the entire family shall be here,” Viserys beamed. “We are all here, let us eat!” The king’s table was rich and savory, choice cuts of meat were presented to His Grace who quickly set about sending them down to his guests. Elaena was presented with a tender leg of ham, covered with a nutty sauce. “Otto tells me you enjoy tourney’s, dear Elaena,” the king spoke with his mouth full. “If I was just some years younger and the sea did not disagree with me so, you’d be hard pressed to keep me away,” a large laugh coming from the belly.

“I’d be honored, uncle,” Elaena had to keep her eyes fixed in front of her. Whenever she looked at Helaena, she remembered the sort of man Daemon was. The princess was far too young and was talking with her younger siblings with a smile, while prince Aegon ignored them and drank almost as much wine as the king. “I hear there are to be four days of celebration.”

“Four days indeed,” the queen sighed while the king spoke. “Alicent wanted seven days, but Lyman spoke truly in that it was an unnecessary expense. I love a good tourney as much as any one in this table, but I can be sensible with coin when needed, and you don’t mind a smaller wedding, do you, my boy?”

“Wha-?” the prince was halfway through another cup of wine and caught unaware by the question. “No, father, I don’t mind.”

“You won Lady Royce’s last tourney, did you not, Ser?” the Queen cut in, addressing Olyvar.

“A-aye, Your Grace,” he stammered, before finding his courage, “and I intend to do so again, if my Lady would grant me her favor,” Olyvar turned towards her with a serious look to his face.

“Good man!” approved the king, while Elaena tried to hide a blush. The straightforward courting in Westeros would be her undoing. She mastered herself and answered with a nod and as graceful a smile as she could give.

“Will you be taking part, cousin,” she turned towards Aegon, who was at present tearing into his food.

“Ah,” a struggle to swallow, “the squire’s tourney. Ser Criston says I’m ready.”

“You are too humble, Aegon,” the Queen spoke up. “You will do your namesake proud.”

“Hear, hear,” Ser Otto led a toast. The King gave his son an indulgent smile and clapped him on the back. The prince puffed up his chest, to his youngest brother’s cheers.

“Cousin?” came Helaena’s soft voice and a tap on Elaena’s arm. “Father said you like songs,” Helaena’s big lilac eyes were fixed on hers. “The day before my wedding, Mother is inviting singers to sing for me and my guests, would you like to join us?”

“I would love to, cousin,” Elaena’s smile was answered with a wide grin. She looked at Olyvar, asking a silent question to which he nodded. “Olyvar has a lovely voice and a talent for poetry, would you care to hear him sing?” Helaena looked towards her mother, who nodded.

“Yes, please, you are both welcome.”
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Elaena took her leave of the dinner after the third barrel of Arbor Gold was brought in. Her younger cousins had already left, leaving only Aegon behind. The Prince was drinking with a bored look as his father spoke of his youthful adventures before his wedding to Queen Aemma. Otto and the Queen were deep in conversation with the members of the King’s Council. Elaena’s absence was not felt deeply.

Her rooms were now furnished with all the finery she had brought. The walls were covered nearly in their entirety with banners, hangings and her tapestry. She had draped soft cloth in many colors over every piece of furniture. She’d call the overwhelming number of colors cheap and of bad taste, but when wealth and trade were shown off it had to be. As lords of the Narrow Sea began arriving, she invited their wives to join her in embroidery, showing off her cloth and, later, approaching the husbands to inquire about trade. Darklyn and Sunglass were interested in trade and a deal would be reached once they’d all returned home. Bar Emmon and Massey wished to visit Gulltown to make a deal in person.

Eldric and her nephews spent their time in the yard with other squires, accompanied by the knights they squired for. Her ladies-in-waiting joined her when entertaining guests and she got to know her newest lady. Alysanne Arryn was six-and-ten, blonde and blue-eyed like most Arryn’s seemed to be, proud and loud. Daughter of the wealthiest man in the Vale, she had expensive tastes and her personal maidservant spent close to one hour every day setting her hair. She was a pleasant girl, however, who treated her servants with kindness and laughed often at even the silliest japes. The dress she’d be wearing to the wedding, made of deep blue silk with golden moons and falcons all over and a large shawl of Myrish lace on top, would scream how large her dowry was; hopefully helping Elaena in finding her a good match.

Queen Alicent was busy with the wedding’s last preparations, so Helaena visited her rooms often in those days. She liked embroidery and making her own clothes and spent her time looking over the wall hangings and Elaena’s dresses. The more time she spent with her cousin, the easier it became for Elaena to vanish any thoughts of her father. Her cousin was sweet and, once she got comfortable enough, quite talkative. She loved stories and songs and was fond of insects. She was embroidering butterflies onto a blanket for a child’s bed. She liked dragonflies, butterflies and beetles the most; a golden beetle adorned a bracelet on her arm. When her nieces began asking for stories once guests were gone, Helaena began staying over late into the night. She’d sit next to her as she spoke, with her eyes closed and lost in her imagination. The sight of Helaena, three-and-ten, asking for bedtime stories before her wedding would stay with her for her entire life.
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Her father and Rhaenyra finally arrived, three days before the wedding. Caraxes, Meleys and Syrax flew around the city three times, before landing in the Dragonpit. Four great ships bearing Velaryon sails arrived at the harbor. Elaena joined King Viserys, who’d travelled to the docks to welcome his daughter. From the grandest of the ships came Rhaenyra, four moons pregnant, and the children. As soon as they saw her, Baela and Rhaena ran off to hug their elder sister, who knelt to hug them back. Rhaenyra stepped forward to hug her father, carrying two-year-old Aegon in her arms, while her three older sons walked behind her, waiting for their turn to hug their grandsire.

“Boys, you remember your aunt,” Rhaenyra beckoned her sons forward, after they were done greeting the king.

“She’s Baela and Rhaena’s sister!” pointed out Joffrey.

“Yes,” the Princess of Dragonstone ruffled her son’s hair with a smile. “Remember what we said about introductions?”

“Well met, Lady Elaena,” began Jacaerys, and his brothers copied him, “it is good to see you once again and we hope you will remember this meeting with fondness when next we meet on our feet or on the air.”

“Good job, Jace,” servants began unloading the ship, Corlys Velaryon could be seen walking around giving orders as half a hundred men-at-arms in shining armor and Velaryon colors descended from the last ship and marched to escort the Princess. “Daemon has been teaching them about hospitality and greetings from Aenar Targaryen’s books,” she explained.

“Vaerial the Strong greeted friends and enemies like that,” Lucerys added. “He was a powerful Dragonlord who fought against Ghis.”

“Always showing courtsy,” followed Joffrey, followed by a “courtesy” correction from Rhaenyra.

“Family being together is as it is meant to be,” spoke the King. “Come now, let us reach the Red Keep before that brother of mine can cause trouble,” he japed as he got back in his chariot.

Elaena didn’t know if she wanted to see her father. She suspected his involvement in Laenor’s death and whenever she saw Helaena embroidering clothes for her dolls she wanted to cry. He had protected her rights, however, and always treated her with kindness, though some aloofness. When they stepped inside the keep’s courtyard, he, and Rhaenys, were already waiting. They greeted the king, and her father was about to turn towards her when Viserys grabbed him by the shoulder, begged her forgiveness for stealing her father away, and took him inside the keep. She didn’t see him until much later, when he came calling into her rooms.

“I see he gave you the good rooms,” his eyebrow rose as he looked around at her decorations. “He did say you’ve made them your own.”

“Aye, father,” she offered him a seat and signaled with her eyes for her ladies to leave. “All the better to let lords know the benefit of trading with me.”

“Those sheep of yours, I remember,” he gave her a smile as he sat down. “The girls would not stop telling me about your knightly pretender. I’d thought you were incapable of finding a man and considered introducing you to one, but it seems you are in no need of my assistance,” he joked, but his eyes remained firm.

“Aye, I’ve set about making my own match,” she had to be firm, “arrange my own future,” she thought she saw a slight nod from her father, “Ser Olyvar has been working hard to prove himself worthy of my hand.”

“Proving himself,” that seemed to amuse him. “I’ll be sure to test out your boy during the tourney,” his posture relaxed. “You have been here long enough, what’d you think of my brother’s brats?”

“Prince Aegon is busy preparing for his wedding, so I have not seen much of him, Princess Helaena is sweet and friendly, I’ve not talked with the younger princes,” she needed to ensure she was seen as a neutral party. Friendly to all, enemy to none. You never knew who was listening. Her father merely kept quiet as he looked her over and at her decorations.

“A lot of brown,” he mumbled. “A lot of purple, as well. Are you sure you aren’t marrying some dashing bravo,” he japed.

“I am quite sure,” she struggled to smile at his jokes. “You are jousting then?”

“Someone has to stop the Queen’s cronies from crowning her insipid little daughter,” he waved his hand in dismissal. “Someone has to remind them who the crown goes on.”

“We shall see,” she gave a smug smile that came naturally. She’d oft seen her father joust, and while he was skilled, he was no natural horseman. Her faith was fully on Olyvar.

“The girls insisted they would stay with you tonight,” he changed subject. “That all right with you?”

“Aye, they most welcome. But they shall have to wake early, tomorrow His High Holiness arrives from Oldtown through the Gate of the Gods, and I will join the party receiving him.” Her father scoffed.

“The dragon doesn’t concern itself with its lessers,” Daemon Targaryen cared little for the Faith of the Seven. “You are a woman grown and free to fawn over whomever you wish, but I’ll send for my daughters before you take them to welcome septons.” Her father’s mood soured after that and he soon left, off to visit his old haunts in the city. Not long after her sisters arrived at her rooms.

“Moondancer had to stay home, too big for the ship and too small to fly all the way, they said,” Baela complained as soon as the door closed. “Tyraxes is younger but already bigger, no fair,” she grumbled.

“Has Ser Olyvar written you more songs? Will he sing on the tourney again? Are you getting married? Grandmother claims you are,” Rhaena barraged her with questions, used to her sister’s plight; she had complained the entire ship ride.

“There is no singing contest, I’m afraid, but Olyvar might just be singing,” she wasn’t brave enough to invite her sisters to Helaena’s singer gathering without asking her father first. “I’ll let you know,” she picked up Rhaena, who began giggling. “What story do you want to hear today?”

“Ser Martyn against the giant Morm!”

“No, Ser Martyn’s secret wedding!” They spent the rest of the afternoon listening to stories and making up their own adventures, when Mya returned with her girls, her rooms hosted a small party.
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The High Septon had left Oldtown with a small escort provided by House Hightower. He travelled the Rose Road with septons, septas and maesters at a leisurely pace. All along the way the faithful had flocked to him. The twenty men-at-arms and ten knights carrying the Hightower swelled to a party of nearly two hundred knights. Faithful knights and lords from all over the Reach joined His High Holiness on his journey to King’s Landing, not to mention the countless smallfolk that followed in their wake. Rhaenyra had entered the city surrounded by some fifty knights and men-at-arms showing off the power of House Velaryon, the Queen had placed her son’s supporters on the seats of honor, the High Septon had come with the chivalry of the Reach at his side.

The High Septon crossed the Gates of the Gods accompanied by a knightly escort that shouted out: we are still here. The Warrior’s Sons were no more, but if the High Septon ever called, the pious knights of the realm would answer his call. Fossoway and Costayne, Florent and Bulwer, the golden rose of Tyrell, Rowan and Tarly, the checkered lion and the horn of plenty, Crane, Graceford, Ball; nearly every major house of the Reach was present. For every great banner there were ten knightly banners. The crowds of the city cheered at the banners bearing the seven-pointed star, and the septons answered back by throwing silver stags at the people.

The High Septon, old as he was, travelled in a comfortable carriage, but as soon as he arrived at the city he got out and walked towards the Red Keep. People threw flowers at him and asked him for blessings, which he granted freely. Upon seeing Elaena, he nodded in recognition and gestured in invitation. She joined the large knightly escort, the Royce banners carried by Ser Simon joining the Reachmen. And many other banners soon joined the High Septon’s; the banners of pious lords from the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands and the Crownlands marched alongside the Faith. The High Septon thus arrived at the Red Keep with the largest escort of any lord and to the loudest cheers.

Queen Alicent welcomed His High Holiness alongside her children, but no other Targaryen waited in the courtyard. The High Septon did not kneel as he walked over towards the queen. Alicent curtsied, kissed his hand and loudly asked him to bless her and her children. As knights and lords dispersed, looking to their lodgings, Elaena walked over to the Queen and the High Septon. He had sent a raven to her, speaking of good news he had to share.

“Lady Royce,” the High Septon was in his seventies, but still strong enough to make the walk to the Red Keep. He was nearly bald, some white hair remained behind his ears, but his opulent crystal crown covered most of his head. His robes were pure white and of the finest make, embroidered with goldwork showing images of the Seven. “We have much to speak of, I am certain the King will forgive me not greeting him at this very moment.”

“Of course, Your Holiness,” the king had snubbed him, and he was snubbing him back apparently.

“I insist the both of you join me for a small luncheon, everything is all set to welcome you, Your Holiness,” the Queen spoke and looked expectantly towards Elaena, who nodded and walked alongside them to the Queen’s Ballroom.

“Good, good. It is good we have a pious queen,” it was a short way to the Ballroom and many nobles were already waiting inside. The Queen took her seat in the high table, along with her children, and invited them to join her.

“My Lady,” Ser Tyland Lannister had apparently saved her a seat and before she could think of a polite reason to refuse him the High Septon came to her rescue.

“I must speak with Lady Royce,” he spoke as he sat beside the queen and gestured to the empty seat to his right. “Come and sit, my Lady. There is much we need to discuss.” To her own right sat an older septa, who she’d later learn was the Mother of the largest Motherhouse in the Oldtown and sister of Otto Hightower.

“Has Lord Grafton spoken to you, Your Holiness?” Elaena had been given leave by both Isembard and Lucas Grafton to speak for them. “He’s chosen an island in the bay and begun construction, homes for the septons and rooms for the lessons.” The Queen was listening intently to their conversation.

“Good, good. I’ve brought three-and-ten septons and four pious maesters, who will all stay in Gulltown to teach septons and apprentices,” he drank deep from his cup of watered-down Arbor Gold.

“I had hoped to speak of you of the importance of teaching women of the cloth as well,” the High Septon nodded. “Septas oversee the education of young ladies and the better prepared they are, the more they can teach their charges about the Seven. In many towns and villages in the Vale, septas treat the ill and help mothers give birth.”

“Are Motherhouses not in charge of such education for septas?”

“Yes, Your Holliness,” septa to her right quickly answered. “It is the duty of motherhouses to prepare septas for their role in the Faith and I believe it would be against our mission to allow young novices to learn at the side of men.”

“Precisely so, Mother Lynesse,” he nodded at her answer. “Lady Royce this is Mother Lynesse, a very wise woman, knowledgeable in all that entails the education of septas and ladies.”

“She is my Lady aunt, Elaena,” the Queen cut in, “I am sure that she knows best about how septas should be brought up.”

“I understand your wishes, my Lady,” Mother Lynesse replied kindly, “but I assure you that we have education well in hand in the motherhouses. Why I hear you are a great patron of the motherhouses in your lands,” she smiled in a very motherly way. “Continue with your support as you have, and you will see that we will set about to fulfill our mission in even greater ways. Not all lords are as generous in their faith as you have proven to be, so our mission finds difficulties along the way. But the will of the Seven-who-are-One will be done. You can be sure of it.”

“Well spoken, Mother Lynesse,” the High Septon beckoned a younger septon, who handed him a rolled-up piece of parchment. “This is the list of septons and maesters I have chosen and what they will teach, please look at it. Keep it. Look at it later,” he added before she could unroll it.

The rest of their evening was spent with small talk. Elaena was caught in the middle between Alicent and Mother Lynesse. The Queen was asking after every single relative in Oldtown and the state of the city. She hadn’t gone back home since before her wedding. The High Septon was among the first to retire, the same young septon who brought him the parchment, helping him up and discreetly leaving a small parchment in Elaena’s hands. Morning of wedding, we speak, invite to Royce rooms.

Chapter Text

122 AC

Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, was where she belonged. Daemon had vanished into the city, off to drink with his old friends from the City Watch, and Rhaenyra was preparing to feast her future vassals. The Queen had dragged whatever supporters she had and her half-siblings to meet with the High Septon and Rhaenyra could only laugh. Alicent Hightower did not understand that outside of Oldtown the old man had no power, and that her father was not inclined to piety. Nothing the High Septon could say would change her father’s mind. Rhaenyra was the heir and would stay the heir.

Let Alicent court the Faith, a horse already broken in by her great grandsire, she reasoned. Alicent could bore her little following in the Small Hall, Rhaenyra would host her lords in the Great Hall. She had brought with her pipers and dancers from Driftmark, fire-eaters from Dragonstone and a troupe of mummers from Pentos. They’d make so much noise that all the stuffy septons would fret and tither and her brother’s would-be supporters would dread her numbers. The Queen had attempted to turn the wedding into a show of power for their faction, but her father had wisely arranged for a smaller celebration. Many lords would not make the large journey for such a small event, for a prince so far down the line of succession. Alicent and her children would have few ears to spew their poisonous insults about her sons. Jace, Luke and little Joffrey did not share her name but were as Targaryen as any other, no matter what they had to say.

The Hightowers had played their silly little game, escorting the High Septon with hundreds of knights as if that would sway her resolve. Her father’s wife did not understand House Targaryen; they were above the lords of the realm. They were the blood of Old Valyria, Dragonriders of old, heirs of an empire of six thousand years. The wants of Andal and First Men lords meant little before a dragon. With dragons at her side, the wishes of a few malcontents seduced by the Greens’ honeyed words accounted for nothing. She had received the oaths of lords from the Wall to the marches and her father stood behind her. Lords lived by their oaths. She would become the first queen to rule the Seven Kingdoms and singers would sing of her reign for hundreds of years.

Returning to the Red Keep, the first time since her father’s last nameday, and seeing all the lords that came to see her, all her supporters that came to a wedding to meet a different princess, had Rhaenyra thinking of the future. Once she was queen, she would allow Alicent to retire to one of those motherhouses she loves so much; if her sons bent the knee and behaved, she would find them some keep to grow old in—they were still her father’s children—if they didn’t… she didn’t want to think about it. With Daemon by her side, they would bring House Targaryen to heights not even King Jaehaerys imagined. Jace would make a good king after her. When she saw him playing with Baela, she knew they would make a fine pair and a loving marriage. Luke and Rhaena would rule Driftmark after Corlys and her younger sons would rule keeps of their own and help in bringing about a golden age brighter than any before them.

As she watched the servants dress Joffrey for the feast she thought back on Daemon’s request. He had come raging last night, ranting about his daughter’s piety and deference to the High Septon. He wanted her to take Elaena under her wings and show her what it meant to be a Targaryen. Rhaenyra had always thought her husband’s disdain for his Royce wife came from her homeliness, a lack of the right blood and coldness in the marriage bed, but mayhaps Rhea Royce had been a pious little Andal who wasted her time repeating religious nonsense to Daemon and spouting sermons. Rhea Royce had clearly turned her cousin into a septa. She ran from marriage, even when they offered her a fine match like Daeron Velaryon and remained a maiden at her age. She spent all her time with her septa, if what Baela and Rhaena said was so. Rhaenys mentioned once that Elaena funded septries and motherhouses and spent a great deal of her time visiting them. Rhaenyra had never been to a motherhouse, and thinking back on her old septa, a hag that Otto Hightower brought from Oldtown, she knew she never wanted to visit one.

Rhaenyra never knew what had driven him to call her Bronze Bitch, but if she was as frigid as her cousin? That could well be it, she reasoned. From their first meeting ages ago, Elaena was cold and aloof. She even looked at Daemon, her own father, as if he was a stranger! She remembered the little girl following Jeyne around and staying quiet in the background, no Targaryen should play second fiddle to another. Even when she grew older and, much to Rhaenyra’s annoyance, taller than her, she was still frigid. Slow to smile and laugh, always silently watching, her cold grey eyes always vigilant. She avoided court, rarely leaving Runestone. Not even Laena’s funeral had made her leave the Vale. Rhaenyra still hadn’t forgiven her for that; Laena was their cousin, and she had been her best friend. Her eyes teared up whenever she saw Laena in Baela and Rhaena. But Elaena had used some Arryn troublemakers as an excuse. Laenor’s funeral had brought her out from her keep, and she had the gall to glare at her and Daemon!

Elaena had lived too long in Runestone, away from family. She had not learnt from Daemon like Rhaenyra had. Daemon complained how she had left the keep to welcome the High Septon and that she had even joined Alicent’s pious little feast. The servant she had sent to snoop had told her that her cousin even sat next to the High Septon. In the high table. In a seat of honor. Close to the queen. She’d spent too much time surrounded by Andals and did not understand dragons did not concern themselves with the beliefs of the sheep. She’d made sure she had received an invitation to her feast, she would get bored listening to the septons and come to her feast. Once there she would invite her to become one of her ladies-in-waiting and take her home to Dragonstone, there she would learn to be a Targaryen. She wouldn’t say no; how many could say they had had the privilege of being ladies to a queen?

The Great Hall had been draped in Targaryen banners. The three-headed dragon stood alone before the Iron Throne; no glorified lighthouses, no crystals of the seven, no seahorses. The Red Keep had room only for the dragon. She was wearing a dress of the finest silk, dyed black and embroidered in Pentos, and as many jewels to beggar a lesser house. Her sons wore fine black wool, Daemon did not approve of men wearing silks. The moment she entered, her guests stood to receive her. These were her future vassals, loyal lords who remembered their oaths. She would remember those not here. The first approach and kneel brought a smile to her face.

“My Princess, a most dreary year is brightened by your mere presence,” Forrest Frey, tall and broad in the shoulder, knelt and kissed her hand.

“My Fool of a Frey,” she teased with a well-meaning smile. “I was saddened to hear you have taken another to wife.”

“Alas!” he lamented. “Loneliness makes bad company, and my Lady Wife has brought much peace to my empty halls,” Forrest Frey had been a second son, suddenly thrusted upon his lordship after the sudden deaths of his father and older brother. “Please, my Princess, allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Sabitha Frey,” a woman, dressed in Frey blue and the green of some other house, curtsied beside her husband.

“Please stand, let me look at the woman who has won the heart of my dear fool,” not comely, Rhaenyra thought, but a handsome enough woman. “You’ve a responsibility, Lady Sabitha, to every woman whose heart has been stolen by your husband,” her japes were well received by the Freys and those near them.

The lords of the Crownlands and Riverlands had come to pay homage to their princess. Rhaenyra received them with smiles and japes. She knew them from her tour and remembered many of them fondly. These were the men who would uphold her claim if Alicent ever thought to challenge her. Forrest Frey, Petyr Piper, Tristan Vance, Armistead Darry, Walys Mooton, Samwell Blackwood, Bartimos Celtigar, Gunthor Darklyn, Gormon Massey, Emmon Stokeworth and Edric Rosby, Lysa Fell; these were her men, her vassals. Even lords of the Reach were present. She was kin to Jeyne Arryn and her boys were kin to the Baratheons, through Rhaenys. From these men she would make her council when the time came.

Her feast was as grand as she had planned. Sitting like a queen in the High Table, lords and knights flattered her and tried to impress her with their deeds. Musicians that Corlys had brought from distant harbors played exotic songs unheard in the courts of the Seven Kingdoms, her firebreathers impressed the lordlings and young ladies, beautiful dancers commanded the eyes. Her children had wandered off, but Corlys was close on their tail, he loved Laenor’s children and was always trying to teach something about sailing to her Luke. Everything was perfect. Her loyal lords praised her beauty and toasted to her reign.

Elaena was yet to arrive when Daemon did, stumbling from an excess of the cheap wine of the city’s taverns. He sat next to her, holding her hand and demanding more wine from a passing servant. As they listened to Walys Mooton prattle on about his young daughter, her Aegon’s age, Daemon’s patience was running out, she could fill it in his hand, and before he could do something impolite, she asked him for a dance. Every eye was drawn to her dancing figure, motherhood may have taken her slenderness, but it had only added to her already sizeable curves. Rhaenyra knew she was beautiful, the most beautiful maiden in the realm, Daemon had declared once. It was only right that every lord looked for her wherever she was. Any lord that approached, thinking of dancing with her, was chased away with a look by Daemon, to her amusement. She tired of dancing after five songs, just as her cousin finally arrived.

With her Vale knight following like a puppy, a Royce cousin and her septa, she stepped into the Great Hall. In a room where every lord had some black to their clothes, Elaena walked in wearing purple and gold. Rhaenyra scrunched her nose at that but mastered herself as she took her seat and beckoned her cousin. Elaena Royce took after Daemon in an almost uncanny fashion. She used to think that if Daemon had been born a woman, he’d look like his daughter. A tall and slender beauty, with not much of a chest to her, sharp-featured and severe. She liked to imagine her future daughter with Daemon might look like her, but gentler and with their coloring. Cold grey eyes locked on her purple own as she walked over. Daemon liked to jape that if uncle Vaegon and Septa Maegelle had married then Elaena would have been their child; Rhaenyra never met her aunt Maegelle but she remembered the sour Archmaester, more interested in his sums than in meeting the heir to the throne; he had shouted at her for moving his papers. Her cousin was a sour septa, then.

“I am glad you could join us, cousin.”

“Princess,” she nodded at her, keeping her distance as usual. “Forgive my tardiness, there was much to discuss with His High Holiness.”

“And what does the old man have to say?” asked Daemon as he beckoned the servant with the pitcher. “Have the Seven decided to grace us with their presence and bring forth a maiden for my brother?” She laughed; Elaena merely stared at them with her grey eyes. Rhaenyra once thought her eyes pretty, but now all she saw were cold unflinching rocks. Where Daemon was fiery and hot, his daughter was as cold as the peaks of the Vale.

“We have business together,” Elaena refused the offered wine. “After the wedding His High Holiness is coming with me to the Vale,” that was all news to Rhaenyra.

“What will you be doing? I had thought of inviting you to Dragonstone,” she saw hesitation in her cousin. “I wish to invite you into my household, a lady-in-waiting to the Crown Princess. As my cousin and a ruling lady by your own right, you would be entitled to become my chief lady. There you would learn all about our house and what it means to be a Targaryen. I am sure we could convince father to allow you to claim a dragon.”

“I am sorry, cousin,” a strained smile. “But, as you’ve said, I rule Runestone and cannot leave it.”

“A steward is more than capable enough,” Rhaenyra had to push. She glanced at Daemon, who was pretending not to listen.

“To become one of Rhaenyra’s ladies is a great opportunity,” he cut in. “Many of the ladies in this room would kill for it,” a smirk, “you would learn greatly at the side of the future queen, and she could assist you in making a good match. A better match than what the Vale can offer; you know men would rather fuck sheep than their lady wives. But when they are used to them looking like my Bronze Bitch, you cannot blame them for being so taken with your looks,” her cousin’s eyes hardened as she stood up.

“That will not be necessary, I have things well in hand and the rule of Runestone is mine and nobody else’s,” her tone was harsh. “Worry not for my match, father, ‘tis already arranged and the High Septon has agreed to preside over my wedding,” she stood up. “Do not expect an invitation,” and walked away from their table towards Rhaena, who was dancing on top of Corlys’ feet.

“Worry not, dear,” Daemon laughed into his cup. “She’s not upset with you; I riled her up; wanted my little septa to show some fire.” Rhaenyra could only sigh, if Daemon wanted her to help his daughter, then he should tell her what he knew. And not insult her mother in front of her. Daemon did not stop drinking for the rest of the night, not even as they retired to their rooms.

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Elaena Royce is a pious and dutiful lady who will do her duty to her husband; there is little of Daemon in her and once she is wed to a lord receptive to our cause, he will leverage Runestone against the Vale and keep the Maiden of the Vale cooped up in the Eyrie, those had been her father’s words and Alicent had tried to arrange a match with Ser Tyland. The Master of Ships had been far too eager. Lady Royce was shy and gentle of manners and the assertive Lannister had scared her off. Rhea Royce had done her duty and raised a pious lady wholly unlike her princely father.

The morning after welcoming the part from Oldtown, the Queen broke her fast with her family; her father, Otto, her two brothers, her aunt, Mother Lynesse, and her children, only Viserys was missing. Daeron was badgering Gwayne with questions about the tourney, Helaena speaking to her aunt, Aegon ravenously eating and her poor Aemond, so quiet since Rhaenyra’s bastard had maimed him, was brooding. Her father always worked while he ate, and was reading reports that Lord Larys, the Master of Whispers, had given him that very morning. If she had to know anything, he would tell her after the children left. Aegon was the first to go, slinking off to gods know where; with a nod from his grandsire, Aemond chased after him; Gwayne and Ryam left for the yard, Daeron chasing after them; and her sweet girl left with her septa.

“What were you thinking, Otto?” her aunt demanded, once the three were alone. She was her father’s eldest sibling, promised to the Faith at age eight. “Marrying that sweet girl, your own grandchild, to her own brother? I expected better from you, from both of you,” her favorite aunt’s words cut her deep. Alicent agreed with her aunt, but she been made to understand that Aegon needed all signs of legitimacy if they were to convince Viserys and the lords to set Rhaenyra aside.

“Targaryens are closer to the gods than to men,” her father spoke, not looking up from his work. “You know very well the Faith acknowledges this.”

“Do not speak to me of their filthy Doctrine,” her aunt whispered. “The greatest shame inflicted on the Faith, and now you are part of it, father would be ashamed of how much you bow to their filth,” she turned towards Alicent. “And you, my clever and sweet Alicent, would doom your children to the Seven Hells and force your daughter to spawn abominations.”

“It is done, Lynesse,” her father was firm. His papers forgotten. “King Jaehaerys and Septon Alfyn ensured the lords of the realm would accept Targaryen customs, they are Dragonriders and we are not. Aegon will have a Targaryen princess by his side.”

“How very convenient that the wants of a king and his corrupt fingers infecting the Starry Sept would overturn the very foundations of our Faith. Even our noble house is tainted by the Targaryens. Greed and ambition led to the weakening of the Faith and our house. Greed and ambition that I see in you, Otto.”

“What did you make of Lady Royce, aunt?” Alicent was quick to change the subject before her father could continue their fight. “His High Holiness was quite interested in speaking with her.”

“Yes,” she kept staring at her father, who was now giving Alicent his full attention. “She has brought an opportunity to bring the Faith back to its rightful place in the Vale, after some proper guidance. She shows remarkable wisdom for someone that young, but she still shows her age. Her plans have merit, but they require a guiding hand from someone with better knowledge of the workings of the Faith.”

“Ormund wrote to me of this,” spoke her father. The Lord of Oldtown had written to both queen and Hand. “He would prefer if the efforts of His High Holiness were directed to Oldtown and not Gulltown.”

“You will not turn the High Septon away from his course,” her aunt was finished eating. “The lords of Gulltown have already set things up so as to receive us, His Grace has sent a sizeable donation and Lady Royce’s university would be smothered by the Citadel if they shared a city. Our nephew might prefer to keep all things Holy in Oldtown, but the concerns of the Voice of Oldtown are merely mundane, His High Holiness must look to the souls of all Faithful, from Dorne to the Wall. The Seven-who-are-One have granted us this opportunity to right the wrongs that King Jaehaerys has afflicted us with, and by a descendant of his,” a smile and a shake of the head, “they do have a sense of humor. Lady Royce will provide us the means, and, with our guiding hand, we shall bring about a new age for our Faith.”

“Lynesse,” her father started, “do not forget you were born a Hightower of Oldtown.”

“I am a Mother sworn to the Seven,” she gave him a sad smile. “My daughters are my sisters of the cloth, and my duty lies with them. If you will forgive me, I must away for morning prayers. Will I see you for afternoon prayers, dear?” the Queen nodded. “Good, bring your daughter with you.”

“Ormund will be disappointed, but I never could win against my sister, neither could his father” her father moved to sit next to her after her aunt had left. “She always was the most stubborn of us all. Did Ser Tyland have any success last night?"

“None,” Alicent knew of the Master of Ships conquests in love and had hoped he could replicate them with Daemon’s daughter. But they had underestimated her virtue, expecting some of her father and Rhaenyra to be present in Lady Royce. “A knight of House Templeton seems the likelier to wed her.”

“Ser Olyvar,” Otto shuffled his documents until he found one. “Second son. Skilled in the joust. A poet of some growing renown in the Vale. Kin to the pretender Arnold Arryn,” he sighed. “That could have served the purpose of pointing a dagger at Jeyne Arryn’s back, but the pretender is also kin to Rhaenyra.”

“Could he be made to understand the benefits of Aegon’s claim?”

“I do not know,” her father sighed. “We know him not; we cannot tell in what direction he would swing Runestone. Read this,” he said with a slight smile.

Larys Strong’s round and aggressive script narrated an encounter between Daemon, Rhaenyra and Elaena. In a shocking turn of events, Daemon was hellbent on destroying his relationship with his daughter and further souring their relations with the Vale. Otto had hoped that Daemon’s disdain and insults for the men of the Vale might have destroyed any support that Rhaenyra had in the kingdom, but Jeyne Arryn remained adamant in her support of the princess.

With Runestone as connected as it was to the Blacks, they would have had to write off the entire Vale as a lost cause. And then they met Elaena Royce. So unlike her father that it beggared the mind. Gentle, quiet, pious and mindful of her duty; and most importantly, ignored by Daemon. Her refusal of wearing black had given them hope that the most powerful vassal of the Vale could be convinced to, if not outright support them, remain neutral.

“How did Larys learn of this?”

“The Master of Whispers has many agents,” her father was now beginning to eat in earnest, having finished his morning work. “Viserys still refuses to see it, but Daemon is poison, and he would be worse than Maegor. This is how he treats a daughter, imagine how he’ll rule through the princess?”

“What could have driven him to say such?” Alicent could not imagine speaking like that to her own children.

“According to Larys,” he gestured towards the bottom of the page, “he drank long and hard with the captains of the City Watch while complaining about Andal women and their piety.”

“What shall we do?”

“If there ever was a time to press our advantage, it is now,” he shuffled through his papers. “Approach her during the wedding, see where she is at. If she is adamant she will marry Templeton, keep an eye on him as well. One of the septons on their way to Gulltown is a distant cousin, he will do his duty to House Hightower. Taking Rhaenyra’s support in the Vale from her, even if we do not bring them to our sided, is of paramount importance.”

“Yes, father.”

“How are Aegon’s lessons going?” he was quick to change subjects. “The games warden has made sure he will only face squires from our Greens, and we have bribes ready for any squires who match him. Is Viserys still unopposed to knighting Aegon after his victory in the squire’s melee?”

“He is,” the king’s eldest son, knighted by the king after a victory in a tourney on his wedding day. Everything had to go right. “Aegon is skilled and will do fine work in the tourney, I believe,” a mother’s belief, “that bribes will not be necessary.”

“Be that as it may,” a belief not shared by the Hand, “bribes are ready. I must go, Lord Tully is expecting me.”

Otto Hightower took his leave and Alicent was left alone.
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Jace did not like the Red Keep much. Eyes always followed him and his brothers, constant whispers whenever they left a room. Luke was too young to understand, he was only seven, but Jace knew what was going on. He was a bastard. Laenor Velaryon, the father he had loved, was not his real father. In Dragonstone nobody looked at him twice, but the Red Keep was full of strangers. His mother had told him to pay no mind to the filthy rumors and lies that the Queen spread, but Jace was old enough to know the truth. Thankfully, Vermax was at his side; once his dragon was bigger, he would be a Dragonrider and all whispers of bastards would cease. All would see he was a Targaryen.

If there was one thing he liked about their visits to the Red Keep, it was training with the squires. Dragonstone had few children, noble enough to train with princes. Their grandsire oft liked pairing them up with their uncles, but nobody liked that. Aegon was a big brute who hit too hard, as if they were his age; Aemond was cruel and always stared at Luke; Daeron was always making japes at their expense. Jace would one day be king, but his uncles still treated him horribly. He much preferred to train with the squires of the knights of the Kingsguard. The wedding had brought squires from all over the Seven Kingdoms to King’s Landing and Jace was eager to test his skill against them.

His mother had asked them not to train with any squire they didn’t know, but the day after the feast she spent the entire morning fighting with Daemon and, once she saw them awake, gave him and Luke permission to go to the training yards. Wearing padded jerkins and carrying their wooden swords they excitedly left to find squires to train with. In one of the yards close to the Queen’s Ballroom they finally came upon a group of squires. A knight wearing a doublet of red and white was instructing three boys, older than them. Getting close, Jace realized who they’d come upon. These were his aunt’s knights. Elaena Royce was Daemon’s daughter; she had taken her mother’s name when she became Lady of Runestone, just as he would take his own mother’s name when he became king.

Ser Simon Storm, red-haired and fierce, was their aunt Elaena’s sworn sword, next to him was a large knight in brown and a slender knight wearing a brown tabard with a white helmet. The large knight shared his aunt’s grey eyes and brown hair, though with less shine to it, so he likely was a cousin. The third knight was grey-haired and long faced. Two of the squires looked like brothers, grey-eyed and brown-haired, both wearing brown jerkins; the last boy was younger, blonde and blue-eyed, wearing a blue surcoat with the Moon and Falcon of House Arryn.

“My princes,” the bastard knight knelt when they approached. “How may I be of assistance?”

“We want to train!” Luke was always direct.

“Greetings, I am Ser Willam Royce,” the large man knelt with a smile. “These are my nephews Allard and Robar, and Eldric Arryn,” the three squires all knelt. “It would be an honor to assist any prince of the realm,” Ser Willam was one of the largest men that Jace had seen, tall and muscled, “specially so when they are kin to My Lady.”

“I am Ser Benfred, an honor,” the last knight knelt when Jace looked at him.

Luke excitedly stepped towards the wall, where shields were hanging. But Jace could see their eyes upon them, focusing on their hair. These men knew Laenor Velaryon, he realized. His father had travelled often to Runestone and made friends with the knights in service to their aunt. He didn’t know much about his aunt, Daemon rarely spoke of his eldest daughter, his father once said she was kind and Baela and Rhaena loved their sister; but what about her knights? Would they point and stare at him and Luke like many others? The Arryn squire seemed unsure, he kept looking at his hair.

“Now that I remember,” Ser Simon cut in before anyone could say anything. “You are kin to the princes, Eldric,” that was news to Jace, who stared wide-eyed at the Arryn boy. “Your grandsire and Queen Aemma where brother and sister, your father and Princess Rhaenyra cousins.”

“Cousins?” Luke had returned with a large shield. “We have more cousins?”

“Aye, my Prince. Eldric here,” he pushed forward the boy in blue, who seemed surer of himself now.

“Come, I’ll teach you, cousin,” Eldric smiled at him and grabbed Jace’s hand, pulling him towards the shields. “You want one like that, the small one, the one your brother grabbed is too large for him.”

“Are you Ser Simon’s squire?”

“Aye, for two years now,” he spoke as he helped him put on the shield. “He even took me to fight against the mountain clans!”

“You’ve seen battle?” Jace was shocked, Eldric was just a few years older than him and had already been in a battle. “Did you kill anyone?”

“No, I stayed in the back, but I saw everything!”

“What are you talking about? Are we going to train or not?” Luke was getting impatient.

“Cousin Eldric has been in a battle,” he explained to his brother.

“Really?” exclaimed his brother, looking at the older boy with admiration. “Are you going to be a knight? I want to be a knight.”

“As soon as I grow bigger, then they will let me join against the clans and I’ll earn my spurs fighting,” he puffed up. “In the Vale, men think better of you if you earn your knighthood in a battle. Allard and Robar are about to fight, you can learn a lot by watching.”

The two older squires were walking in circles around each other, waiting for something. Suddenly, one of them pounced at the other, bringing his sword down. They were training with live steel, though Eldric’s sword was blunted. They were fast. As soon as one of the brothers moved his sword-arm the other responded. Willam Royce kept shouting directions and encouragement. Eventually one of the brothers got the better of the other and disarmed him.

“Those two know each other better than they know themselves,” Simon Storm had approached them. “They know each other’s tells and habits,” mayhaps one day he and Luke would fight like that. “Come, my Princes, let us show you how knights of the Vale fight.”

Training was fun. Ser Simon was a good teacher and showed them how to fight in a forest. He set up two lines of dummies, acting as trees, and had him and Luke fight while avoiding hitting the dummies with their swords. He got the better of Luke when they sparred, he was not able to block all his downward slashes, but Eldric trounced them both. Eldric was fast and strong and knew how to fight in reduced spaces. He used his shield like another weapon, whenever Jace tried to go for a downward attack he was pushed back by the shield. The master-at-arms of Dragonstone used a greatsword and had not taught them much about shields yet, so he tried to memorize every lesson and movement that Eldric used. He placed his shield always facing towards his sword arm, further reducing the space he had to swing, and whenever he moved his arm too far, he would strike with the shield.

“The shield is not just to protect you,” he told him when they were catching their breath, “’tis a weapon like any other. A helmet, a shield and a sword are the most important things for a knight, and a horse too,” he added quickly. “If you have no armor on but are good with a shield you can survive for longer while help comes. Never forget your helmet though, ‘tis the most important piece of armor,” Luke came over to sit with them as Ser Willam and Ser Benfred sparred to show them their skills.

“Ser Willam is very good,” Jace commented.

“Aye,” his older cousin agreed. “He squired under Ser Mandon Lynderly, the best sword in the Vale, and is well on his way to become the best sword in Runestone. But Ser Benfred is going to win, he always wins.”

“Why?” Luke wondered. “If he’s that great a swordsman?”

“Ser Benfred fights dirty,” as soon as he’d spoken, Ser Benfred locked swords with Willam and proceeded to knee him in the groin, forcing Willam to drop his guard. This was followed by a headbutt and a sword to the neck, forcing his opponent to yield. “See? Ser Benfred cares for winning fights, not being honorable.”

“That’s not very knightly,” Jace thought it, but Luke said it.

“No, it is not,” Allard drinking water behind them, cut in, “but it has kept Ser Benfred alive and brought him many victories against the clans. The clans do not fight honorably, and honor merely gets in the way.”

“’Tis unlikely you will face the clans, cousins,” Eldric then thought of something. “But if you ever face Dornishmen, you be sure to remember not to expect honor from their kind. Isn’t that so, Ser Simon?”

“Aye,” the Stormlander answered. “The Dornish do not know honor. They are poisoners, cowards, thieves and no better than common bandits.”

“Daemon hates the Dornish too!” Luke exclaimed.

“With good reason, I expect,” said Ser Simon. Daemon had told them many stories about his war in the Stepstones and how Dorne had joined his enemies.

“Prince Jacaerys, Prince Lucerys,” Baldrick, one of the servants from Dragonstone, had found them. “The princess is asking for you.” They thanked the knights for their instruction and said their goodbyes to their cousin and the Royce brothers.

“Cousin,” Eldric grasped him by the arm. “Prince Jacaerys, you will one day rule the Seven Kingdoms, and I will one day rule the Eyrie. Princess Rhaenyra’s blood is of the Vale, as is yours. May we exchange letters?” his bright blue eyes focused on his own eyes. “Let us become good friends so in the future we may stand as allies.”

“Of course, cousin,” Jace smiled at Eldric, the first friend he had made in the Red Keep.

“You two smell,” their mother was in her rooms, dressing Aegon. “Have the servants draw you a bath, we are eating with the king,” she seemed tired. “Did you find anyone to train with?”

“Aye,” Luke had picked up how the Valemen spoke. “We trained with our cousin!”

“Your cousin? Pray who might that be?”

“Eldric Arryn, future lord of the Eyrie,” Jace explained. “His grandsire was brother to Queen Aemma.”

“Oh,” their mother was surprised. “I knew not that Jeyne’s nephew was here. What is he like?”

“He knows a lot about fighting!” Luke’s excited expressions had Joffrey enter the room, curious about the noise. “He’s a squire and he has been to a battle!”

“He taught us techniques to fight in forests. He’s squiring for Aunt Elaena’s sworn sword,” their mother’s smile fell slightly at that. “As future Lord of the Eyrie he’s asked if we could send ravens to each other.”

“That would be a grand idea,” their mother’s smile returned. “You should make friends with your future vassals, now off you go. We mustn’t keep your grandsire waiting.”
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Aemond hated his eyepatch, but he hated the stares more. After Lord Hayford’s daughter cried when seeing him without it, he never left his room without it. Now the Keep was full of wedding guests, and he could feel their eyes all over him. They should be staring at Rhaenyra’s bastards, see the truth for themselves, but would rather look at the maimed prince. He was a Targaryen, the rider of the largest dragon alive, who were they to look at him? Even his family… his mother always teared up when she saw him without an eyepatch; Aegon, feeling guilty had taken him to a brothel but continued avoiding him; Helaena and Daeron always shut their eyes whenever they saw his empty socket. His father, ashamed, refused to look him in his remaining eye.

He’d been sent after Aegon, again. His mother was too blind to see it, but Aegon was a failure. He did not train as hard as Aemond did, did not study as much as Aegon did, and would not be as dutiful a husband as Aemond would. He should have been the eldest. His brother was a disappointment to House Targaryen; he was no warrior, he drank too much and did not see how blessed he was to have a sister to marry. Aemond’s blood would run thin, forced as he was to marry a lady from a lesser house. Even his bastard nephews would have Valyrian brides.

There was another possible bride. He had met her once before; on the fateful day he had claimed Vhagar. Elaena Royce, daughter of Daemon Targaryen. He had been too young before, but now he saw her for what she was. A Valyrian bride of unmatched beauty. Singers spoke of his sister Rhaenyra’s beauty, but they did not know she was a whore who’d open her legs for any and birth bastards. Elaena Royce was everything a bride should be, he’d heard his mother say so to his grandsire. She was pious, dutiful and well-bred, submissive as a woman should be. She would show the deference owed by a lady to her Lord husband. Some in court had whispered her a lover of Laenor Velaryon, but his grandsire had put a stop to such whispers. Velaryon was a known sword-swallower, who raised another man’s children. Elaena would never debase herself and lie with him.

And she was of Valyrian blood. Her coloring may not show it, but for that single streak of silver. But the blood of Daemon Targaryen ran true in her veins. Any children Aemond could have with her would be his and Daemon’s blood. The day he had seen her, he’d asked his mother if a match could happen between them, but she told him she was too old. Daemon was much older than his half-sister, why couldn’t he marry an older woman? Damn his luck, he should have been born sooner. He should have been the eldest.

Aegon ran from his responsibilities, but Aemond was dutiful. If he was the eldest then his mother would sleep sounder and safer. He knew that his grandsire was plotting to have Aegon named heir, but it would never happen. Not even when one of the bastards had taken his eye, had their father stirred himself from Rhaenyra’s side. They would have to take their inheritance, stolen by their half-sister, with force. King Maegor had said it himself: the throne belonged to the one with the strength to take it. His mother had a woman’s soft heart and could not bring herself to accept this truth. Fire and Blood had won the first Aegon’s throne, and Fire and Blood would win the second Aegon his throne.

Aegon had given him the slip. Likely going into the city for his fun. Aemond would not follow, he did not wish to be roped into his games again. Helaena had been too weepy these days, crying over her dolls being taken from her rooms; and Daeron was an annoying brat; Aemond thought of flying with Vhagar, but mayhaps looking for his cousin would be a better use of his time. She had been granted large apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast and had been hosting ladies, Helaena told them.

Walking over towards Elaena’s rooms, he began hearing music. A harp was playing a religious hymn, but he could not hear what the man was singing. The door was open, inside Elaena Royce was embroidering with her ladies while her sworn knight played the harp and sang of the Maiden’s beauty.

“Prince Aemond,” she stood. She was taller than him, though not by much. And quite a bit taller than Aegon, he thought with a smirk. Her ladies curtsied and either stared at his eyepatch or avoided looking at him. Only one of them looked him in the eye as she curtsied, a comely lady wearing an extravagant dress in Arryn colors. “How may we assist you?”

“I merely wondered what you were doing, cousin,” he had not come with a plan. He did not know how to ask a lady to spend time with him. “May I sit and listen to the music?”

“Of course,” something was bothering her, her voice was flat and not as animated as when she spoke with the High Septon.

Everyone was silent as they resumed their embroidery. The knight continued his song and Aemond could now hear the outrageous things he was singing. ‘Twas no hymn to the maiden, but some obscene song better suited to a brothel than an embroidery circle. None of the ladies were scandalized, one was even blushing! That was Olyvar Templeton, he remembered his mother mentioning the knight. Elaena’s suitor, who wrote songs for her and rode with her favor. Were these the songs that had won his cousin’s heart? Could he make his own and steal her heart? He focused on the poetry, trying to learn all he could.

“My Prince?” time had passed, so long had he been in the music that the sun was now over its zenith.

“What is it?” he replied, perhaps more brusquely than he normally would have.

“The king has summoned you,” one of the Cargyll twins had come for him. “He wishes for his entire family to join him in the Small Hall,” he gave him a knowing smile, Aemond did not appreciate it. “Lady Elaena will be attending as well,” he whispered. Aemond could feel the blush coming, so he quickly stood and walked out. Halfway to his rooms he realized how impolite that had been.
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He wouldn’t say it to anyone he wasn’t married to, but Corlys Velaryon had always thought that Viserys Targaryen was a fool. As his family threatened to tear each other apart, with the realm in between, he willingly closed his eyes and let it happen. This feast was just one more in a long line of half-arsed attempts at reconciliation. And now they had Daemon feuding with his daughter to contend with. When the girl had stormed off from the high table last night and sought refuge with his granddaughters, Corlys knew Daemon was to blame. Vaemond had been sitting close to them, and he could hear it all. When he relayed what had happened, Rhaenys had nearly left ready to strangle Daemon.

She was fond of the girl that had befriended their son. She thought she would have made the better wife for him, but Elaena Royce was not the heir to the throne and any grandchildren she gave him would not sit the Iron Throne. Jacaerys and Lucerys were the future of his house and if they had been born in Runestone then their future would not be half as grand as it was. Seven-damned Daemon was insistent on making things harder for all, however. His sweet Laena had been a good influence on him, a better one than he had expected, but now it was him that had Rhaenyra in his thrall. The Princess of Dragonstone had been quite sensible, once, but Daemon had managed to fill her head with nonsense and if he and Rhaenys did not act quickly, their grandchildren would be full of nonsense as well.

The high table was tense. Viserys tried to make lively conversation but Elaena’s cold mood and the murderous way she looked at Daemon had infected them all. If looks could kill, Elaena would have become a kinslayer many times over. Cold grey eyes would stare at anyone who so much as spoke a word and quickly silenced them, even if she was not truly angry at whoever spoke and did not intend on silencing them. The children caught on to their mood, but the two sides of the family had never really been on talking terms. They would not want to hear it, but the way she managed to control a room only with her eyes had reminded Corlys of Daemon. Hopefully Baela and Rhaena would never look at him like that.

Oblivious to their mood, the lords at the lower tables feasted and drank merrily. They sang bawdy songs and laughed loudly. One brave soul stood and approached their table, his toast for the King’s health was well received and soon the entire Hall was toasting Viserys. His mood, as it always did, changed quickly and he left the high table to mingle with his lords. Daemon soon followed his brother. As if a spell had been lifted, Lady Elaena’s eyes softened, and conversation soon began.

“Lord Corlys,” she turned her grey eyes on him. “I would wish to speak with you about hiring ships and captains who would do trade under Royce sails.”

“To make use of your docks, yes?” Corlys knew the local law of nearly every port of note in the Narrow Sea and some beyond. “Where do you wish to take your cloth?” He had kept up with the growing supply of cloth coming out of Gulltown and Runestone. Buying and selling in Braavos made a tidy profit for little effort.

“Braavos, mainly, though I do desire to sell in the other Free Cities.”

“That could all be arranged, for the right price.”

“Money is of no concern,” she waved away any money problems. “I can just borrow some and pay from the profits.” Rhaenys had mentioned her large expenses. Building a town, hosting large tourneys and festivals, expanding herds of sheep, funding religious communities and, this he had heard from merchants that docked in Gulltown, she was now purchasing buildings in the city. He would not lend her money, lest she be unable to pay back; but he would take her money.

“Borrowing money, cousin?” Rhaenyra cut in. “I hope you will not lose Runestone to your debts.”

“Worry not,” Elaena did not look at her as she answered. “Temperance and a sensible plan when paying back loans and interest is all it will take, and if not,” she shrugged, “I have a dragon egg to pawn off.” Before anyone on the table could think about replying to that, Viserys returned and took his seat.

“Your Grace!” A knight from House Peake stood up. “A toast! To the King and the King’s heir!” Viserys drank deep, the lords in the hall cheered and toasted. But Corlys saw that the knight’s eyes were locked on Prince Aegon the Elder. When Daemon returned to the table, Elaena took her leave and left the feast.

Chapter Text

122 AC

The squire’s melee had been quite dull, what little she saw. Allard and Robar were matched against each other early on; followed by Allard, the winner of their bout, facing off against the burly Crakehall heir, the favorite to win it all. Prince Aegon, thanks to both his above-average skill and the luck of the draw, managed to make it to the final, where he faced the Crakehall boy. Elaena had thought the boy would take it all, but he let Aegon win. She’d developed something of an eye for judging fights, living in a castle where every day at nearly every hour, someone was sparring. The Westerman squire was strong and quick, and his master-at-arms had clearly spent hours hammering skill into him, as he did not rely solely on his physical advantage over the other squires. Against Aegon, however, he was slower and clumsier, and he had seemed to have forgotten he had a shield. The prince’s victory, earned or not, found him being knighted by Viserys to the cheers of both high and lowborn.

The break for food that followed the squire’s melee saw the king hosting his lords out in the open, in the city of tents that had sprung up by the tourney grounds. Elaena wanted to avoid seeing more of her relatives, but she still had a present for Viserys that she’d made. The morning sun had shone on last night’s anger, and she’d had time enough to reflect and not want a repeat. Thus, she sat in the table claimed by the Vale contingent, avoiding the king’s table; and ate with the Corbray brothers, who glared at each other between bites, the younger boasting he’d been granted their ancestral sword, the elder claiming their father had given him the sword as consolation over not inheriting their ancestral seat, and her old friend Lanna Belmore, escorted by Olyvar’s nephew, Luceon. Last she had seen Lanna, they’d both still been girls in service to Jeyne and Lanna had been far too skilled at coming up with plans to annoy their septa and getting the younger girls into trouble. She was now a woman grown, set to marry Ser Luceon by year’s end, a responsible lady who nonetheless still had some mischief in her eyes. Olyvar’s nephew was a skilled knight but utterly without imagination and truly blessed that Lanna was good with numbers and with managing a household. Next to Lanna was an identical, but younger, girl. Bethany Belmore, six-and-ten, and not betrothed to anyone, might be the best match they could make for Eldric, she’d have to ask Gunthor, as she’d decided to give him a say in Eldric’s future. If they waited for Eldric to come of age, Bethany Belmore would be twenty or so, four years not being such a great difference and Elaena was much more comfortable arranging marriages where the lady was not in her teens.

Her meal was ruined, her musing stopped, when her father arrived and sat next to Rhaenyra, at the high table. She got a small victory out of his grimace when he saw how she’d chosen to dress. A modest dress covered her entirely in light grey, opposed to court fashions that left the neckline bare and favored bare shoulders, and a white veil made with lace, the kind favored by highborn novices and widows. She’d borrowed the dress from Septa Roelle, making quick adjustments to account for her own height. If she hadn’t already spent so much time and coin on the dress she was wearing for the wedding, she would have dressed like a septa for the rest of her visit to the city.

Elaena was tired of King’s Landing. The politicking and the constant attempts to arrange her marriage. Her plans had been rushed, she’d intended to wait two more years before marriage, but her hand was forced. The morning after her father’s insults she met with the High Septon; he had already agreed to officiate her wedding, but it had to be sooner now. He had also introduced her to Septon Robin, the fattest man she’d met this life, a member of the Most Devout who would be placed in charge of the university. And, he whispered to her, the already agreed-upon future High Septon. The inner workings of the Faith of the Seven were as political as any other, and His Holiness wished to ensure the direction he was charting was followed after his death and the Most Devout had been in agreement on who would be the future High Septon. Now she had to speak to Olyvar and, eventually, his father.

“Ser Olyvar,” no time like today, she reasoned.

“My Lady,” the knight, having a small lunch before the jousting, sat up straight and looked her in the eye.

“Win today,” he was already wearing her favor. “And when we return home, send a raven to your father so we may discuss arrangements for marriage,” he knelt before her, kissed her hand and nodded with resolve in his eyes, accepting her task. “And if you face against my father,” at that she looked at Ser Simon and Willam, both of whom would also be riding today, “be sure to knock him down.”

After he’d left the table, to put on his armor, Lanna sat next to her and demanded to hear the entire history of their romance. With a particular emphasis on Olyvar’s songs, loudly expressing the wish that her own Templeton would also write songs for her. Anya approached them, carrying her young daughter Alys Pryor, in arms, and joined their gossiping. Halfway through their conversation, Mya approached to tell her the servants were ready, carrying her gift to the king. Excusing herself, Elaena approached the high table, her eyes locked on the king and ignoring her father.

“Uncle,” she called out to him as her servants approached, carrying a bronze statue. “I’ve brought a gift, from House Royce to House Targaryen,” the king’s eyes lit up in excitement upon seeing her newest work. A pony-sized three-headed dragon sat between eight knights, all lifting their swords in salute towards the dragon and carrying shields bearing the sigils of the Great Houses of the Realm. She’d decided to include both the Greyjoys and the Martells among the knights, and the only reason the Ironborn had been included was because she wanted an even number of knights and six were too few. The statue was terribly heavy, being dragged in on a heavy-duty mining cart by six men. They had brought it in parts from Runestone and smelted the various parts to the base in the city. The base was the part she was proudest of, working closely with Maester Rookwill and consulting star charts to reproduce the night sky of the day that Aegon the Conqueror had landed.

“A handsome gift, my dear niece,” the king was quick to descend from the high table to appraise the statue. “The dragon’s head is Meleys, is it not?”

“It is,” she had used the mold that Laenor had made for Rhaenys’ present. “She has a fierce look about her,” she pointed towards the base, not wishing for the long afternoons calculating star movements to go unnoticed. “The stars in the base, and the moon, reproduce the night sky the Conqueror saw on his first night in Westeros.”

“Is that so?” her uncle exclaimed with glee in his voice, as he set about examining the base. “Yes, I see now, there’s the King’s Crown,” he spoke up, so the lords would hear, “the journals left by Quenton Qoherys mention the King’s Crown shone down on them and blessed their endeavor.”

“My heart is gladdened you’ve liked House Royce’s gift, uncle,” Elaena retreated, leaving the king with the statue, as her father stepped forward to take a look at the statue. Before anyone could think to speak to her, she left with Mya towards the tourney’s stands. Choosing to sit away from the Royal family and among the ladies of the Vale, cheering for their knights.
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I should have brought Lamentation; that was all Elaena was thinking as she watched the knights present themselves before the king, her father among them. She wanted her father to hurt and, if possible, to be at the hands of one of her own knights. Ser Olyvar was the better horse, but when her father inevitably called for a contest of arms, he’d be outmatched. Ser Simon might be able to defeat her father, the Stormlander was strong and quick; but it’d be a close match. But Willam? He was the best young sword of Runestone, and she’d be more than willing to bet he could defeat her father. But for Dark Sister. She’d seen Daemon train enough to know that Valyrian steel was an unfair advantage to its wielder. Lamentation was a large longsword, and it weighed far too little in her hands, much less than a regular longsword. Willam, wielding the ancestral Royce sword, could give her father a run for his money. Lamentation was larger and wider than Dark Sister and while her father had experience on his side, age was slowly catching up with him and Willam was younger, stronger and quicker. And a veteran of many battles against clan raids. Or if only Ser Benfred cared for jousting, he could do something underhanded and shame her father in front of everyone, as he had her. She’d seen many of his tricks in the training yard, he was more than capable of ensuring she’d have no younger siblings, no more children for Daemon to try and do as he wish with them. But the grim Valeman had never cared for tourneys.

Olyvar’s first opponent was a Riverman, from House Mooton, and her knight claimed victory on the first pass with a lance placed with expert precision. Willam was nearly unhorsed in his first pass—nerves, Ser Benfred said—but claimed victory in the third. Ser Simon’s first opponent was Ser Arryk of the Kingsguard; and three passes later, Ser Simon claimed victory. And Ser Benfred was proven right, when Willam won his next two matches without falling off his horse, until matching against Ser Adrian Tarbeck who unhorsed her cousin and took a hard-earned victory in the contest of arms that followed. She’d allotted her knights an allowance to ransom back their gear, Willam’s bronze armor particularly, but he’d earnt enough from his previous matches that he could pay his own ransom.

Her wishes were not to be. Fate, or the Games Master, conspired against her. Her father’s first foe was Ser Willis Fell of the Kingsguard. Six tiring tilts later, her father claimed victory, only to find Lord Axel Crakehall standing in his way. The Westerman was large and the impact of his lance on Daemon’s shield sounded as if a hammer was hitting an anvil. Three times they rode against each other, until Lord Crakehall fell and requested a contest of arms. She got some pleasure out of seeing her father being pummeled by Crakehall’s hammer, but Daemon managed to force the Lord of the brindled boar to yield. Ser Jon Roxton followed and again the joust was followed by a contest of arms, where both men wielded Valyrian steel.

Her father was visibly tired after defeating the Reachman and was rewarded with a match against Criston Cole in his next tilt. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard rode as hard as she remembered, holding his lance with an iron grip and shifting his body so even more of his weight was behind the hit. He had defeated Ser Simon before facing her father. Two passes were all it took for the white knight to throw Prince Daemon off his horse, who hit his head hard and remained unmoving in the ground for a minute or two, before finally standing up and walking away from the field. The crowds still cheered for him, which annoyed Elaena.

Olyvar’s path to the last four included two knights of the Kingsguard, Borros Baratheon and Unwin Peake. But he had prevailed, standing now in the company of Ser Criston Cole, Ser Adrian Tarbeck and Ser Ossifer Plumm. He first faced Plumm, who unhorsed Luceon Templeton, granting Olyvar the opportunity to avenge his nephew’s defeat. House Plumm was one of the wealthiest in the Westerlands, Ossifer’s armor was tinted gold, every visible piece of cloth on him and his horse were colored purple, the plume of his golden helmet was long and purple. But all his gold helped little as Olyvar managed to somehow sneak his lance beneath his shield, taking him down in their first pass.

The last match of the joust was between Olyvar and Criston Cole. The Lord Commander had put on a strong show, overpowering his opponents; but Olyvar had shown elegance and skill ahorse rarely seen. The former in his unadorned white armor and white cloak, the latter wearing a colorful tabard of black and yellow with his house’s nine stars. Matching with his horse. Olyvar’s handling of his shield allowed him to deflect all of Cole’s thrusts in their four passes, while his lance only kept getting more and more accurate as they went on. And on the fourth pass, he knocked the kingsguard from his horse. Elaena held her breath, dreading that the white knight would request a contest of arms. But after a quick glance towards the queen, Criston Cole walked over to Olyvar and congratulated him on his victory. The cheers were loud, but Elaena could not hear them, her focus being entirely on Olyvar as he removed his helmet and rode towards the Royal box. She did not even notice as Mya quickly removed her veil and began fixing her hair.

“A most splendid show of arms, ser!” the king clapped, as a squire ran towards Olyvar and handed him a crown of roses.

“My King,” he inclined his head, as his horse began trotting towards her, where he descended and knelt, lifting the Crown of Love and Beauty. “When I first learnt of how the Maiden brought forth a bride for Hugor,” he spoke, and the crowd quieted to hear him. “I could not fathom what sort of beauty the Seven had brought into the world. But now I see what wonders the Seven have wrought upon our mortal lives. For in you, My Lady Royce, the Maiden has once more worked her miracles and blessed our lives with your mere presence. Your smile, as gentle as the setting sun, is the only source of light wherever you may be; your words to me are worth more than all the gold in the world; your mind, keener than Valyrian steel, is but more proof of the Seven’s hand in your creation,” she had never blushed as hard. “Your hands, soft as the finest wools, the envy of artists from Oldtown to Asshai; your eyes, indescribable,” he stood and handed her the crown. “Lady Elaena, the fairest in all Seven Kingdoms and countless kingdoms beyond.”
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The smiles her sisters had given her had managed to make her blush almost as hard as she had in the moment. They were quite amused by the idea of romance and wanted to know everything. It did not help her embarrassment that Rhaenys’ own smile did all her teasing without the need to speak. The Queen had extended them an invitation to Helaena’s gathering of musicians and Rhaenys had accepted on behalf of her sisters. What Daemon thought, she did not know and did not care. Olyvar would be singing for the princess, but had managed to avoid the teasing on account of needing to freshen up or some other excuse like that.

That evening was Helaena’s last as an unwed maid. Three-and-ten, with a room full of dolls and still accompanied by her septa. Her rooms were large, over thirty young ladies and girls had been invited and there was still plenty of empty room. Elaena’s sisters and nieces sat together, in a children’s table close to the musicians, while Rhaenys and Elaena sat in the queen’s table, with the princess, the younger princes, Aemond and Daeron, and ladies from the Reach. Rhaenyra had either not been invited or chosen not to attend, Elaena suspected it was the former. Helaena was nervous, clutching her mother’s hand and not allowing her to stand up to greet the coming guests. She only started to relax once the music started.

Songs about brave knights and their beautiful princesses filled the room as sugared water and watered-down cider were served, alongside sweet pastries. The conversation was directed by the queen, Helaena choosing to close her eyes and concentrate completely on the music.

“Your intended is quite the accomplished tourney knight,” a lady with three castles embroidered on her gown spoke, with a glint in her eye.

“He is,” Olyvar was yet to enter, he was practicing with the two musicians that would accompany him. “He is all a knight should be, skilled in contests of arms and capable of facing foes in the field of battle.”

“Battle? What battle?” Daeron was the one who asked.

“Daeron,” the queen admonished him. “It is rude to interrupt.”

“I am sorry,” chastised, he nonetheless looked expectantly at Elaena. “I want to be a knight too!”

“There is nothing to apologize for, my prince. The mountain clans of the Vale are an ever-constant source of trouble. Ser Olyvar earned his spurs fighting them and has led Royce men in skirmished with raiders.”

“Father says the Realm is at peace,” he seemed confused.

“The mountain savages don’t follow the king’s law,” Aemond cut in. “They steal women to have their children and are always fighting the knights of the Vale. They killed Jeyne Arryn’s family when she was only three. King Jaehaerys should have ordered a dragon to burn them out from their caves and kill them once and for all. Nothing worthwhile would have been lost and we would have showed the Andals how to conquer a land without leaving enemies.”

“Aemond, do not speak of such matters at this table,” the queen commanded her son, as her daughter grew pale.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, but the look he shot his sister showed he truly was sorry.

“I want to earn my spurs in battle! Can I mother?”

“If the Gods are good, you will not.”

Daeron seemed to be about to start complaining, when Olyvar finally entered with his harp, and two musicians flanking him. His entrance caused every eye to fall on her, not on him. She could feel the grins her sisters were likely shooting her. Even Alicent was amused at her embarrassment. He began singing after being introduced by a herald, though every lady present had an idea of who he was. Every mention to the Maiden in his songs deepened her blush and sent more teasing smiles her way. In her table, Prince Daeron, unexpectedly, enjoyed the music the most and began singing along to the refrains after learning them. His voice was boyish and sweet and would likely grow in complexity. Prince Aemond looked at his brother with envy, whether envy for his voice or for having the courage to sing in front of so many ladies, Elaena could not tell.

“Where did your Ser Knight learn to sing like that?” Helaena wondered after Olyvar had finished his three songs and a new singer took the stage.

“He created the style himself, princess,” Rhaenys answered. “He locked himself with a septon to master hymns and came up with the songs on his own, such was his love for Elaena,” she added with a teasing smile.

“How lovely, just like Florian,” the princess’ lilac eyes turned towards her. “Are there other singers who can sing as your Ser Knight?”

“There are some, princess, and many more are learning. I will be sure to send one your way as soon as possible,” the princess smiled, while Aemond scowled.

“I can learn how to do that, we don’t need a singer from the Vale.”

“You are always the worst when we sing in the sept,” the younger brother cut in, prompting the elder to elbow him.

“No fighting outside the yard,” they obeyed their mother and settled down. “It would be appreciated if you sent a singer our way, it is quite lovely music.”

“What did he mean when he praised your hands?” Aemond asked.

“Oh, I quite enjoy embroidery and sculpture. I made the statue I gave to your father,” she’d made the mold, a smith had cast it in bronze. “What do my younger cousins like to do?” she asked the three children.

“I like to train!” the younger prince.

“I enjoy embroidery as well, and animals, and insects, and drawing, and music, and singing,” Helaena listed all her likes.

“Reading, I suppose,” the older prince was unsure.

“Then I shall hope you enjoy the gift I intend to give your brother. I hope he is not the only one to read it, for every young lord would benefit from its lessons.”

The order of the musicians had certainly been arranged, for as the evening went on, they started playing mellower music, causing the younger guests to start swaying. Rhaenys took her leave, carrying a half-asleep Baela while Rhaena followed along. Elaena followed soon after, after seeing her cousins start to fall asleep. Most would likely soon follow, as Helaena herself had begun to struggle to stay awake.

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The wedding had been a curious ceremony. She hadn’t considered it, but Aegon took Helaena’s three-headed-dragon bridal cloak and replaced it with his own three-headed-dragon cloak. The length of the ceremony, and the length of the sermon about harmonious marriages, were likely power plays by the High Septon. She’d gotten to understand a little about the man, and he enjoyed exerting his power over nobility in such ways. It was past midday by the time they’d returned to the Red Keep.

She was wearing a long close-fitting dress, dyed in Braavosi purples and embroidered with silver thread. She’d not embroidered anything Royce related, opting instead for branches, flowers, leaves, vines and other things of nature. A fine golden bodice on top, embellished with runes made from actual bronze, and a heavy bronze medallion inscribed with runes, worn by a Royce queen once. She was still wearing her lace veil, adorned now with a silver diadem with a Targaryen emblem. Gold rings adorned her fingers, one in each hand, and gold bracelets her bare arms. Other ladies had more elaborate dresses, or had used much more cloth on theirs, but the quality of materials she had used elevated hers. The dyed cloth from Braavos was worth more than its weight in gold. The dress was also tailored for her body, showing off her wide hips and narrow waist.

Gifts were given to the newlyweds, in order. First the Crownlanders, then the Reach, the Westerlands, and so on, finishing with the few foreigners attending. Rhaenyra and Daemon were first, gifting a black shield with a red dragon to Aegon, “so you can protect your wife,” said her father, and a necklace with an onyx dragon. A black shield and a black necklace. Aegon was visibly displeased, even Helaena seemed uncomfortable; but the King declared them fine gifts for a new knight and his young wife, and that was that.

The lords firmly in the Green side seemed intent on outdoing each other on their gifts, piling treasure after treasure before the couple. Horses, lances, a Myrish crossbow, hunting birds, hunting hounds, fine wines; most gifts seemed to be for Aegon, but Helaena did receive some jewels and clothes and seemed much fonder of the animal gifts than Aegon. Finally came her turn, she’d brought a gift for each. For Aegon a copy of her book of stories, titled “The Book of Lord Artys and Maester Yorwyck”, she’d brought two of the fine and extravagant copies. She hoped Aegon would share his book with his siblings. The other copy was meant for Dragonstone, so she gave the book to her sisters, not to any adult.

“A lovely present, cousin,” prince Aegon skimmed the book. “Not only is the cover as opulent as could be expected from a princely gift, but the art in it is truly a work of art,” he explained to his guests. He’d been doing that with most gifts, likely asked to do so by Alicent or Otto.

“I’ve another gift, cousins,” a servant placed a chest in front of them. “So you may have all you need, Helaena,” the chest was opened, revealing multiple bolts of colorful cloth. “The finest cloth made in Runestone,” she said as she took out a bolt of gentle pink. She was here to advertise, after all. Helaena smiled as she felt the cloth and thanked her with a hug.

The wedding feast lasted late into the night. Seven courses of food, abundant wine and music made for a jolly celebration. Sitting at the high table, alongside her father, was not pleasant, but she enjoyed the dancing. Elaena danced with Olyvar thrice, with Willam once, and even danced with Olyvar’s nephew once. She mastered her expression as much as she could and avoided looking at her father for the entire meal. Daemon and Rhaenyra left the party quite early in the evening, Rhaenyra’s pregnancy the excuse, but her sons stayed with Corlys and Rhaenys, as did her sisters. In a time of unusual quiet, she found herself alone in the table with the king.

“Daemon,” he started, “your father, is impulsive and he says things he does not truly mean. He regrets most of what he says, believe me. It has always been that way, ever since he was a child. He will realize, quite soon I expect, that what he said to you was cruel and unwarranted and he will regret it. Please find it in your heart to forgive him,” he sighed with a forlorn look to his eyes. “I know it took me a great deal of time to forgive his most grievous offense, and it robbed us of years we will never recover.”

“I cannot find it in me to grant him forgiveness,” she shook her head. “Mayhaps one day, but I cannot see that day,” her uncle squeezed her hand.

“On to happier dealings, then,” he waved away the tension. “I hear congratulations are in order, when is the wedding?”

“I still need to discuss a dowry with House Templeton, but before the year ends, mayhaps?”

“It is my responsibility, as head of the house, to provide in such instances,” he beckoned Otto Hightower, who was in deep conversation with Mother Lynesse at the end of the table. “Otto, we must arrange for a dowry for my niece, so expect a raven from her, speaking of what she needs.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the Hand nodded, glanced at her, “my Lady,” nodded again and returned to his conversation with his sister.

“I appreciate the gesture, but ‘tis not necessary,” she tried to say, but Viserys merely shook his head and waved her concerns away.

“Nonsense, it is done. Ah!” the musicians had begun playing The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown. “It is time for the bedding,” the king was clapping and singing along as drunk lords groped at his daughter and tore her dress to shreds and carried her towards her wedding bed. A group of ladies were doing the same to Prince Aegon, whose expression of delight was the complete opposite of his sister’s. “I remember my own wedding, I was so very drunk that I forgot it was my own wedding, and I joined the other men in undressing Aemma,” he laughed. “There was no consummation at my wedding, but tradition was still followed. We slept in the same bed and talked all night, a most wonderful thing,” he closed his eyes, remembering. All Elaena could think of was how young Aemma Arryn had been at her wedding.

The bedding was her sign to leave. It was now the time for men to drink themselves into a stupor and for women to retire to their rooms. She hoped Willam, who stayed to drink with the Corbray brothers, would not be too hungover come morning, as she intended to return home after saying her goodbyes.
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Chapter Text

122 AC

Elaena could swear the air was cleaner after going around Cracklaw Point. Her party had left with first light, hungover knights and chests of cloth moving towards their ship before the sun had risen. She’d said her goodbyes to the king during the wedding, arguing a too long absence from her land and few had been awake to bid her farewell. Both Rhaenyra and Alicent were holding their own luncheons that morning and Elaena wanted nothing to do with them, best to leave the city before they sought her out. She was exhausted from moving between black and green, trying her hardest to show she favored no side. And the more distance between herself and her father the better. She was already tired, thinking she’d have to host her dragonloving relatives during her wedding.

She’d not been in King’s Landing for long and she already missed Runestone as if it had been years. Her workshop, with Cella assisting her and her nieces begging to be taught more; her office, that she’d completely made her own; the hall with all the laughing knights and musicians; the silly jokes that Septon Lomas included in his sermons; Septa Roelle’s stories of Lannisport while they embroidered together; Pate’s mutton stew, thickened with flour; she even missed Gunthor shouting at squires. The sea itself was better looking as they got closer to Gulltown, she thought, even the squawks of the sea birds were sweeter. The winds themselves, picking up after crossing Cracklaw Point, pushed them faster towards home. She’d not expected how tired King’s Landing had been and spent a large part of the journey sleeping in her cabin.

“The captain says we’ll reach the city before midday,” Elaena tells her ladies while they break their fast. “We’ve not talked about the wedding, did you enjoy yourselves?”

“’Twas lovely enough,” Mya began. “A shame my boys faced each other from the start.”

“I remembered, from the wedding of the princess, how grand the tourney was,” Cella cut in. “But there sadly were not as many knights this time.”

“The city stank,” Alysanne Arryn wrinkled her nose. “My father has never taken me to the city, and he oft speaks at length on the beauty of Gulltown compared to King’s Landing. I did not expect him to be truthful in his statements,” Gulltown smelt better, like salt and pine from the nearby forests; the streets were wider and the buildings orderly, in contrast to the chaos of the Targaryen’s city. Elaena always thought whoever planned the city in ancient times was a prodigy of mathematics, particularly so after Septon Rookwill showed her how the number seven appeared so much in the city—seven streets to every seven-sided plaza, the older buildings were precisely seven Andal yards tall, the main streets sharing that width. “Though the Red Keep was certainly incredible,” she rushed to say, as if someone was listening in to her criticizing the King’s city. “The Dragonpit was awe-inspiring as well, although I expected more from the sept.”

“The Red Keep is truly grand, a work of art beyond regular means,” Cella was in love with the benches at the castle’s Godswood, with dragon heads carved into them, and wished to make benches of her own for the Runestone Godswood.

“Did you see the dragon made from tinted glass?” Mya asked after a gift the Conqueror received from Myr.

“Were the king’s tapestries from Myr?” Barba, Mya’s eldest daughter and aspiring tapestry weaver, wondered about the decorations in the gallery. “I must have spent hours staring at them.”

“From Qohor and Norvos, where I got the sheep from,” Elaena answered while Mya glared at her daughter, the depictions of the tapestries were not particularly child friendly. “We’ll make tapestries just like those soon enough.”

“Aly,” Willa, Mya’s second eldest. “Who was the knight you danced with? I saw you dance two songs with him.”

“Oh,” Alysanne Arryn blushed prettily. “Ser Eldon of Tarth, he’s younger brother of the Evenstar. Father would prefer I marry someone with holdings in the Narrow Sea and he was kind, even after learning who I am.” Alysanne had spoken at length to Elaena about her experiences amongst nobles; how men mocked her family in their cups and nobles looked down on them. She likely had the largest dowry in the Seven Kingdoms, and her father still had trouble finding her a match.

“A proud and ancient line,” Elaena smiled at her. “Would you like for me to send a raven to Lord Tarth, inquiring about his brother?”

“If you would, I would sincerely appreciate it, my Lady.”

“Of course. Can I ask for your assistance in writing it, Roelle?” Elaena had great appreciation for the septa’s neat and beautiful handwriting. “I have some ravens to send once we reach Gulltown, I hope you will continue helping me with them,” she was relying more and more on Septa Roelle to write her official letters, though she still wrote her personal ones. “One to Tarth, for Alysanne; one to Ninestars, an invitation to Ser Jonothor to write down the marriage contract; and one to the Eyrie, to inform Jeyne of my impending wedding and to let her know of what went on in King’s Landing.”

“Of course, my Lady.”
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Ser Gerold, Ser Gunthor and her cousin Gunthor, soon to take his septon vows, welcomed them at the docks. Gunthor, the grandfather, was giddy with excitement at something. Elaena planned for the younger Gunthor to be among the first to graduate from university. The High Septon intended to travel by land to Gulltown, visiting every lord and town of note in his way, so it’d take nearly three moons or so for him to arrive and inaugurate the university; the septons and maesters who would teach would arrive by ship in a fortnight. Led to the Royce manor, now suitable for habitation, she was led to her office by Gerold and Ser Gunthor; joined by Olyvar, Mya and Septa Roelle.

“So, what did I miss?”

“I would like to start with good news, the best news in fact,” Ser Gunthor was excited to share. “My brother, Osric, who you know is a brother of the Night’s Watch, has been elected the 972nd Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“We must send congratulations, and a gift of winter cloaks mayhaps?” She knew from her lessons that House Royce held the title of Lord Commander before, but it was still a boon to their prestige.

“I’ll arrange for it, my Lady. I thought I could leave for Eastwatch, see my brother after so long and offer him congratulations in person. I had thought to take some gifts, purchased with my own incomes.”

“You may, but after my wedding,” Gunthor and Gerold both looked at each other in surprise. “I will marry Olyvar before the year is done, Ser Jonothor will be travelling to Runestone to negotiate the marriage. I intend to invite every lord in the Vale and would appreciate your knowledge, as you know so many of them.”

“Grand news, my Lady,” Gerold spoke as his father nodded. “To marry and provide heirs is one of the great responsibilities of a ruler. Will you take on the Royce name, Ser Olyvar?”

“Aye, I will,” Olyvar had long ago accepted what it would take to marry Elaena. “My father is aware I will, I let him know long ago that I would take on the Royce name if I was granted the opportunity,” he smiled at her.

“Good.”

“Aye, good. I will visit my brother after the wedding, then, might even be able to convince some young knights to take the black, send him a grander gift,” he said with a smile, and turned serious. “On other news, a rather band of clansmen attacked a village near Redfort. It has not been seen near our lands, but I’ve increased patrols near the mountain passes, if they decide to raid close, we will know. Oh, and Ser Yorwyck’s had a daughter, named her after you, my Lady,” Elaena felt a warmness in her heart, resolving to send a gift to her little namesake, cloth to make dresses and to have as a future dowry.

“A group of merchants have banded together,” Gerold continued. “They wish to fund a few workshops in Moondancer’s Port. I wished to wait until your return to answer them.”

“Grant them leave. Any who wishes to make thread, cloth or dye in Moondancer’s Port will be granted leave. I will leave the contract to you but show it to me before you show it to them.”

“Aye,” a heavy sigh passed his lips. “I would request we send for the Citadel for a new maester. Maester Rookwill has not been well, he has been calling me Yorbert and speaks to men long passed. We should call for an assistant for him, and his eventual replacement.”

“Maester Rookwill has served Runestone long and faithfully, but age comes to us all,” everyone remained silent for a short while. “How specific can we be on our request for a maester? Can we ask for one with at least two links for construction, skilled at mathematics and the sort? I would like for Moondancer’s Port growth to be orderly, planned and with proper sewers.”

“I’ll write your request for the Citadel, my Lady.”

“’Tis a sensible idea,” Mya spoke. “You don’t want a King’s Landing of your own, with its filth and labyrinth alleyways.”

“Olyvar, I need you to take on a new apprentice,” she looked towards the knight-turned-poet. “The queen and princess Helaena desire to have a poet among them and I offered to send them one,” he nodded at the request, likely thinking of the many men that had sought him out. “I want you to choose a Valeman, from my lands if possible or Gulltown if not. Someone who can read and can be discreet. With family in the Vale, so that it is not strange he sends and receives messages from the Vale. Someone trustworthy.”

“A spy?” Olyvar asked in a serious tone. “I will try to find someone capable.”

“I also need someone to take care of business in Gulltown, to look after the workshops and investments, know anyone who’d be capable?” she turned towards her steward.

“Ryman Stone, son of a cousin and one of my assistants,” Gerold answered after a moment, as he tapped his finger on the table. “Though he is still in need of more training.”

“Stay here, Gerold, look after Runestone’s holdings and make sure he’ll do,” he nodded. “I intend to borrow money from the Iron Bank to purchase multiple buildings, hire ships and captains, and make use of Isembard’s support while we have it.”

“Borrow? Our coffers are healthy, we do not need moneylenders, my Lady.”

“I’d prefer for our gold to stay with us, use banker’s money and pay them back with part of the profits,” she wanted to negotiate favorable interest rates and commit to sensible timing for installments.

“It… sounds doable,” Gerold still seemed unsure. “How much do you wish to borrow?”

“Half a million dragons,” Gerold had a coughing attack while Gunthor’s eyes bulged out, Roelle and Mya knew her plans and had had their own overreactions in time, Olyvar trusted she knew best. “We must make a large investment in Gulltown, worry not, it will pay for itself soon enough between rents and profits. And if not…” she shrugged. “A petrified dragon egg is worth much to cheese mongers.”

“A dragon’s egg…” Gunthor sighed.

“I will set up a meeting with the Iron Bank’s representative in the city,” a resigned Gerold cradled his head, a headache coming over.

“Warehouses by the docks, not just for cloth; inns that cater to sailors; workshops of all kinds; even taverns and brothels,” Mya was shocked at the word. “We have the sheep and an abundance of wool, we must seize these times of plenty,” she looked Gerold in the eyes, hoping to transmit her conviction, “build up, and set the future of House Royce towards success.”

“It will be done,” Gerold nodded with a grimace, still bewildered by how much she wanted to borrow.

“I wish to discuss Eldric as well,” meeting with her princely relatives made her realize the importance of teaching the future lord of the Eyrie. She had the opportunity to better their lot and wished to have a more active hand in his education. “I want to make him my cupbearer, in addition to his squiring duties, so he may learn to rule at my side.”

“Grand idea!” Gunthor exclaimed, though his paleness betrayed he was still shaken by the half a million dragons. “Eldric will one day rule the Vale and must learn what it takes.”

“I also thought of a match for him, Bethany Belmore.”

“Hmm,” Gunthor’s brow furrowed in thought. “Lyonel’s youngest, am I correct? A good family, strong match. Girl ought to be five-and-ten or so? Older, but no matter, when Eldric is old enough to marry her, she’ll be a good age to have children.”

“I’m glad you approve, we’ll seek the match, then?”

“Aye, my Lady,” she’d promised Gunthor a say in Eldric’s future and would keep her promise, and thus, his loyalty. “I shall write to Lyonel.”
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Lotho Reyaan was like a shark in water. Elaena was unable to budge him from a staggering fifty percent interest rate but thankfully was able to negotiate a favorable timeframe for repaying. Five years to pay all of it back and when she’d calculated her yearly payment of one hundred and fifty thousand dragons, she was tempted to borrow an entire million. The incomes of House Royce, at present, could pay off her loan. At least Gerold no longer seemed like he was about to have a stroke; hearing the payment plan had made the loan no longer seem a ridiculous amount of gold. It was manageable interest, and further dealings with the banks were sure to increase their trust on her.

The Reyaans also owned a rather large trading fleet and Lotho mentioned they were stopping at Gulltown more and more often, purchasing as much cloth as they could. Purple sails had always been a common sight in Gulltown, but the cloth trade had drawn many more ships from Braavos. It would take time for the Iron Bank to gather the gold, but she could use promissory notes, signed by the bank, to make her purchases. She paid both Isembard and Lucas Grafton for their properties and began looking into new acquisitions. Before leaving the city, she had purchased a warehouse off an old merchant who wished to leave for the Summer Islands before he died and bought the seamstress’ workshop that she wished to commission for her wedding dress. Gerold had stayed behind, instructed to make sure everything worked smoothly and with the command of looking for new properties.

The Red Keep was bigger and far more luxurious, but she would not trade ten Red Keeps for Runestone. The old stones of the wall were a comforting defense, her relief upon the hall’s doors screamed home to her. The household had all come out to welcome them back, Maester Rookwill and Ser Robert Stone, the master-at-arms, in the front.

“Lady Rhea, welcome home,” said the maester. Pained looks were traded amongst the household, and Elaena was caught unawares, shocked into silence. Gunthor rushed forward, whispering something to the maester and taking him away.

“Ahem,” intoned Ser Robert. “Welcome home, Lady Elaena. Runestone is yours.”

“My thanks, ser,” she smiled at the household, trying to keep her mother out of her mind, else she show too much emotion in front of the knights. “As you were,” she spoke to them and walked towards her office. “Roelle, Eldric, with me, please.”

“My Lady,” the septa fell in behind her, while a surprised Eldric chased after them.

“I am making you my cupbearer, Eldric,” she told the boy once they were in her office. “You will learn about ruling at my side,” the boy nodded. “A first lesson, I will be having you work with coin and wish you to learn,” she took out five gold dragons from a drawer in her desk, each coin different to the other. “What do you see?”

“There’s different kings in them,” he spoke after examining the coins. “These three have King Jaehaerys, this one has His Grace Viserys, I can’t read the last one. It’s too faded.”

“That one was minted for King Maegor, it’s worth the least out of all five. His warring was expensive, and he reduced the amount of gold in his coins, the head of a Warrior’s Son was worth less gold than it would have in Aegon’s time; this one,” a coin showing a very young Jaehaerys, “is worthy quite some more, minted while Rego Draz was Master of Coin. He was a skilled steward who rebuilt the realm’s fortunes, and you will be reading a short history by an Archmaester on his tenure in the Small Council,” Eldric groaned at the prospect of studying copper counting.

“It might be a tad too complicated for a young boy,” Roelle came to Eldric’s rescue.

“A few years from now, then. But the Lord of the Eyrie will be skilled at matters of coin,” she took the next two coins, one showing an adult Jaehaerys and the other an old Jaehaerys. “Each of these are worth more than the last, the one where he is bearded was minted under Lord Beesbury’s watch and is of higher quality than any dragon past. Finally,” the coin of king Viserys, “a newly minted dragon, year one hundred and twenty after the Conquest, worth the most out of every dragon. It contains the most gold, Lord Beesbury is careful with the treasury and the reign of King Viserys has been one of plenty,” the vaults of House Royce were filled with coins from many ages, even silver moons from the Arryn Kings. “The task I mean to give you might be a tad difficult so you may ask anyone for advice. Those five coins are yours; I want you to make a profit from them and show me what you managed, a moon from now.”

“I’ll do it, my Lady,” Eldric welcomed the responsibility and the opportunity to learn skills necessary for being a lord.

“Have this as well, read it,” she handed him her book of stories, “may it help you become a better lord. You are dismissed,” she said with a smile. The boy bowed and left, leaving her alone with Septa Roelle.

“How are you?” Roelle sat next to her.

“Tired, sad,” she sighed and laid her head in Roelle’s shoulder. “I was not prepared to be called Rhea.”

“The maester is old, confused.”

“Aye, I know. ‘Twas still unexpected. Tell me about Lannisport?” the largest city of the Westerlands had caught her imagination since she first heard Roelle describing it. Yellow stone made the walls and red tiles the roof, the city shouting to the world its allegiance to House Lannister.

“Close to the docks there is a great fountain, two lions locked in combat while the pride looks on. An inn in that plaza, with its red roofs and yellow stone, called the Inn of the Lion Knights, serves the best spiced honey wine in the city. I used to sneak there with a friend from the motherhouse whenever Mother Carellen wasn’t looking.”

“A rebellious novice,” she teased. Imagining Roelle singing about her favorite things managed to cheer her up a little. She hadn’t thought about her mother in some time, the wound of losing her scarring over. But the suddenness of it all had opened the old wound. She spent the rest of her afternoon speaking with Roelle, who knew many stories and songs from the Westerlands. That night, thinking of her mother, Elaena sang herself to sleep, remembering music from the place from before.
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Ser Jonothor Templeton was due to arrive that afternoon. Elaena had received a quick lesson on Olyvar’s family from the knight himself. He was the youngest child of seven. Ser Jonothor’s first wife had been a Rowan, a match arranged in court by Queen Alysanne to make bridges between the kngdoms. Their first child, Myranda, had married Ser Osfryd Arryn, she was Arnold Arryn’s mother and Eldric’s grandmother; after her husband’s death in a trial by combat she had taken a septa’s vows and lived in a motherhouse in Ninestars. Then came late Ser Donnel, died of a winter chill, leaving behind three sons from his Moore wife: Ser Luceon—betrothed to Lanna Belmore—, Ser Lyonel and Lomas. Afterwards came Lady Alysanne, the dowager of Old Anchor and mother to young Lord Melcolm. Lady Janna was married to Lord Sunderland. Lady Lysa was the second wife of Lord Dutton, and mother to the young heir. Lady Sara was the only one of Olyvar’s siblings to share a mother with him, they were both quite younger than their older half-siblings. Sara was married to Ser Armistead Egen, nephew of childless Lord Egen. An aunt of Olyvar’s had even married her own great-uncle, a younger brother of Yorbert’s, but they’d both died years before either her or Olyvar were born.

Olyvar’s father had arranged good matches for his daughters, and looking at it objectively: here was Ser Arnold’s power base and source of support. A web of marriages connected Ser Arnold’s mother to many of the houses of the Vale. Eldric’s support was secure enough and Elaena hoped it would be a peaceful succession; she had more than enough from her father’s family. Jeyne’s own succession had been contested, and the clans had been rowdy during her regency.

Alliances were important, seeing how Olyvar’s father had set up a support base for Ser Arnold showed her she needed to be more active in her dealings with her fellow lords. Lord Melcolm was a boy, eight or so; he could marry one of her nieces once they grew up. She would speak to Olyvar sister during her wedding, approach her about a potential match and ensure her that even if her nieces were not her closest blood relations, they were cherished and well-dowered. The Waynwood heir was of an age with her nieces as well. Making marriage plans for children left a bad taste in her mouth, but she remembered her promise: every marriage would wait until they were older.

Olyvar stood next to her, his arm in hers, as they welcomed Ser Jonothor. He’d arrived in a carriage. The knight of Ninestars was not as old as other lords, but age had not been kind to him. His eyes were cloudy, his head hung low from the weight of it, his once strong arms had long lost their strength. He smiled at them, however. His vision was present enough that, when he got close enough, he recognized his youngest son and Elaena. He bent down to kiss her hand, though she wished he didn’t bother, worrying about his back.

“Lady Royce, an honor.”

“Likewise, Ser Jonothor. I’ve made rooms ready for you and your companions, please freshen up before dealing with the important discussions,” the old lord gave her a toothless smile as he was led away.

“Who is with him?” she asked Ser Olyvar once they were alone.

“Maester Garreth and my uncles, Ser Harlan Stone, master-at-arms of Ninestars and Ser Orric Stone, the steward.”

“Do they have the same mother?”

“No, my grandsire had many baseborn children from different women,” Olyvar never met his grandsire.

“Anything I should know?”

“Ser Orric has taken on all of the responsibilities of ruling Ninestars, I expect he will be the one leading the negotiations.”

Olyvar had been right, after a welcome feast they met in her office to iron out the marriage. Ser Gerold had come from Gullstone to join the discussion, Maester Rookwill was having a good day and Mya was the last of her companions. For the Templetons, Ser Jonothor, his two half-brothers and his maester. Olyvar sat awkwardly in the middle, reminding Elaena of a student in a parent-teacher meeting.

“We are in agreement then. Olyvar will take on the Royce name and any children produced by the union will be named Royce,” Gerold spoke. The Templetons had not argued against the naming change, knowing that a younger son so far from succession was marrying up.

“Aye,” Ser Jonothor nodded. “’Tis a blessing that my house and that of your forefathers will become one.”

“Let’s discuss the dowry then,” she cut in before Jonothor could speak more of his excitement to join his house to a Targaryen lady’s.

“As Oly is joining your house we shall be providing a dower of our own, but we would request something in return,” spoke Ser Orric. “We are losing a skilled knight of our house, responsible for the defense of Ninestars and leading our armies in battle.”

“Three stallions,” she’d discussed the possibility with Gerold, and come upon the number together. She found something darkly humorous in the fact she was exchanging horses for a husband. “Young, strong and ready to be bred. From my mother’s herd,” Rhea Royce had enjoyed horse breeding. “As well as eight hundred dragons, three complete sets of armor and twenty swords.”

“What will young Olyvar do to support himself?” the maester asked.

“The incomes of a castle near Runestone, from which he shall be able to support a retinue of knights of his own, horses and suits of armor,” Gerold had chosen a castle with incomes enough to support thirty knights. “Upon death the castle will revert to House Royce.”

“A thousand dragons,” the steward countered.

“Agreed,” she was quick to agree; it was Uncle Viserys’ gold, there really was no limit to how much she’d be able to offer. “As to what is offered to our House?”

“Five acres of farmlands will pay their yields and taxes to Olyvar, so he may support himself and his new house,” the steward continued the negotiations. “As discussed before with Ser Gerold,” he nodded towards her own steward, who had haggled while she hosted Ser Jonothor, “two and a half tons of oats come winter, for sheep feed, seven kegs of ale, ten heads of dairy cattle and Olyvar’s horse and armor. Jonothor has also agreed to include a chest of jewelry, with the request they one day go to any daughters born of the union.”

“Agreed,” she’d chosen an entirely agricultural dower. Ninestars could provide massive amounts of sheep feed come winter, which would allow her to increase herd sizes without worrying too much about the coming winter. “We are in agreement, then?” at everyone’s nods she spoke up, “Eldric? You may come in, fill everyone’s cups.”

The young Arryn poured Arbor gold on everyone’s cup and was then invited to sit down next to Ser Jonothor. The old knight was his great-grandsire and came with news from Eldric’s grandmother. “Lady Royce? Myranda, my daughter, would like to relocate to a motherhouse near Runestone, would you be amenable to allowing it?”

“There would be no issue, there is a motherhouse just a short horse ride away and Eldric could visit his grandmother.”

“Thank you, my Lady. Family is most important, and my daughter has been alone far too long.”

“Ahem,” the Templeton maester coughed after a lull in the conversation, which caused the steward to roll his eyes. “Lady Royce? Young Olyvar spoke of your growing library and asked me about our collection and book trades. Would it be much trouble if I had a look in your library so we may exchange books?”

“It would be a delight, maester,” she smiled sincerely at the scholar. “I’ve commissioned copies from the septries and motherhouses in my land, so if you find any book you are missing, do tell me and I shall have a copy written down for Ninestars.”

“My Lady,” the maester bowed his head and turned towards Ser Jonothor. “May we send books to Runestone, for copying?”

“Pah,” the nearly blind knight, long gone his reading days, if there were ever any, waved his hand in dismissal. “You don’t have to ask, of course we’ll do so.”

The small talk that followed convinced Elaena of Ser Jonothor’s excitement for the match. The old knight was lost in memories of Daella Targaryen and saw in her marriage with Olyvar a second chance of sorts. He was also content with his lot in life and utterly unambitious. His bastard brothers were loyal to him, having served at his side for close to fifty years. They toasted his health, they then toasted to her health, to the marriage, to many children born between them, to the Maiden of the Vale and Eldric, to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, to King Viserys, and, interestingly enough, to Prince Aegon.

Chapter Text

122 AC

“The Bronze Sept will do,” an offer had come from Jeyne to host her wedding in the tall peaks of the Eyrie, and just imagining it had her dizzy.

“I don’t believe there might be enough room for all your guests in the town, my Lady,” Mya was helping her organize the wedding, with Gerold still away at Gulltown. “There are but a few inns in the town and certainly none grand enough to host the king. Would you not prefer Runestone, if the Eyrie is not to your liking?”

The oldest sept in Royce lands had seen the first marriage between Arryn and Royce. It had stood for thousands of years, through war, plague and Targaryen invasion. Not as grand as other septs, it still had a solemn dignity to it; seven walls of solid grey stone gave it the appearance of a fortress, a massive altar made of bronze dominated the inside and soon it would play host to new statues of the Seven. It was not a palace like the Starry Sept or Highgarden’s sept; it could not sit as many and its unadorned outer walls had a rustic quality to them.

“The inns will not be an issue,” Elaena took out a small map of the town and its surroundings, commissioned by her grandfather. “We shall build a city of tents and pavilions here and here; I’ve ordered enough cloth to be set aside to build it. It can always be sold afterwards,” she waved Mya’s worries away. “Any lord is welcome to bring their own tent, and many will.”

“A city of tents?” Mya caressed her sleeve. “Thank the Seven you will marry on summer, then.”

“End of the year always gets rather cold and windy, but I am certain cloth will be enough to keep warm. Most of the cloth used will be bronze-colored, the banners will hold the runes. No embroidery on tent walls, won’t be able to sell them as easy if they have my sigil on them.”

“What about the king? Will he sleep in a tent?”

“He likes hunting, I hear,” and there would be a hunt, hosted by Olyvar. “We could always send someone to soften the ground where his tent will go.”

“A lot of people… and dragons,” Mya’s eyes were locked on the petrified egg behind them. “High risk of fire. Should take barrels of water and barrels of sand, in case something happens.”

“I’ll order Ser Benfred to oversee it, can you bring Jon over?”

Elaena was dreading playing host to so many dragons. She wasn’t concerned about fires or them eating someone, she’d seen enough to know they were jealously kept away from people and guards were always stationed near them. No, she was dreading feeding them. Vhagar was her main concern, she’d seen the big beast flying over King’s Landing during Helaena’s wedding and the monster was large enough to eat a cow whole. Some ten dragons could descend on Runestone and wreak havoc, either on her herds or her pocket. Her sheep were worth too much to be fed to dragons, she was already making a sacrifice by feeding her guests with the older sheep around, those of the older breed.

“I’ve a task for you, cousin,” she spoke as Jon entered her office with a bow. “Take a few carts to Gulltown and purchase forty piglets. We’ll keep them fed, they’ll grown, and Seven willing that will be enough to feed the dragons.”

“Forty? You reckon they eat that much?”

“Aye, bloody beasts are hot-blooded. They eat daily, or so my father once said. If Vhagar wished to give me a wedding gift, she’d act like a lizard-lion and only eat once in a sennight or so,” she had touched Caraxes, Moondancer and Seasmoke and could confirm that all three were hot-blooded animals. And she had played host and seen firsthand how much they could eat. “If we run out of pigs, we’ll manage, somehow. Bring your father home when you return, I’ve need of his skill.”

“My Lady,” Jon bowed once more, kissed his wife on the cheek and left, bound for Gulltown.

“City of tents… need to have the poles made… large cloth for flooring… bedding… orderly campfires… see anything else missing?” she asked Mya, while writing down in a piece of parchment.

“Cooking pits here,” Mya took the map from her. “Tables by the sept, tourney grounds further from town. A floor for dancing is missing; many won’t care, or even be able, to dance in the bare ground.”

“Wood?” Mya’s nod prompted more scribbling on the to-do list. “Shaved and polished, so the order should be sent away soon. Thom?” she called to one of the guards outside. “Hand this to Arrek,” one of Gerold’s assistants, “tell him to give the work to the castle town’s carpenters.”

“Will we be purchasing food from elsewhere? Wine? Ale?”

“Ser Jonothor has offered to bring fine foodstuffs from Ninestars and will be sharing his ample wine cellar with us,” she chuckled. “He was quite excited he’d get to show off his wines to other lords. I wish to speak to you about your daughter’s roles in the ceremony,” a nod from Mya. “We’ll place a large carpet in Royce and Templeton colors leading to the sept, your girls will walk before me, throwing flower petals along the way. They’ll all be dressed the same, so we must order finely made dresses for them.”

“Aye, my Lady,” a glint was seen in Mya’s eyes. “Am I to understand you wish to seek matches for them?”

“To introduce them, for now,” she sighed at Mya’s excitement. Her cousin and her saw marriage from entirely different places. “I will not be arranging any weddings while they are still too young, but betrothals are an entirely different matter,” she added before Mya could speak. “Melcolm is eight, Barba is twelve; that would be an ideal match. He is our neighbor, Olyvar’s nephew, and Barba will not be so young when they marry. The Waynwood heir is another, for Willa, ideally,” Mya smiled, whispering Melcolm. “Know I will have your daughters, whom I love, well dowered and as well married as can be.”

“My Lady!” a burst of excitement took over Mya, who promptly took her hand and placed a kiss on the ring on her finger.

“There will be none of that, cousin,” she stood and sat next to Mya, locking arms with her. “From the start you have been there for me. After the wedding I will be granting a castle to Jon. For you,” she looked her cousin in the grey eyes they shared, “for you to call your own and your sons to hold one day.”

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Jon returned just a few days after he’d left, accompanied by piglets and bringing Gerold with him. She was holding court when they returned, presiding over a troublesome case of bride stealing. According to the father, a shoemaker with some wealth to his name, a drover had stolen away in the night with his only daughter; according to the newlyweds, they were in love and her father would not allow the marriage. The father was demanding his daughter back, but they’d been married by a septon and putting a marriage away was difficult. The drover, and she had to admire the gall, was demanding his bride’s dowry be paid in full to them.

“He’s a no-good knave, m’lady,” the shoemaker argued. “All he wants is the dowry and he will throw her away. He’s already ruined her!”

“S’not so, m’lady,” the drover was on his knees, “I loves her and we is married good and proper.”

“He stole her, and he means to steal her dowry!”

“That dowry is mine!” the girl shouted at her father. “Mama’s ring is mine!”

“You let him take you like the whore you are and dare demand the ring,” the father stepped towards the couple.

“Silence!” Elaena interrupted, as soon as it seemed they were about to come to blows. “You will speak when spoken to and not interrupt. Goodman,” she turned to the shoemaker, “state your truth. Why was the marriage not allowed, what is the dowry, what is it you desire.”

“M’lady, him’s not good enough for her. No family of his own. Bastard-get on old widow Megga. A drover with nothing to his name,” he was red with anger. “She’s my only daughter. She was worth more than that ill born wretch! He has no prospects, no trade, no future, nothing; all he does is drink in the tavern. I had a good match arranged for her, but now no one will take her,” he shook his head, half in anger and half in sadness. “She’ll have to marry some old man or turn to whoring after what he’s done.”

“S’not so! S’not so!” the drover interrupted, before being silenced by a guard’s menacing glare.

“He steals her away and now demands the dowry, m’lady. That’s all he wants, the dowry. Cloth, shoes, my wife’s gold ring, a thousand stags. That’s the dowry, m’lady, for my girl to make her new home. But that wretch will steal it and throw her away,” the drover was shaking in anger. “Send her home, I’ll find her a good husband who’ll take her, ruined as she is.”

“We’ve heard from one side, let’s hear the other,” she looked towards the drover. A disheveled boy of seven-and-ten if she had to make a guess, skinny and trying to grow a beard. “Speak,” came the command.

“I loves her, m’lady, I do. Her pa is no good, thinkin’ he’s so much better than erryone else. She loves me and I loves her,” he tried to stand as tall as he could. “We married good and proper, a septon did it. He refuses to give the dowry owed.”

“You stole her from her home?”

“She went with me, she wanted to, m’lady.”

“He seduced her, lied to her!” the father shouted.

“No interruptions,” Elaena did not know what to make of this. “Take the two men away, to different rooms, I would speak to the girl.”

“M’lady,” the bride, five-and-ten mayhaps, muttered when left alone.

“Tell it to me true, ‘tis a crime to lie to your liege, did you go willingly with him?”

“Aye, m’lady. Jorren is so sweet to me, but Pa doesn’t like him.”

“Why?”

“He’s just a drover, he says. He has no future, he says. But with my dowry we’ll build something. He has so many dreams, my Jorren,” the girl was in love, Elaena could see how clear it was. By law, the father could kill the boy, and the girl, and nobody would bat an eye. Elaena would prefer to judge in favor of the girl, but what if the father was right about Jorren only being after the dowry?

“Bring them back,” she hoped she was doing right by the girl. “You will pay a fourth of the dowry now. You two,” she pointed at the couple, “will live in the same village, where you will strive to show your father that your marriage is true and will not result in tragedy. Once he’s been convinced otherwise, he will pay out the rest of the dowry. There will be no violence, or else the next time you are brought before me, I will not be happy,” the father was not happy, but he wasn’t as angry as before. The groom was pale. The bride was beaming. “If you want your father and your husband to make peace, ‘tis up to you,” Elaena gave a silent prayer, for the girl’s future. “You are dismissed. Gerold, I would speak to you in private.”

In private usually meant accompanied by Mya and Septa Roelle, so neither of them where surprised to have both join them in her office. Olyvar was also there. This was the moment where she would reveal as much as she could about what was to come, about war and succession. Seeing Rhaenyra and Alicent play at politics reminded Elaena of how close war was. Aegon and Helaena were married, as soon as their twins came, she’d have some four years or so before her uncle died, and war began. She wanted to keep Runestone away from the fires of war, and she remembered a phrase from the place from before: if you want peace, prepare for war. Ever since her return from the wedding, her nights were full of whispers by ancient Chinese generals, Italian philosophers and long-forgotten phrases returning to her.

“How is Gulltown?” best to get the immediate out of the way.

“We’ve stopped buying from Lord Grafton, he’s wealthy enough that he has no need to sell anything and those that work for him try to get as big a price as they can,” Gerold grumbled. “Lucas Grafton is not much, but he has managed to surround himself with capable men that allow him to spend his days accompanied with a bottle. Isembard sold what was agreed, and has introduced me to merchants, old ones mostly, who wish to sell their holdings.”

“Any merchants open to the idea of funding workshops in Moondancer’s Port? Ser Simon mentioned there’s been people moving from Gulltown towards the port.”

“Some, you know I don’t agree of moneylending but we’ve done as you asked,” he took out a book full of numbers. “We’ve bought parts of workshops and buildings and enticed their previous owners to invest that money in Moondancer’s Port, lending them more coin if they need it. Favorable access to wool, thread and dye has convinced quite a few of them of the benefits of working with us. Workers have begun moving to the port, seeking the higher wages you offer. ‘Tis mostly those from poorer parts of the city and younger sons with no place in their father’s trade.”

“Good, we should encourage that. Has Lord Grafton said anything about smallfolk leaving the city?”

“Nothing, he does not seem to care. Some of the merchants who’ve been convinced to invest in the Port have close ties to Isembard, so I expect he’s involved in some way.”

“Look into that, pleas. Did you speak to the Velaryon captains?”

“Aye,” a heavy sigh. “I thought the Braavosi were tough negotiators, but those captains are something else. We’ve bought their services for five years. Ten very large ships will fly Royce sails, allowing them to dock in our lands. They’ll fill their holds with cloth and sail it as far as the wind allows. We should build a customs house in the Port, set tariffs and quotas and the like.”

“I’ll leave the decision of who’ll work it to you and send word to Ser Humfrey to clear enough land for a large customs office near the docks. Where are the closest quarries we can buy stone from?”

“Old Anchor, Ironoaks and the Redfort all have quarries in their land,” Olyvar joined in on the conversation. “My sister is regent for Old Anchor, I’ll speak to her during the wedding,” he already knew she wanted one of her nieces for young Lord Melcolm.

“Please do. There is gold enough for a city of stone and brick. I’ll speak to Jeyne about marble, for the more important buildings,” she took a deep breath, “what I am about to say does not leave this room,” she looked at the four people in her office. Septa Roelle’s gentle smile, Mya’s look of determination, Olyvar’s confident nod and Gerold’s less confident nod. “A war is coming; Rhaenyra’s succession will be challenged.”

“You don’t think the king will choose his son to succeed him?” Gerold asked.

“My uncle won’t change his mind; Rhaenyra will be heir and Aegon will fight her for it.”

“The princess is married to your father, and she’s got Arryn blood in her,” the steward had closed his eyes as he spoke. “I can imagine who Jeyne will back, and who you will.”

“I would rather not fight, both sides are kin and cursed is the kinslayer,” they all nodded at that. “And this will be a war of dragons, burning the land in their wake, uncaring for the destruction they wreak on their way to the throne.”

“We can’t fight dragons,” Olyvar grimaced at the thought of it. “What do you mean to do?”

“For now? Nothing, prepare Runestone’s defenses, make sure we’re ready to defend our land,” she did not want armies travelling through her home. She did not know where the war would take place, beyond the Riverlands. “I would have tunnels in the mines opened up to shelter from any potential dragon attacks, and to hide away the treasury.”

“Sensible,” Gerold spoke. “It does gladden me, somewhat, that you do not wish to drag House Royce into the crown’s affairs.”

“I hope our banners are not called away, but if they were, I would not leave the castle defenseless. They may come to burn us out, but they will not find us waiting and defenseless. The castle may burn, but it can be rebuilt. I would like to learn about our defenses,” she turned to Gerold. Her education had never included much about the castle’s defenses. She did not know much about the workings of her army.

“I’ll speak to Ser Robert and my father, we’ll show you around the armory and answer any questions you may have,” Gerold was deep in thought. “Do you have an idea for facing a dragon?”

“No,” she shook her head, “as far as I can tell, the Dornishmen got lucky with Meraxes. The Rhoynar used magic, and I am all out of that,” she looked towards her stone egg. “That one didn’t hatch to protect this castle. So our best defense is staying out of it,” she’d considered the threat of assassination being a deterrent, but did not share that particular idea with her council.

“That’s why you wanted the musician to spy?” Olyvar asked.

“Aye, best to know what’s happening in the Red Keep and prepare accordingly.”

“I see. I’ll attempt to create a code, Elaena. Something to communicate with the musician and not have anyone understand it. Mayhaps using musical notes in a certain way?”

“Thank you,” she grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

“What about Dragonstone?” asked Mya.

“My sisters send me letters often; they share quite a bit of information about the castle. Mayhaps Rhaenyra will accept to welcome a musician as well,” she stood up. “We will prepare the castle’s defenses quietly; none will know what we do. Runestone’s safety is my only concern.”

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Ser Robert Stone led the way to the armory. A large room, built underneath the barracks. Heavy iron doors barred their way, only Gerold, Ser Robert and herself had keys to the doors. It was dark, the only light coming from the torches they carried. Eldric walked next to her, carrying a torch to help her see. The walls to the sides were full of large wooden boxes, to her left were hundreds of spears, to her right tables full of helmets and wooden chests. The room’s far end was behind iron bars, too dark to see what lay behind them.

“If banners are ever called, m’lady,” began the gruff master-at-arms, “we’ve arms ‘ere for ‘em. Spears, shields and helmets for the lot of ‘em.”

“How many?”

“Last count,” Ser Gunthor held a board close to a torch, “had us at fifteen hundred and twenty spears, with as many shields and eight hundred helmets,” he handed her a helmet to examine. It was an iron kettle hat, with small rivets in the brim and flat pieces of metal on the sides. “They put some leather between the pieces and strap it to their chin.”

“We make a check every year,” Gerold began to look through the spears. “We replace any rotting wood and rusted iron. If the levies are called, we hand out weapons to the smallfolk sworn to Runestone and the closer keeps. Those sworn to you are responsible for arming their own levies.”

“There’s not as many helmets as there are spears.”

“Helmets cost more, milady,” Ser Robert explained. “Your grandsire ordered a hunnerd made, and those are the newest.”

“Half the chests have arrow tips, the others have spear tips,” Gunthor opened a chest, his torch reflecting on the dark iron of the arrow tips. “The garrison keep arrows; we have the spares here.”

“Are swords not better than spears? What about armor?”

“Swords are no good for peasants, too costly to make so many and they take more skill than can be expected from the levy,” Ser Robert nodded at the sagacity of Gerold’s words. “Best to hand them a shield, tell them to stand together and hold their spears. Same with armor, too costly to hand out to the levy.”

“What about brigandines, like the garrison has? Could we make more of those for the levy?” The castle’s men-at-arms wore bronze-colored brigandines over their armor.

“Brigandines, hmm?” Gunthor was deep in thought. “You’ve cloth enough for it, and we don’t need the best bits of iron for them, I don’t see why not. But you’d be better off ordering more helmets, my Lady. The helmet is the most important thing a soldier has.”

“How large is the levy?”

“We don’t truly know,” Gerold looked at his chart. “Last headcount was done in your grandsire’s day. Runestone could call on two thousand, we did not count how many your knights can each bring. I expect it’ll be more soldiers now; there’s more people in your lands and they love you, my Lady. That counts,” he added, seeing her wide eyes.

“We should make more spears and shields then, followed by helmets and brigandines, in Royce colors,” she’d have her levy well armored, giving them more chances to survive.

“It’ll be expensive, but we can afford it. At least for those close to Runestone.”

“Does the levy receive any training?”

“Aye,” Gunthor brought over a chest from the wall, full of shields. “Every sennight, on the Warrior’s Day, knights travel to towns and villages, round up the smallfolk and hand out shields and sticks. He then has them run drills, lock shields, hold on hard to their spears, that sort of thing. Might keep them alive if clansmen ever appear, at least long enough for knights to arrive. Landed knights are responsible for the training of their own smallfolk. Those that live by abandoned keeps are trained by your knights.”

“I’ve trained smallfolk myself,” Olyvar added. “Four times I’ve been assigned the duty while in service to House Royce. They are made to stand in line and push at each other, trying to hit their opponents with their sticks.”

“What about archers? How many can I call upon?”

“Not many, we’re not marchers with their ancient traditions of shooting at Dornishmen,” Gunthor japed. “The men of the garrison train with bows, mayhaps a hundred and fifty are skilled enough for the battlefield. Coldwaters can bring you some three hundred more, I expect.”

“No archers in the levy?”

“None, we’d rather they don’t learn archery. Encourages poaching,” Gerold grimaced in distaste.

“I can call on some two thousand then?” she’d expected more.

“More than that, milady,” Ser Robert wagged his finger. “Those are just the ones that live nearest to Runestone.”

“Three thousand or so, I’d say, considering your vassals,” Gerold closed his eyes, deep in thought. “That’s just the levy. The garrison are all trained men-at-arms, better armored and with stronger oaths to you. Bringing the number closer to four thousand footmen. And we are Valemen,” he said with pride. “Our strength is our knights. The levy’s duty is merely to hold the line while the knights break the enemy.”

“Runestone at present feeds four hundred knights with nearly as many squires,” Gunthor mirrored his son’s pride. “With every landed knight and minor lord in your service, their knights, and the hedge knights who would flock to your banner, I’d be willing to gamble you can call on some two thousand horsemen.”

“That includes the older squires, milady,” Ser Robert added. “As well as freeriders and others of their sort.”

“That’s quite a large number; I don’t think I’ve seen that many men and horses in the castle.”

“They go on patrols between villages and close to the mountains, they hold abandoned castles in your name, some live in the villages themselves and hunt down poachers, thieves and the like,” Gunthor had managed the knights for decades and pride dripped from his words. “They are your strength in Runestone, my Lady. They extend your authority throughout the land. No other house in the Vale has as many knights as we do, I expect only Lords Paramount and the wealthiest of the Reach can compete with Runestone.”

“That’s if we call everyone, of course,” Gerold added. “Those numbers mean emptying villages and castles and leaving ourselves open to enemies.”

“What’s behind the iron bars?” Elaena spoke after a few moments, she’d been surprised to learn just how many knights, ahorse, trained and heavily armored all, she could call on. Mayhaps she’d not need to worry as much about the war coming to her gates.

“Swords, armors and other things of value,” Gerold walked over to open the iron gate. “There are some crossbows we keep stored; assorted weapons locked away and the like. Some warhammers, axes, halberds; that one there was your great-grandsire’s helmet,” it was a massive thing, with a cumbersome replica of Runestone at the top.

“He wore it in tourneys,” Gunthor smiled at the memory. “Most things here are merely too troublesome to make again if stolen, so we keep them locked, just in case.”

“I see,” she nodded, thinking of how best to prepare for a war.

Chapter Text

122 AC

Elaena had two big reasons to sit in on the boys’ lessons with the maester. First, Eldric and Mya’s sons were learning about warfare, and she wished to know more, to see if there was anything at all she could do to better prepare for the incoming war. Second, and joined by Gunthor in this, they wanted to get to know the new maester and see what he knew. Maester Qarlton had arrived with the moon’s turn. He was a young maester, that is, in his late forties. He had once hoped to inherit the mask, ring and rod that signified mastery over the arts of construction; but, upon hearing of her request and need to build a new town, he volunteered to serve Runestone. By his own words: “what better way to be remembered than by your works?”

While his focus was firmly on architecture, construction and anything that would support said studies, he still bore an impressive chain of many metals. He’d quickly proven his worth by drafting a city plan for Moondancer’s Port and explaining the minute thoughts behind the width of every street and the placement of buildings. He’d used an old city map, hundreds of years old, of Lannisport; when the city was still a small town attracting merchant ships from beyond with the quality of their goldsmiths. At her instructions, he’d left a large space near the middle for a great sept, and for a palace for House Royce.

His skill at architecture notwithstanding, they still had to see his skills when teaching. Particularly when teaching away from his favorite topics. The first lesson she had witnessed could have been taught in the place from before. Maester Qarlton went into minute explanations about the trajectory of projectiles fired by siege engines; he spoke about measuring the wind, calculating distances, the weight of projectiles, angles and materials. By the end of it, his young students had all decided they would not be taking charge of siege equipment if the time for it ever came. Gunthor’s eyes were glazed over as well, but Elaena thought back on many a problem like that, from her first youth.

A maester’s lessons on war were history and theory. It had been close to a hundred years since anyone fought a true war, so most examples came from before the Conquest. Maester Qarlton had only one ring for warfare, but two for history and a prodigious memory for anything number related. He’d come to Runestone with maps, charts and sketches of battle formations from long-forgotten wars. His lessons tended to lean more into the historical side, explaining the reasons behind wars and battles, and the more practical side, explaining why a field was chosen instead of another. He could recall numbers of soldiers and any information of logistics he might have read somewhere but relied on his sketches and charts for the battles themselves. Elaena appreciated his method: after thoroughly explaining things to his pupils, he asks them to recreate the battle as the losing side, fostering their imagination and critical thinking.

The day’s lesson was an attempted invasion of Dorne, before Nymeria. King Torgold of the Hightower, angered at a broken betrothal, made common cause with the king of the Brimstone, Androw Dryland, sailed his ships into his land, and together marched to fight Yorick III, Bloodroyal and king of Yronwood. Torgold’s daughter was set to marry King Yorick, who set aside his betrothal to marry a vassal’s daughter for love. The Dryland king had claims, through his great-great-grandmother, over a few castles in the borderlands between the two kingdoms. The war would cost all three kings their lives, in the largest battle before Nymeria’s arrival.

Three thousand men and five hundred knights, in the garb of Oldtown, were joined by five thousand from Hellholt and faced six thousand Yronwood men and nearly four thousand mercenaries, commanded by the infamous Ser Edmund of Wyl, the Black Adder of the Boneway.

“Have you ever been to Dorne?” asked her nephew Allard, while the maester looked through his maps.

“Yes, young lord, quite a few times, in service to the Citadel,” Maester Qarlton spread out a sheepskin map showing hills and lines representing, she assumed, roads. “A map, just like this one, was commissioned by Princess Mara for a dispute between Lords Yronwood and Uller, over the very same lands fought over centuries ago,” he began laying out a thick blue string over the map. “Dorne was not always as dry as it is now, there are maps, paintings and books in the Citadel speaking of a greener Dorne. Not particularly green, but grassy enough to sustain some herding. This particular place was once home to a small river running through it, and that river drew King Androw from his keep in support of a Reachman.”

“’Twas not a desert they fought over, then?” Robar stared intently at the small squares, representing armies, being set up by the hills.

“From what maesters of old have written,” a small carved Hightower stood by the river. “Close to the water was a grassy plain, of brittle yellow grass, but further away was sand and dunes. Tell me young Eldric, in Hightower’s position, where would you choose to fight?”

“Hightower has knights, doesn’t he? Do the others have knights?”

“Not as many, but their horsemen have the famous sand steeds of Dorne.”

“Close to the river, then. Where the knights can charge the Dornish.”

“Allard, where do you think Yronwood should make his stand?” the maester asked as he placed the stone castle representing the Dornishman.

“He knows the land and does not have as many horses…” the squire was deep in thought. Elaena thought of an answer of her own, she would fall back, forcing them to fight in the sands. “I’d fall back, destroy everything and defend Yronwood, while another army sneaks through and sieges Hellholt. If they turn back to defend, or split their forces, I’d sally our the gates and attack.”

“A costly strategy,” Gunthor chimed in.

“Sensible, if, as Ser Gunthor notes, costly. Thankfully, Ser Edmund of Wyl was joined by his brother, Perceon, who was as much a scholar as he was a knight and left quite a lot written about the battle. Ser Edmund wished to sneak to their camp during the night to set fire to the dry grass and attack during the chaos. But King Yorick declared such actions as unknightly and favored open battle. Ser Edmund then proposed drawing them out into the dunes, where the enemy horse would not be as effective, but the king wished to keep the river to his side, to avoid being flanked, trusting his spearmen to keep the knights away.”

“Why didn’t the king accept Ser Edmund’s advice? It sounds quite reasonable to me,” Eldric’s brow was furrowed.

“Ser Perceon wrote nothing on that matter,” the maester was setting up tiny figures along the river. “But kings are proud and fickle things, unaccustomed to having their authority challenged. King Yorick took the field near this spot in the map. Ser Edmund demanded the place of honor, commanding the right. The King held the center, and Ser Davos Sand the left. King Torgold commanded the center, King Androw the right, by the river, and Lord Alester Beesbury held the left. The horsemen sworn to House Hightower were not seen, and Perceon claims they did not notice their absence due to a great dust cloud that the marching armies caused.”

“They were flanking, weren’t they?” Robar was getting excited over the battle.

“Just so, but,” the maester smiled and winked, “don’t skip ahead just yet. The armies marched forwards and met in the field between them. Battles at this time, as far as we can tell, involved rows of spearmen facing against each other, attempting to break the other side’s formation, pushing and pushing; while the knights head off and fight in single combat, and charging the field once their knightly battle was over.”

“What happened then?”

“Ser Perceon speaks of stalemates across the line, with neither side willing to give an inch. But on the Yronwood right, the mercenaries commanded by Ser Edmund were more experienced and battle-tested than Lord Beesbury’s forces and managed to encircle their enemies. Perceon writes that they set their battle line in a slight angle and began moving the warriors in the back to their right, before the enemy could notice, they’d been surrounded. Lord Beesbury’s men broke. Upon seeing their left flank running, the other warriors began to waver and the Yronwood men pushed forward. Perceon claims King Yorick himself killed King Torgold in single combat, while a humble spearman killed King Androw, not knowing who the man was. The day seemed won for King Yorick when, behind their lines, smoke from the fire in their camp rose high in the sky and hundreds of horsemen charged the back of the Dornish army.”

As he spoke, he moved the little pieces over the map. Both his students and Gunthor were completely focused on the maester’s narration of the battle. Likely picturing the charging knights.

“Noticing the growing panic in the enemy lines, King Torgold’s son, King Dorian, rallied the footmen and managed to hold their ground. Upon seeing King Yorick attempting to make his way to the back of the battle, he charged the Dornishman and claimed his life with his lance. Their king dead, their camp destroyed and the knights behind them, the men of Yronwood had had victory snatched from their hands at the last moment. All would have been lost, had Ser Edmund not rallied what men he could and led them on the retreat, back to Yronwood. There, the three new kings, their predecessors all dead in the field, made peace.”

“How did the Hightower men get behind them?” wondered Allard.

“Perceon gives two possibilities,” the maester held out two fingers. “They rode during the night through the dunes, avoiding their outriders and striking when the battle began, or they rode hard and fast around them, using the dust cloud as cover.”

“What happened to Ser Edmund? You said he was infamous,” Elaena wondered.

“My Lady?” the maester was surprised at her participation, she’d been embroidering next to Septa Roelle as he told his story. “He eventually succeeded his elder brother and became the Wyl of Wyl and thrice invaded the Stormlands. Each time with a plan more cunning than the last. Ser Perceon accompanied his brother and wrote about all three invasions in quite some detail. It is not a popular book north of the Red Mountains, I’m afraid, so there will likely not be any copies of it so far North,” he bowed and turned towards the squires. “Now, what would you have done differently?”

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The High Septon was accompanied by an all-new escort of Vale knights who’d joined him on the way to Gulltown. Crossing the Bloody Gate, he’d visited the Eyrie and nearly every castle of note in the way. Elaena made her way to the city after word was sent His High Holiness was close. She had Gerold show her her new buildings and workshops, spoke to the foremen in charge of them and looked over her finances. They were around halfway from reaching their first yearly payment; cloth was leaving the city almost as soon as it was weaved.

Jeyne arrived ahead of the High Septon and quickly extended her an invitation to the Arryn manor in the city. She’d come to the city with an unusually small party. Jessamyn had stayed behind at the Eyrie and only seven knights, nine-and-forty guardsmen and the Eyrie’s maester had made the trip.

“’Tis good to see you, Jeyne,” she began once they sat down in the parlor.

“Aye,” she smiled into her cup of sweetened tea. “’Tis not always that so great a change comes to the Vale. A Citadel of our own, or the very start of one. Jess finds it all very tiresome,” a smirk. “She cares little for matters of the Faith, I think she still is slightly upset with me.”

“Upset?”

“Don’t tell this to anyone,” she leaned in and whispered. “But before my majority, I thought of joining a motherhouse, leaving the Vale for someone else. I soon understood the weight of my responsibility, however,” she sat straight. “As to why she’s upset, I only recently told her that. And there was another small thing.”

“I see,” Elaena suddenly remembered oft repeated advice from a time long past. “You should not go to bed angry, make peace before bed else you carry your angers into the next day. Key to a happy marriage,” she intoned, as Jeyne’s eyes opened in surprise. Now that Elaena thought about it, she’d never let Jeyne know that she knew.

“Sound advice,” she coughed, eager to change subjects. “Hopefully you’ll be able to apply it when your marriage comes. When is the happy date?”

“Second to last moon of the year, invitations are being written as we speak.”

“I look forward to receiving mine,” her eyes hardened. “Will your princely father be there?” Word of her arguments with her father, and what new insults he’d spoken about the Vale, had reached the Eyrie.

“Aye,” she sighed. “If I did not invite him, he would still make his way to the wedding and cause a scene and if I directly banned him, I’d only bring in more trouble for myself. I’ve found my own little way to snub him, hopefully he understands the insults for what it is.”

“Do tell me all about it, my dearest Elaena.”

“The invitation went out addressed to Princess Rhaenyra and family. He is only invited as Rhaenyra’s hanger-on,” she’d gotten a small victory, imagining him reading the letter.

“Quite the droll jape,” said the Lady of the Vale. “If you ever want him gone, say the word and I’ll forbid him from returning to the Vale. Seven know I almost did so after your mother’s passing.”

“I just wish for some peace and quiet, to grow grey in Runestone, surrounded by happy peasants and bored knights,” a heavy sigh brought on a flair for theatrics. “Will no one rid me of these turbulent relations!” she shook a fist at the sky. “Gods willing he’ll not do anything untoward, but if he does… I will not speak in his defense.”

“I’m sure you will still look quite fetching when your hair loses its bronze,” Jeyne teased. “You’ll look just like Princess Rhaenys,” she laughed, before growing serious. “Hopefully my favorite cousin will not be too upset when I’m forced to do my duty as Lady of the Vale,” she sighed, with a dramatic hand on her forehead. “She really should have married better… no offense. I always knew she was overtly fond of her uncle, I merely did not expect the fondness to become this. Shows what I know of Targaryens.”

Elaena just shook her head. The more she thought about Targaryen marriage customs the more she thanked the Mother she had no brothers for her father to get any ideas. The less said about the uncle who married the niece, the better. “Oh, before I forget, you’ll need your best pavilion for my wedding, be sure to prepare it.”

“There’s a war pavilion stored back home, I’ll be sure to put everyone to shame,” Jeyne’s eyes gleamed, excited at the notion. She liked riding and spending time away from the Eyrie, dealing with the more troublesome of her vassals. “We must speak of more serious matters, now,” she took a deep breath, struggling to find the words. “You know we love you like a little sister, both Jess and I. Jess is always worrying about tomorrow… please don’t hold this against her. She is always concerned about tomorrow; she’s concerned about the future of Gulltown and Runestone. We know you, but we do not know your future son. She’s worried a Royce will attempt to take the city as his own. From what Jess has been able to gleam, one out of every three buildings in the city belongs to either you or cousin Isembard. Jess has convinced me it is best to take charge of this before any issues arise,” she sat up straight, took a deep breath, and spoke in the voice of Lady Arryn. “After your wedding, you are to present yourself in the Eyrie, where the taxation of Runestone going forward will be discussed, as will any matters pertaining Gulltown itself.”

She cursed in her mind. She’d completely forgotten about taxation. Runestone already paid a fair amount to the Eyrie, and she’d rather not increase her due by much. Jeyne was awkwardly fiddling with a cake. Elaena was trying to remember the dodgy ways that tax evasion could hide itself. More taxes would get in the way of repaying her loan. A sizeable portion of her taxes were paid in kind, with a portion of her harvest and some cloth in more recent times. The rest was paid in gold and silver. If she could not dodge taxes, mayhaps she could increase the amount she paid in kind?

“You know,” Jeyne interrupted her thoughts, finally finding her voice back. “Times are changing. Rhaenyra will be queen, Baratheon only has daughters, as does Lord Lannister. I’m Lady of the Vale, you rule Runestone. I am sure we can convince Lord Tyrell to only have daughters. If that ward of yours has a daughter I might name her heir, force the lords to deal with another Lady Arryn,” she japed. “I wonder what they’ll write about our times one hundred years from now.”

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The High Septon finally arrived. Flanked by knights and followed by his large entourage of septons and maesters. As well as a large group of boys. The entire city had come out to meet His High Holiness as he entered the city. Lady Jeyne stood in the center of the street, flanked by Elaena to her right and Lucas Grafton to her left. They’d met each other before, at the Feast of Arrival and at the High Septon’s recent visit to the Eyrie, so greetings were kept short, and they made their way to university. Everyone was quite keen on inaugurating it.

“The boys are all orphans I picked up along the way,” explained the High Septon when Elaena’s eyes fell upon the children following them, aged between ten and six-and-ten. “I’ll be paying for their educations, they’ll join the septs of Gulltowns as acolytes, learn to read and write, learn the Seven-Pointed-Star. And once they are of age, they’ll become the new generation of septons trained at the university.”

“Your mercy inspires, Your Holiness,” spoke Lady Grafton, with stars in her eyes.

“The Seven’s light leads us to charity, my Lady.”

“What will young septons be learning?” asked the lady, with the maester sworn to Gulltown inching closer.

“The inner workings of the Seven-Pointed-Star, the lessons that the Seven have granted us. All so they may better bring the light of the Seven to the people,” the High Septon waved his hand in dismissal, a carefully acted gesture meant for the maester. “And some other minor teachings, numbers, letters and music; all so they may better serve their septs and teach those who’d seek the light.”

They came upon a stone bridge leading to one of the many islands that dotted the western part of Gulltown harbor. The larger ones were connected by bridges, and small boats travelled between them. The Motherhouse of Maris, one of the grandest in the Vale, funded by the Old King and Queen Alysanne, claimed one of the largest islands for its own. The Island of the Foreign Gods held shrines and small temples dedicated to the gods of visiting sailors. The Faithful University of the Vale of Arryn—a name chosen by Jeyne after she pledged masons sworn to her service and plenty of marble from her quarries—had been granted one of the larger islands.

Other than the main building, a beautiful seven-sided hall made from the same white stone as the Eyrie, Lord Grafton had chosen function over form. Elaena thought a university should have beautiful buildings, so she was certain they could build new buildings when the time came. The buildings had been built in a horseshoe pattern, the white stone building in the back and long brick and wood buildings to the sides. Lord Grafton explained he’d left the center bare to make room for gardens.

Elaena had seen the carriages carrying building materials but had not actually visited the university itself, so she joined the High Septon as he looked around the buildings. The side buildings held simple rooms full of chairs and desks on the first floor and sleeping quarters for the students, and some of the professors, on the second. The classrooms all held windows facing the sea, the hallways all faced the still-missing garden.

The Crone’s Hall (she learned the name of the white stone building) housed the growing library on its second and third floors, and housing for the high ranking septons who would make this place their home on the fourth floor. The first floor was a great hall that could put some castles to shame. The rooms for high ranking septons were large, fit for a noble lord. They reminded her of her own quarters back in Runestone, with an office, sitting room, spacious bedroom and room for servants.

The University was still quite bare in decorations. Every corner, every empty hallway, and in the garden, she made mental notes of places that could be decorated with statues and tapestries. Jeyne’s comments about future historians made her think of posterity and she was quite tempted to make a statue of herself to decorate the gardens. She never considered herself a vain person, or one seeking fame and prestige, but mayhaps this place was changing her.

Visiting nobles, influential Gulltowners, maesters, septas, septons, prospective students and curious onlookers gathered in the Crone’s Hall for the inauguration. Her nephew Gunthor was somewhere among the acolytes who’d become the first generation of graduates. There, the High Septon led them all in prayer, predicating about the virtues of the Crone. He followed with a long sermon about the wisdom and teachings that every aspect of the Seven offered. Elaena felt something flutter in her belly when the High Septon looked at her while speaking of the wisdom of the Mother as she nurtured and taught her children. “…and just as the Mother worked through our own mothers, teaching, nurturing and pushing us forward, we must strive to work the Mother’s will through us. Even those of us who are no mothers of babes, we are still as mothers to others. Many times I’ve been tasked to take on a mother’s role to young acolytes, in need of love and compassion. A lord’s people seek in them not just the Father’s justice, but also the Mother’s compassion, mercy and nurture. A careful hand over the land, good stewardship and gentle rule are proof of the Mother’s presence in the world.”

“The Seven-who-are-One gave us a destiny when our ancestors crossed the sea,” began the inaugural speech of Septon Robin, first Chancellor of the university, after being given the floor by the High Septon. “Just as they promised this land to them, they charged them with bringing the light of the Seven to the people beyond the Narrow Sea. Today we take a new step towards that duty. We are here building the foundations to a new tomorrow, where the humble village septon can boast of the knowledge of the Most Devout, where he can share the wisdom of the Faith with its humblest members. A tomorrow where knowledge does not simply belong to the few. A tomorrow where the Faith does not simply look to Oldtown and instead to all Seven Kingdoms. It is fitting, I think, that this new tomorrow begins in the first of the kingdoms to welcome the light of the Seven,” there was a considerable number of cheers at that, Valemen cheering for themselves. “In Gulltown we continue the path first laid on us when the Crone appeared before Hugor and charged him with spreading the light.”

Celebrations continued late into the night. Classes would begin in seven days, after an entire sennight of prayers, ceremonies and septons and maesters settling into their new lives. As for the High Septon, he would travel to the Fingers, to visit the first sept; a humble building visited by pilgrims from all over the Vale. Age had begun to catch up with His High Holiness, so he would be travelling by ship to the Fingers. She’d host him upon his return, where he would take some needed rest before conducting her wedding.

Chapter Text

122 AC

His High Holiness was an easy guest. He spent his time reading and speaking about the Vale with her own Septon Lomas. She thought about inviting him to travel through the septries and motherhouses in her lands, but he’d caught a slight chill in the Fingers and preferred to stay in Runestone. Brothers and sisters from the religious communities made their way to Runestone, however. They brought ales, cheeses and various other foodstuffs for her wedding, and spoke as long as they could with the High Septon.

Days before her wedding, she made the journey to Moondancer’s Port with Maester Qarlton. He walked through town, writing down notes, drawing a map and digging up soil. Elaena wished to have a large cloth market, what better way to show off just how much cloth they sold than with a market? It was one thing to hear of crates of cloth leaving for Braavos, King’s Landing and elsewhere than to see a large market brimming with colorful cloth. She wanted a market to awe and overwhelm visiting merchants. Elaena thought of a large square building, beautifully built, and open in the inside, showing off the color of cloth under the sun. Maester Qarlton promised to design the city in such a way that the market became unavoidable. “Mayhaps by the Sept, and all streets lead to them?” he offered. Moondancer’s Port had only a humble village sept, for now.

She left the maester alone in the city to ride through the nearby hills with Olyvar, and an appropriate escort. There was a river running near that might prove useful to the Port, or that was the excuse she gave at least. She wanted to spend time with Olyvar, away from Runestone. From the top of a hill, she could make out a distant herd of grazing sheep, the bored shepherds looking over them and their dogs standing guard.

Living in the castle, she never got the sense of scale of just how large her lands were. From the mountain passes to the eastern shore it was close to a hundred and eighty miles. She’d done the measurements once, using the various maps at her disposal, and her lands were roughly the size of Belgium, and that was without lands sworn to Royce elsewhere in the Vale. She could see her domains as far as her eyes could see. She ruled over a small country, full of farmland, gentle green hills and slow-moving rivers. Just imagining all the lives that depended on her good rule strengthened her resolve. Once upon a time she was free to live as she wished, but now? Thousands depended on her. She would do her best to make things better for her people.

“How are you feeling?” asked Olyvar when her guards were out of earshot and the servants were setting up a picnic.

“Nervous, if I’m being honest,” her entire life was changing. A few days from now she’d be, as the locals were wont to say, wedded and bedded. “’Tis uncharted territory for me,” she’d long ago accepted she would marry for convenience and advantage, an arranged match with a stranger. But having it be so close had brought back all the nervousness and jitters that she’d felt at the start. Olyvar wasn’t a stranger at least.

“Aye, ‘tis also new to me,” he led his horse towards a creek. “My brother married when I was a babe and I’ve not many memories of my elder sisters’ weddings. Sara,” his only sister with whom he shared a mother, she remembered, “wed but a year before I began to serve at Runestone, so I know very little about marriage.”

They sat on a colorful wool blanket with a spread of sausage, cheese and soft bread, straight from the Runestone kitchens. The sausage was venison, hunted in her lands. A flagon of wine, Arbor gold, joined them as they spoke of the wedding, going over what they each needed to do. The first day would be one for greetings, music and mummers. The ceremony will take place on the second day, a large feast during that night. The day after, Olyvar would host a hunt for the men while she hosted the women for a luncheon; gifts during the afternoon. The fourth, fifth and sixth days were for the tourney; a grand melee, jousting, music, axe-throwing, wrestling (an event for commoners that every time she hosted saw more and more highborn audience), archery and a horse race. On the seventh day, one last grand feast and goodbyes to all the guests. She was spending monumental amounts of gold on her wedding, the food, prizes and everything else; all to entice more business. They were even bringing an elephant from Essos. There was also some pride involved, wanting to host the largest event in living memory, to compete with the Golden Wedding, and potentially causing Gerold to lose all his hair due to stress. Individual invitations went out to every lord and lady of the Vale, but more general invitations had gone to all kingdoms.

“Are you certain spending so much is not a mistake?” Olyvar, as most seemed to be, was concerned about how expensive the wedding was getting.

“Gold is for using, not hoarding,” Elaena wished to show off. She wanted to make Runestone synonymous with cloth, and what better way than inviting every lord to a city of tents? “If you wish to make money, you have to spend it. The loan from the Iron Bank has allowed for plenty of room to maneuver. The guests will return to their own keeps with memories of mountains cloth and seek to acquire their own. ‘Tis the reason that invitations have also been sent to Dorne and the Free Cities.”

“If you say so,” he still seemed unsure. He’d had a knight’s education and matters of coin were beyond him. “What did you think of what I said? About turning the tents into gambesons for the levies,” he poured more wine into her empty cup.

“A fine idea,” the castle town had enough workers for it, and with her smiths making helmets, her levies would be well protected. “Would you take care of it?”

A smile and a nod. The rest of their evening was spent talking about nothing.
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A large caravan left Runestone for the Bronze Sept. At their speed, carrying foodstuffs, dresses and statues, it would be half a day’s journey. There was no need to rush, resulting in a mellow horse ride. Elaena rode next to the carriage where the High Septon travelled. She’d point out the dirt roads that led to motherhouses and septries, as well as close villages. The High Septon’s attention, however, was concentrated on a flock of sheep numbering in the hundreds.

“Those sheep,” the High Septon pointed towards a Royce Bronzeface, “are the ones you’ve bred for all that wool, are they not?”

“Aye, Your Holiness,” she smiled as the shepherds cheered for Royce and Runestone upon seeing the banners. “We’ve cross-bred different varieties of sheep to produce a breed that produces more wool. The color of their faces was unexpected, but it earned them the name of Royce Bronzeface.”

“Handsome beasts,” his eyes moved to the closest shepherd. A boy, mayhaps three-and-ten, wearing a large red coat. “I see he’s wearing dyed clothes.”

“Aye, one of the towns is host to a small dyer’s workshop,” she’d been there once, to see how they worked. “They make dyes with vegetables,” the brown dye worn by her men-at-arms came from that workshop.

“I’ve travelled plenty and that is always a good sign of a land,” the High Septon intoned. “Colorful clothes on happy smallfolk means a good land with good lords. That a boy can wear a nice red like that means the land is good to them.”

“Is the Reach like that as well? Everyone has heard of its legendary bounty,” Elaena wished she could travel far and visit distant places, but she’d need an excuse to leave Runestone for long.

“In places,” he coughed into a silk handkerchief. “Oldtown, for all its wealth, teems with the poor. For many, shoes are a luxury, let alone color in their clothes. Farmers all around the Reach, however, favor yellows and oranges; made with onions if I’m not misremembering.”

“Gulltown has an entire street full of dyemakers. The ones in my lands are still in their infancy compared to them,” the dress she was wearing came from cloth dyed in Gulltown, a vivid blue made from flowers. “Children near forests earn coins for their family by collecting nuts and roots for dyers.”

“One of my acolytes has been given the order of commissioning a great golden mantle of the most vivid color that Gulltown can make,” the High Septon produced a drawing from amongst his things. A mantle with tiny gemstones sewn all over and stars embroidered on it. “The embroidery will be gold, the gemstones rubies. It is for the statue of the Mother in the Starry Sept.”

“’Tis a great many rubies, and so small.”

“Ah,” a good-natured laugh. “I’d forgotten you’ve never been to Oldtown, my Lady. Please forgive me,” he used his handkerchief to dry his eyes. “The statues to the Seven in the Starry Sept are much grander than any man. Each is as tall as four men, each standing on the other’s shoulders. The mantle will be quite large, made from the finest wool of course,” a smile. “Some would claim silk to be better for the Mother Above, but I’ve quite grown to appreciate how colorful the dyes take to your wool. And I’d much rather buy from a Gods-fearing countryman than an eastern cheese-monger who had slaves make the Mother’s mantle,” he sat back in the carriage and closed his eyes. Not long after, he began to snore.

Elaena rode to the head of the column, leaving the old man to his rest. Most of the tents in her wedding would be brown, but there would still be banners and flags dyed more vibrant colors. Her guests would be surrounded by Royce bronze but would still see how colorful the cloth they could find in Runestone was. Sometimes, like now, she wished House Royce had more colorful banners, to better show off. But brown and black had their own dignity. Riding next to Olyvar, who was in the middle of giving advice to squires about horsemanship, she checked out things from her mental to-do list.

She’d sent knights with maps to Gulltown, so they could guide visitors. Men-at-arms had been deployed to keep things orderly and watch over the fields allotted to smallfolk travelling for the tourney. Gerold had two water towers built and filled, ready for emergencies. Pate the cook had recruited helpers from inns and villages to assist with the wedding feast. A platform had been built, the lists had been built. Elaena had already triple-checked the wedding preparations before leaving Runestone; her anxiety about marriage was showing itself as anxiety over the wedding plans.

“Did you speak with the Master of the Hunt?” she asked Olyvar when the squires wandered off to race each other.

“Aye,” he reached over and squeezed her hand. “He’s found a giant elk; the guests will love that.”

“How big are they?” she’d only ever seen a normal elk.

“Slightly bigger than a moose,” he was measuring with his palm, imagining the elk standing next to him. “But nowhere near as angry. Did I tell you of the time a moose chased my nephew up a tree?” She shook her head. “We were out hunting with my brother, I was six-and-ten, Luceon was five-and-ten. We were tracking a mountain cat who’d attacked a farmer’s herd. Luceon wandered off to, ah, do his necessities. We heard a shout,” he stopped for effect. “My brother led the way through the brush, arrow nocked, when we came upon the largest beast I’d ever seen. Mouth foaming, the moose was angrily butting its head against a tree. On top of that tree, scared out of his mind, was Luceon,” he chuckled with a shake of the head. “An arrow is no good against a beast like that, we’d need better weapons or more archers at the least. My brave brother,” a sad smile, “let loose on the moose’s rump and before the animal could finish turning around, took out his sword and charged it. He stabbed it in the heart, one strong thrust with his full weight behind him; but the moose managed to shatter his right leg. He never fully recovered.”

“And you’re hunting something bigger than that?” she’d never understood the risks men in this world took for the sake of entertainment. You’d never catch her near a moose. “Will we be hosting a funeral after the wedding is done?” He laughed.

“We’ll be prepared this time; it won’t surprise us.”

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They made good time. The sun was still shining when they arrived. Gerold and Mya directed their respective teams of servants to unload the caravan. Elaena directed the workers carrying her statues into the sept. The High Septon had not seen them, she had guarded them quite jealously and not allowed anyone to see them. The first time they were seen would be in the Bronze Sept.

The pavilion set up for her and Olyvar was as large as a two-story house. She’d had them put a smaller pavilion inside, and a smaller one inside it. She didn’t want people listening to the bedding and would rely on walls of thick cloth to fight sound. Her ladies had their own rooms inside her pavilion, her closest knights and relatives were set up in smaller tents around hers. The field had been sectioned by Gunthor, who had volunteered. He had set up spaces for each separate kingdom, each with their own tents, banners and flags to impress the guests. They could set up their own tents, but she’d placed tents large enough that some lords and knights might not own bigger ones.

“Willam!” she called out to her cousin, who was standing around doing nothing. “I’ve a task for you, a secret one,” the massive knight, six and a half feet of muscle, walked over. She whispered, “come the bedding, there’s a stallion waiting for you if you can get me to the wedding bed before they can tear my dress off, before they can have undue liberties.”

“It shall be done, my Lady,” mirth colored his eyes. She wanted no bedding, a local custom she despised. She had a cunning plan involving her wedding dress, and getting Willam, young and strong, involved would only give her better results. She thought about saying no to the bedding ceremony, but going around the drunk guests would be easier and result in less potential headaches coming forward. Lords could be prickly about the strangest things. Any daughter of hers, or daughter-in-law, would have no bedding ceremony, though.

“Lady Royce,” the High Septon approached, flanked by his faithful companions. “I see that they’ve finished setting up the statues to the Seven, and I am very interested in laying eyes upon them.”

“Of course, Your High Holiness,” she dismissed her cousin with a knowing smile, sealing their conspiracy, and offered her arm to the High Septon. “Allow me to explain my decisions,” hopefully she hadn’t been too daring.

The Bronze Sept, despite the name, had next to no bronze in it. There was a large bell, to call for prayers, and a bronze seven-pointed star atop the altar. Built in the style of the First Men, it was the first sept to be built in Royce lands and was large enough to host her wedding. It had seen the first marriage between Royce and Arryn and the first naming ceremony of a Seven-worshipping Royce. Built sturdy with large stones, the tiled roof had been replaced shortly before Aegon’s Conquest. Tall, arched windows, with no glass, allowed the light in. A large crystal hung from the roof, reflecting the sunlight and turning it into rainbows; that was a wedding gift from the Good Queen to her mother. It was a simple building, but it was full of history.

“Here is the Father,” the first of her statues. They were all eight feet tall. A stern and bearded face looked down on them. She had given him laugh lines, a father that was strict, but kind. On his right hand he held a pair of scales, his left hand was an open hand, an invitation to hold it.

“I like the face.”

“The Mother,” she continued after the High Septon finished examining the Father’s robe. Modeled after her own mother, Rhea Royce smiled down at them with a kind expression. She was carrying a small bundle of cloth, a sleeping baby’s face peeking out. Her robes were a mirror of the Father’s, a queen’s where his were a king’s.

“Matronly, masterful craftsmanship on the expression.”

“A village septon I once heard speak,” she begun, as they approached the Smith. “Spoke of the Smith as a worker, who represents every working man,” at the High Septon’s nod she removed the cloth covering the statue. Behind it, a burly man in working clothes carried a small loom in his hand. A hammer hung from his belt. He’d been modelled after the castle’s smith.

“You’ve made him a weaver,” the High Septon spoke, his eyes narrowed in focus. He was looking at the loom. “The loom is very well made; you know them well. It is an acceptable representation of the Smith. You are not the first to make changes like that, and the hammer is present.”

“The Warrior,” she sighed in relief as she led him to the Warrior’s statue. She’d taken the biggest risk, theologically, with the Smith and had been concerned she’d be branded a heretic.

“There is an old sept near Starpike where a painting of the Smith carries a hoe,” the Warrior’s armor had runes and stars carved all over. The High Septon traced them with his finger as he continued speaking. “There is one in Lannisport who holds a chisel,” the Warrior held his sword with both hands, facing downwards. His shield was by his feet. His helmet revealed a grizzled warrior’s face, modeled after Ser Simon Storm.

“This can be no one but the Stranger,” the High Septon whispered, awed. The Stranger was Elaena’s masterpiece. A voluptuous woman’s body, wearing a man’s tunic. The head was a grinning skull, only revealed when directly underneath the statue, as a veil obscured it, revealing only the eyes, which were empty sockets with stars inside. She had also given the Stranger antlers. On the Stranger’s hands, one bone and one flesh, was a candle. Bronze wax dripped down from bronze fingers. Bare feet, with lizard claws where nails should be, ended the monstrous representation. “It is very primitive. The first Andals represented the Stranger in such a way, but I expect you knew,” he said with a smile. “The Stranger in Dragonstone is more animal than man, the Stranger in one of the older septs in Maidenpool is a woman with a bat’s face, quite monstruous. Most prefer merely making a hooded figure.”

“The Crone,” she introduced the wizened old woman when the High Septon stood before her. Elaena had given her the face of her old septa, Mallory. Her lined face was set in a slight smile, her right hand held a lantern. The left held a bronze book, representing the Seven-Pointed-Star. She had given her septa’s robes.

“And the Maid,” finished His High Holiness. Septa Roelle had been the model for the Maiden. Wearing a simple and modest dress with embroidery of flowers and vines, she was not as shapely as the Stranger—nowhere near as dangerous. On her brow was a crown of spring flowers, her hands were held together, leaving a gap for fresh flowers to be placed by the faithful. “You have done well, Lady Elaena. The Smith has blessed the hands that fashioned such statues, and the Crone has blessed the mind that directed the hands. Mayhaps the Stranger has even showed his face to you,” he added with a mirthless laugh.
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Guests began arriving as the wedding drew close. Her uncle, King Viserys of House Targaryen, arrived quite early. Alone. The rest of the family would come by dragonback the next day, but the king wished to speak with her. He’d not brought a large enough tent for his station, having decided to trust in her accommodations and was welcomed into a large pavilion, where a Targaryen dragon, embroidered in a banner as big as a castle’s gates, flew proud. He was welcome to take it with him when he left, Elaena told her uncle.

“I have to offer apologies, dear niece,” he began, as soon as they were left alone inside his pavilion.

“Apologies?”

“For Rhaenyra, and Alicent. Neither of them will be able to come. My newest grandson, my namesake,” he smiled, “was just born, and Rhaenyra is still recovering from the birth. The maester recommended she remain in Dragonstone and I agreed with him. She is staying in Dragonstone with my namesake, and young Aegon. So I fear your brothers will not be present at your wedding.”

“I see, please tell Rhaenyra to not worry, and extend her my well wishes on her health.”

“I will be sure to,” he gave Elaena a toothy smile, the king was missing a few teeth. “As for Alicent,” he continued, “I am to be a grandsire yet again, my Helaena being with child. Alicent is worried over her health, so the both of them will be staying in the Red Keep. I told her to not be concerned, it is still early in the pregnancy, but she would not hear it,” he shook his head and sighed. “Helaena was quite excited to come, you see. Lord Larys heard of your little surprise, the elephant,” his eyes opened in wonder, “and she dearly wished to see it. Tell me, how did you find it?”

“The representative of the Iron Bank in Gulltown, it belongs to his family, and he offered to bring it when I invited him to the wedding,” she wanted a long and fruitful relationship with the Iron Bank. One day she would get good interest rates, she vowed.

“Imagine that, owning an elephant,” the king, who once rode the largest dragon in existence, whistled in admiration. “So, I must also extend the apologies of the two of them.”

“Worry not, uncle,” two less dragons to feed, Elaena thought. “Please, when you leave, extend my heartfelt congratulations to Helaena and ask her to listen to the maester,” she was too young for children, Elaena was worried over the sweet girl she’d met. “What of my father?”

“He will be here,” he wagged a finger at an imaginary Daemon. “He was saying he would not come, but I made sure he understood that he had to come. You two can be stubborn as goats, so I am ordering you both to make peace and stop this silly spat. Your father has already heard my command, so I extend it to you. This command does not come as your king, but as your uncle, and his elder brother,” all that Elaena could do was respond with an awkward smile.

Chapter Text

122 AC

It was Jace’s first time away from his mother. When he thought of it like that, it sounded very silly. But it was the truth. For the first time ever, he and his brothers were to appear as princes of the realm without their mother. His mother had stayed behind in Dragonstone with the babies and charged Jace with looking after his brothers. Daemon was also going with them, but he had duties of his own; it was his daughter’s wedding.

Their mother said they were still too young to fly all the way to Gulltown; he had never ridden Vermax, but Jace was certain he was old enough to do so. He wished Daemon would let him fly; at least for a while, not the entire journey, he’d begged. But both his mother and Daemon agreed neither him nor Vermax were ready. And so, they travelled on one of grandfather’s ships with Baela and Rhaena. Daemon flew far above them on Caraxes, joined by Vermax, Arrax, Tyraxes and Moondancer.

Grandfather Viserys had come to visit them in Dragonstone to meet baby Viserys. Half the court had travelled to meet the youngest prince. The king left for the wedding, speaking of a pressing duty in the Vale, before them and left their uncles in Dragonstone. They would be travelling by dragon in a few days. Jace hoped they didn’t bother his mother; she was resting after the baby came. Grandfather wanted them to get along with their uncles, but that was easier said than done. Aegon was always saying cruel remarks and Aemond always looked as if he wanted to slice their eyes off. It had been an accident, and Grandsire had ordered them to forgive each other; but Aemond never had. Whenever he sparred Daeron, they always ended with the ugliest bruises. Now they were in Dragonstone, with Mother; while they sailed towards the Vale. Syrax and the Kingsguard would surely protect her, and his younger brothers.

It was their first time visiting another of the Seven Kingdoms. They’d been invited to Storm’s End once, Lord Borros had hosted a tourney for his eldest daughter’s nameday, but Mother rejected the invitation. Their Lady Aunt, Jeyne Arryn, had held some religious festival in Gulltown, and their father had wanted to take them; but Mother had said no. Knowing now that they’d had little time left with Laenor Velaryon, Jace wished they’d gone to the Vale with him. Mother had also decided not to go to Aunt Elaena’s wedding, because of the babe, and Jace had assumed that meant they would, once again, stay in Dragonstone. But grandsire insisted and Mother relented. Daemon would be looking after them, Mother had made him promise before an altar to the Fourteen Flames.

Joffrey was asking Grandfather Corlys about distant ports. Rhaena was somewhere above the clouds flying with Grandmother Rhaenys. Baela was sticking close to Jace, talking his ear off about Runestone. Baela was being annoying, boasting that her dragon had a town named after her and her elder sister had promised her and Rhaena a duty at the wedding. Baela was to be his queen, but Jace was pretty sure Rhaena would do a better job at it; Rhaena didn’t get into fights with stableboys and call it training. Luke was nervous, he’d been pacing from one side of the deck to the other, before grandfather told him it wasn’t safe. He was concerned about how people would look at them, finally having noticed the whispers in the Red Keep. They were kin of the Vale, however. Their grandmother was an Arryn and Lady Jeyne was their aunt. She’d always sent them gifts for their namedays. They were getting a prince’s welcome, Jace was sure of it.

“You can see Gulltown now,” their grandfather called out from the ship’s bow. “That is Gull Tower, from where the knight of Shett guards the harbor,” Jace didn’t think much of the tower. Dragonstone and Driftmark both had bigger towers. “It doesn’t look like much,” their grandfather smiled, clearly noticing the look on both him and Joffrey. “At the top they keep two scorpions and a great winch. Iron bolts, with a chain behind them, are loosed at attacking ships,” he pointed at the top of the tower, and at a small ship with a purple hull sailing into the harbor,” then they use the winch to pull ships under the tower, where it can be set upon by defenders. Our ancestor, Daemon Velaryon, attacked the city during Aegon’s Conquest and it was that very tower that hit his flagship and sank his ship.”

“A Velaryon was killed by that?” Joffrey was looking up at the tower, with doubt in his tone.

“It is a formidable city to try and attack,” Corlys beckoned for Luke. “If you attempt to attack the eastern dock, Gull Tower commands the defense and the sea wall can hold many defenders to hold off an attacker,” Jace could make out the distant walls, growing closer. “If you attempt the western docks, nature itself becomes your enemy. The western side of the harbor teems with small islands, which makes it difficult for larger ships to approach. And some of the islands have fortifications of their own,” Jace thought he could detect admiration in his grandfather’s explanation. “If you manage to take the docks and attack by land, then you are met with the formidable keep that the Graftons have built.”

“Aegon the Conqueror never took Gulltown,” Baela boasted, Jace didn’t know for what reason. “Visenya took the Vale from the Arryns by landing Vhagar in the Eyrie.”

“Just so,” Corlys smiled. “Once upon a time, the Arryns had a fleet that made an attack on Gulltown almost impossible. Now, it is merely very difficult. I would not recommend attacking a city by sea, having an army siege it from land and a fleet to help is much more sensible.”

Their grandfather was always trying to teach them about ships and sea battles. Things all Velaryons had to know, he’d say; and Jace always heard his uncle’s angry voice calling them Strongs. His grandfather began to tell Luke ways to organize a battle fleet while Jace looked ahead at the city. Caraxes and Meleys descended to land somewhere beyond the walls, a welcoming party gathered at the docks. Jace saw the golden Grafton tower, a golden Arryn banner and the Royce sigil.

“My Princes,” an older man in Grafton colors knelt when they descended. “Gulltown is yours.”

“We have prepared carriages, Lord Corlys,” a giant of a man announced, his grey eyes focused on Jace and his brothers, before turning to look at their grandfather. “Lady Elaena bid me ask if you would spend a night in the city or would prefer to travel to the wedding today. ‘Tis a half-day trip.”

“Ser Gunthor, Ser Gunthor, look!” Baela jumped forward, pointing to a servant carrying a hawk. “Grandmother gave me my own hawk! I’ll go hawking with Grandmother and Elaena now!”

“A fine bird,” the massive Ser Gunthor squinted. Jace wondered if he could actually see the hawk from there.

“We will travel tomorrow,” the Lord of the Tides answered, ruffling Baela’s hair. “The journey was long, and the children are tired.”

“My hall is ever open to you, my Lord,” the Grafton man’s arms opened wide.

“My thanks, Lord Lucas,” he turned towards them. “Come, Lord Grafton has opened his hall to us, what do you say?”

“Thank you for your hospitality, my Lord,” Jace said. Luke mumbled. Joffrey repeated after them. Baela shouted in Jace’s ear.

Come morning, their party left Gulltown. Daemon flew on ahead with the dragons. Their carriages moved slowly through the city, giving Jace a good look at it. The streets were full of peasants going about their day; they’d cheered for the dragons but cared little for their riders. From the docks to the gates, stalls lined the streets. “There must be enough cloth to make a dress for Syrax,” Luke japed. Jace laughed, glad to see his brother in a better mood. When the smallfolk saw the Targaryen banners and Lord Corlys, they began cheering King Viserys! Causing said lord to chuckle silently and wink back at Rhaenys.

The journey through his aunt’s lands was peaceful, and terribly uneventful. Farms, sheep and villages were the only things they passed through. Not Moondancer’s Port, not Runestone and no castles at all. He’d heard about the clansmen of the Mountains of the Moon and wished to have seen one. If they were attacked, he could show his mettle to everyone. He’d rescue his brothers and Baela and Rhaena, show his mother how brave he was and become a squire. If they attacked, he’d call out to Vermax and together they would become heroes in the Vale. Ser Gunthor, the giant uncle of his aunt, rode at the front with Grandfather Corlys. Jace, bored of the carriage and Joffrey’s hiccups, asked for his pony, Brimstone, and rode ahead to join them.

“Are we there yet, ser?”

“We are close now, my prince,” the Royce knight kept looking to his sides.

“Are you looking for clansmen?” his hand went to the small dagger that Harwin Strong gifted him. An excited smile on his face.

“Aye, my prince,” Jace’s grandfather coughed. “They rarely manage to slip past our castles guarding the passes, but you can never be too careful. Forewarned is forearmed, Lady Elaena says. We’ve prepared to escort all nobles to the wedding, but no preparation is enough when dealing with the clans.”

“We are quite safe, Jace,” Corlys cut in. “If there were any clansmen around, Daemon and the dragons gave them the largest fright of their lives,” Gunthor Royce clicked his tongue, displeased at the mention of Daemon.

“You can see the tents from here,” the knight announced as they went over a hill. Extending all the way to the horizon, tents of every size blotted the landscape. In the center was an old stone sept, some wooden buildings and a massive pavilion, large enough to house Syrax. “My boys and I organized the tent grounds, you’ll find it quite orderly, Lord Corlys.”

“Looks like an army camp,” Jace focused at his grandfather’s comments. Trying to glean as much as he could from the tents. Wide streets were left between rows of tents, wooden structures in open spaces, fire pits here and there. Ser Gunthor smiled and led them through the streets towards the center, where a large tent bearing the King’s banner awaited them.

Lords did not know them. They were wearing black, with Targaryen dragons stitched, and still no lords bowed in greeting. There were greetings for Lord Corlys, but none for them. Baela and Rhaena, completely unaware of what he was thinking, ran off upon seeing a group of girls. Only when a white cloak knelt before them did lords around them realize who they were. Mayhaps Luke was right to be nervous, Jace thought with a shudder.

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“Praise the Seven for Lady Royce,” Abel, cloth-merchant, lit a candle in front of the Father’s altar. He’d already lit one in front of all other altars, but the stranger. As a prominent member of Gulltown’s new cloth-merchant’s guild, Abel thanked Lady Royce every morning. Thanks to her sensible rule, he had become rich in a very short time. In just a few years, the markets of Gulltown had changed. Seamstresses were working more than ever for patrons outside the Vale, chest-fulls of cloth journeyed ever further away from the city, merchants arrived in droves from distant ports.

And Abel was in the center of it all. Once a common merchant, like any of the many that made the city their home, his shop now boasted enough cloth to dress the entire city. A distant cousin of his mother, a forgotten relative once, lived in a village in Royce lands. In the past, his cousin would make the long journey to the city to purchase goods he could sell in his village, but now? Now it was Abel who travelled to see his cousin, to purchase thread at the cheapest prices. He’d sold a warehouse to Ser Gerold Royce, who then presented him with the opportunity to build a new workshop in Moondancer’s Port, for only a fraction of what the warehouse was worth.

Abel was to lead a group of cloth-merchants to Lady Royce’s wedding. He’d gone to the sept to pray for safety before leaving. They’d hire one of the many mercenary bands to guard them on the way. Retired guards, hedge knights and sellswords sold their services to merchants, protecting them while travelling the mountain passes from the clansmen. The path to Runestone was safe, but they did not wish to risk what they carried. They had put together their money to commission a gift for the lady. They were confident they would provide the finest tapestry ever made in Gulltown.

The road proved to be as safe as ever. They came upon a few nobles, but Abel, whose dealings with nobles had only just begun, did not know them. At one point they saw a dragon flying high above them. Abel had never seen Lady Royce, he’d once thought she looked some like Ser Gerold. But gazing at the flying beast he was reminded the Lady was a dragonlord, daughter of the infamous Rogue Prince, the man cursed in every tavern of the Vale. How such a villain sired a pious lady who cared for the smallfolk of the Vale, nobody would ever know. Curses about Daemon Targaryen were usually followed by toasts to the Lady Royce. The septons of the small neighborhood septs explained that even from depravity, good children could be born.

Be that as it may, Abel and the cloth-merchants guild continued on their way. Always sure to give nobles the way. When they finally arrived at the city of tents that Lady Royce had built, they were directed to the area where commoners were setting up. Communal tents had been set up for the smallfolk that travelled to the wedding, but they’d come prepared with their own tents. They claimed an empty space and paid their guards to guard their belongings.

Abel went exploring. The wedding was still a few days away, but festivities had already begun. Mummers plied their trade for coppers, a bear danced to the sweet sound of a flute, merchants set up their stalls near the noble tents. Most of what they sold was cloth, but there were other kinds of merchants here and there. Somewhere among the stands was Abel’s own nephew, selling bolts of finely dyed cloth. He’d paid coin for the privilege of setting up his own stall, and from every sale he had to pay a part to the Royces but, now that he gazed at the impossible amount of tents and nobles that came to the wedding, he was sure he would turn a profit.

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“Will you stop moving around so much? You’re making me dizzy,” Aegon complained. His brother was lying on the beach, trying to fall asleep. Aemond was pacing around him, cursing their father’s orders. “Go play with Daeron and leave me be.”

“Why must we stay here?” Aemond would have been excited to spend time at Dragonstone, home of his ancestors; but their sister was there. Every corner had servants loyal to her watching their every move. Rooms were off-limits. Meals were quiet and tense. He hated being at Dragonstone. Hated that his father commanded them to accompany Rhaenyra before leaving for the wedding.

“Our favorite sister is alone with two babes, father worries for our future queen.”

“We should have gone back home, Father shouldn’t have left us here,” his voice cracked, further angering him. “Helaena is alone, she’s carrying your child, and you don’t care.”

“Whether I’m there or not, it doesn’t matter. The babe will grow, or it will not,” he turned to look at him. “Nothing I can do will change things and she’ll be happier alone with Mother.”

“You’re just being irresponsible and running away from your duties!” their grandsire oft scolded Aegon with those exact words. “Our inheritance is being stolen, and you don’t care!”

“I care,” his brother glared. “There’s just nothing I can do, Father will never change his mind,” Aegon sat up, grabbed a fistful of sand and threw it at him.

“Stop that!”

“Make me,” he stood up with a grind and, before Aemond could react, picked him up over his shoulder and rushed for the sea. Aegon was slightly shorter than him, despite being older, but was quite bulky and well-built. “Face me in combat, brother!” and with a yell he threw him at the cold water.

“What are you doing?” Daeron came running, hearing the splash. He’d been practicing his swing using sticks against a tree.

“Little Aemond dared to challenge me,” Aemond was spitting water when, with a roar, Aegon barreled into him and knocked him back underwater. Salt stung his eyes and filled his mouth. He barely had time to try and stand when Aegon once again picked him up and tossed him back into the beach. “You are many years from being able to challenge me, sweet brother! You must defeat Daeron before you can think of facing me,” Aegon grinned at their youngest. “But I don’t know if little Daeron has what it takes, do you?”

“I do!” cried out the youngest brother as he rushed Aemond, who had just managed to regain his breath and sit up. Daeron dropped his full weight on him, trying to wrestle him back into the ground. But Daeron was smaller and weaker and Aemond soon turned the tables on him. Before he could take him out of the fight, however, Aegon struck again and locked his arms behind his back.

“He’s yours now, Daeron,” the youngest prince prepared to rush at Aemond once more but stopped after a single step.

“It wouldn’t be knightly!” he puffed up. “I have to earn my victories in single combat!”

Aegon’s grip on him loosened, allowing Aemond to counterattack, going for Aegon’s legs and tossing him to the ground. “But it is knightly to join forces against a greater foe! Assist me, Daeron!”

“Unhand me!” laughed Aegon, as his brothers set upon him, trying their hardest to stop him from standing up.

Playing on the beach with his brothers, Aemond forgot the pain in his eye. Forgot the sword hanging over their necks. For an afternoon he was just a child. Tomorrow they will finally leave Dragonstone, their sister’s fortress.

At least dinners with Rhaenyra alone were less painful than when Daemon was there. He was also their uncle, as much as he wished to ignore it. They were kin and he insisted on insulting them to their faces, and the little bastards snickered about it. Aemond swore even the babe laughed at Daemon’s japes. The bastards were only brave when Daemon or Rhaenyra were there. They always became so meek when Daemon left the training yard, there he and Daeron would show them what their rightful place was: at the feet of trueborn princes. Jacaerys was strong, but Aemond was faster and taller. Lucerys always flinched when they sparred. He’d never fought Joffrey. Aegon just watched, he could have taken on the three Strongs by himself. Aegon was much stronger, and an anointed knight to boot.

The last spar they had before the brats left was just another time where they showed the difference between them. Daemon was saying goodbye to Rhaenyra, leaving them alone. Jacaerys, confident from a move that Daemon taught him, challenged Aegon. It went as expected and it became his and Lucerys’ turn. If the master-at-arms wasn’t looking, if his father wasn’t there, if Daemon wasn’t near; he’d take his eye and finally have justice. But he could still torment the bastard. “Everyone will know, you know?” Aemond whispered when their swords were locked close, and no one would hear. “Once they look at you next to all of us, they will all know what you are.”

“You are leaving in the morning?” Rhaenyra’s question took him out of his thoughts. A servant had carried the babes away, Daeron had left soon after. Aegon was not overindulging in drink, for once.

“Yes, dear sister,” Aegon’s smile was false, Aemond could tell. “No longer will you need to look after us children.”

“You are my brothers,” Rhaenyra smiled at them, Aemond tried to hide a blush behind his cup. “Dragonstone is as much your home to yours as it is mine, you will always be welcome in my halls. Dragonstone and the Red Keep will always have room for my father’s other children,” she chuckled. “It’s a true shame we are so apart, is it not?”

“It is as you say,” Aegon’s voice was flat, his eyes unsmiling. “That the Princess of Dragonstone lives as far as she does from the Red Keep is a true shame. His Grace oft bemoans the distance. We are left the only princes in the eyes of the realm.”

“You needn’t be concerned about that, my dear younger brother,” Rhaenyra’s voice remained sweet. “The Realm is well aware of the princes of Dragonstone and my lords are eager to visit Dragonstone to meet them,” she leaned forward, with a smile. “I’ve thought to ask Lord Beesbury for details about your princely allowances. You are growing older, and your needs are changing, I am certain once I’m queen we can come to a stipend favorable to us all. Don’t you think?” Rhaenyra’s purple eyes turned towards him.

“I am sure you have more important duties than counting coppers,” Aegon interrupted before Aemond could speak. “Leaving matters of gold to men more capable is a king’s privilege,” he stood. “Aemond, to bed, we leave with first light.”

“I am certain we’ll reach an accord on the future,” Rhaenyra’s smile never left her as she stood up. “I do so desire for my brothers to assist Jace once he’s king,” she kissed them both on the cheek. Aemond found it impossible to hide his blush. “You will always have a place in my table and hearth, like all my vassals.”

Aemond’s dreams confused him in the light of day. His cousin Elaena was there, as was Rhaenyra. He landed Vhagar in the courtyard of the Red Keep, impossibly large in his dreams, and everyone knelt. His grandsire knelt, his mother knelt, Daemon knelt, his sister and cousin, everyone. He entered the throne room with the Conqueror’s crown on his brow, it was a wedding. He was marrying his elder sister and his cousin, in the custom of Old Valyria. When they kissed and left for the bedding ceremony, he woke up. Thankfully they left without seeing their sister, who was still abed. He was sure she would have known what he dreamt of with one look.

“I can see the shore!” Daeron shouted into his ear. He was riding behind him on Vhagar, both him and Tessarion were still too small. Aegon and Sunfyre were somewhere above them, playing and spinning. “I miss father, will he come welcome us?”

“Not bloody likely,” he’d long accepted their father would coddle the bastards and preferred Rhaenyar’s whelps to them. “Mother’s brothers will be there, as will many knights.”

“I wish I was a knight, then I could joust. Will Aegon joust?”

“I don’t know,” not likely, he thought. Aegon was no jouster and would only shame himself on the first tilt. He also wasn’t skilled enough for an actual melee. Aemond was sure the Crakehall squire had thrown the fight. “Ask him when we get there.”

“Is that the wedding?” he pointed towards a clearing with hundreds of tents. “Look! The dragons are over there!”

Aemond led Vhagar towards the space they’d left open for her. Sunfyre swooped in from somewhere, Aegon’s laughter heralding the dragon’s arrival. Aemond tried to count the tents, but it proved far too difficult. He then remembered Criston’s advice about counting armies; count the fires, not the tents. There were not many fires lit so early in the morning, but he managed to count forty fires. Some three hundred men, mayhaps? There were certainly more people than that, he’d have to ask Ser Criston when he got back home.

Dragonkeepers were ready and waiting for them. One of the Cargyll twins was there as well, Ser Arryk. He escorted them to a large pavilion, where a Targaryen banner flew defiantly in a sea of brown cloth. They heard their father’s laughter inside. Aemond’s suspicions proved true when they found him inside with their uncle Daemon. He was always laughing with Daemon.

“You’ve arrived! Good,” before waiting for an invitation, Aegon sat next to a wine pitcher. Their father frowned but said nothing. “How’s Rhaenyra? How’s my little namesake?”

“She was a most gracious host,” Aemond answered as Aegon began drinking. “The babes are fine, loud.”

“A sign of health and strength,” their uncle cut in. “Your children were all remarkably quiet, weren’t they brother?” a smirk.

“I’m not sure, you’d have to ask Alicent,” if their father was offended for their sake, he didn’t show it. “The family is all her, come now. We must officially greet Lady Royce. Leave that there, Aegon, no one’s going to take it.”

The bastards were waiting outside, having come from somewhere. Lucerys looked as if he was going to be sick, good. They didn’t have to walk for long. The Royce pavilion was close, surrounded by smaller tents, all belonging to one Royce knight or the other. Lady Royce surrounded by her knights, Aemond guessed. Men and women bowed and knelt whenever they saw his father. Aemond imagined them bowing to him and his brothers.

A knight stood guard outside and wisely let them inside before the king had to say anything. Her pavilion was larger than the king’s; a monstrosity of cloth, roofs tall enough for a dragon to comfortably rest inside. Rugs covered the ground, tapestries hung between poles, showing landscapes from what he assumed were the Vale and scenes from Royce history. In the center were chairs and small tables, an elaborate chair of dark wood with carved runes dominated the room. Sitting on it was Lady Royce.

“Your Grace,” she stood and curtsied.

“Lady Royce, our congratulations on this most joyous day,” their father spoke with a king’s voice as he presented his ring for Lady Royce to kiss. That done, however, he smiled and took a seat. In one of the lesser chairs, Aemond noticed. “Niceties done with, let us spend some time as family. Let us get the most important things out of the way, Daemon?”

“Daughter,” Daemon stepped forward. “Let us forget unkind words, said when wine ruled tongues.”

“’Tis water under the bridge,” her smile was polite, but that was all Aemond could read in her expression. “Yesterday is behind us, today let us mend the bonds torn by small-mindedness and look to tomorrow.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, searching for something in his daughter’s words. Aemond repeated her words but was unable to gleam anything from them. He did not know what had driven father and daughter apart; had only just found out there was a divide between them. Whatever conclusion Daemon came to, he stepped forward and kissed his daughter on the cheek. She answered with a kiss and King Viserys smiled and clapped.

“Good, good,” he sat back in his chair, looking around for something to drink. “Peace is made once more, let us toast for bonds being mend, as you so eloquently said.”

“Karyn,” Lady Elaena spoke after seating in her elaborate throne. “Bring the sweetwine from the Riverlands,” she turned to face them. “Lord Isembard Arryn, from Gulltown, is to blame for me gaining a taste for it,” his father allowed him a cup of wine, it didn’t have the strong taste of Aegon’s favorite wines.

“From the Red Fork, I know it well,” the king drank deep. “To family!” he toasted, and they all followed. “Quite remarkable, this city of tents that has sprung up around us. Why’d you choose this place and not Runestone?”

“The oldest sept in my lands is here,” her eyes bored into Daemon. “I wish for guests to see my lands, look at the sheep and see the cloth,” as she continued speaking with his father, all Aemond could think was that she was wasted on an Andal.
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Jeyne could be so unserious, Jessamyn thought as she slept with her head on her lap. They were on the way to Runestone in a carriage with closed windows, escorted by Ser Joffrey and his knights. Jeyne didn’t see the threat that Elaena’s success posed to her, Jess had to remind Jeyne that all men must die and be replaced by unknown heirs for her to understand the danger. A future Royce might attempt to steal Gulltown from the Graftons. They had to make sure to deal with any potential threats to Jeyne’s reign.

Merchants in Gulltown paid their dues in the customs office and any taxes to their liege. Elaena wasn’t a merchant, however, and Lucas Grafton wasn’t the most present of lords. Long had they been vexed by Isembard Arryn, who somehow paid less taxes to the Graftons that a merchant of his wealth should. Jess suspected he was paying Grafton on the side, so he’d hide some of Isembard’s dealings. And Jeyne had been far too quick to agree to Grafton’s tax break after Arnold’s rebellion.

They had to move quickly. Write laws that would stop the Graftons from selling Gulltown to any single person. Every lord of the Vale had the right to own part of Gulltown, to invest in the city. But no lord should own as much as Elaena and Isembard. Isembard was careful, he hid his dealings and paid for silence. Elaena though? She did things honestly and in the open. And she was a direct vassal to Jeyne; they had room enough to restrict her moves and thus restrict any potential moves by others. They had to be careful, however, Jess thought as she caressed Jeyne’s hair. Elaena was one of Jeyne’s most important allies and a trusted friend to both. They had to use her to get to Isembard but squeezing her too hard would only cause them problems. The ideal solution, in her view, would be for Jeyne to replace Isembard in Elaena’s dealings. For Jeyne to take part in the cloth trade, for Elaena’s properties in Gulltown to pay their taxes to Jeyne directly, not to the Graftons. If they could get Elaena’s support for that move, they could then tax every lord’s dealings in Gulltown; they’d have a way to get to Isembard and potentially strike at Grafton. She’d seen the numbers, Grafton acquired more than enough wealth from common merchants, he had no need of the wealth of the likes of Isembard for his coffers.

Jess knew Elaena. She was hard-working and dutiful. She’d just not expected how ambitious her dreams were. The little girl that used to follow them around in the Eyrie was soon turning into one of the wealthiest nobles of the Vale (She’d sometimes suspected Elaena’s piety, a thing she’d never seen in the Eyrie, came from her following her new septa around). Elaena’s loyalty would stop with her; a son with her particular blood and the wealth she’d made could become a big problem.

They had to act delicately. Elaena’s influence over Gulltown had to be restricted, but not to a point where she might feel her only way of acting would be violent. She had a dangerous pretender in her hands. Arnold’s brat was kept safe and away in Runestone, but if Runestone became an enemy of Jeyne’s? She once again cursed her younger brother, Adrian, of being unable to seduce Elaena. A match between Redfort and Royce would have been in Jeyne’s interest. They’d given Elaena the weapons of their potential doom. They’d given her Elbert Arryn, given her Olyvar Templeton, they’d given her the leeway to do as she wished in Gulltown. Now she had to harden her heart and pull Elaena back. They’d prick Elaena with a dagger and prepare to plunge that same dagger upon any others who stepped out of line. Peace and stability for Jeyne’s rule was all that Jess wished for.

Ser Jonothor Templeton was a wily old fox who probably thought he gained another weapon to press Arnold’s claim by marrying his spare son to Elaena. But Jess knew better. From the moment that Elaena began looking for a husband, she was looking for a man unlikely to make use of his authority as husband over her. Olyvar Templeton had been bewitched by her beauty and would prove a weak husband whose authority would not extend beyond the bedroom. For a time, she thought Elaena to be like them, her and Jeyne. She’d turned down her admittedly comely brother and chosen the more refined beauty of Templeton. Jeyne was surprised that Elaena knew about them, but Jess had known for years that Elaena was aware of them. She thought mayhaps the young and attractive septa was to Elaena what she was to Jeyne, but she’d never found anything that led to that kind of thinking. Elaena was either very good at hiding her passions or had not acted upon them. There was no chance Elaena wasn’t like them, at least a little.

“We’re nearly there,” came Joffrey’s voice after a knock on the closed window.

“Wake up, my love,” she whispered to Jeyne and kissed her brow. Blue eyes opened and stared longingly at her. They were made for each other. Jeyne was her world, and she was hers. Jeyne kissed her, likely for the last time until they returned home. “Come, let us prepare to meet your lords.”
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Chapter Text

122 AC

Her wedding was in three days. Guests kept arriving in droves. Most of the Vale lords had already arrived; the recent arrivals came from even further away. The Prince of Dorne had even sent a representative, one Ser Morgan Sand; a half-brother of Prince Qoren himself. It likely was meant as an insult, but Elaena cared little for Dornish politics, let her uncle be insulted if he wished to. From the North came Lord Manderly and his heir; nearly every house from the Riverlands and Crownlands had made the journey; Lord Borros Baratheon arrived with a lordly retinue of knights and ladies; Lord Alester Tyrell and his wife came with as much pageantry as would be expected of the Lord Paramount of the Mander; the Westerlands had sent a representative from nearly every house, Lord Jason had travelled with his pregnant wife and his three daughters; even an Ironborn had journeyed for the wedding, Lord Gryndon Goodbrother, whispered to be searching for a bride for his eldest son.

From Essos, Braavos had sent a few notable guests from their aristocratic class. Lotho Reyaan, the Iron Bank’s representative in Gulltown, had brought several cousins; one of whom, Syrio, was a Keyholder of the Iron Bank and goodbrother to the Sealord. The elephant that had awed her guests belonged to Syrio Reyaan. It was a son of the elephants belonging to the Sealord’s menagerie. She’d seen elephants before, this one was not as large as an African elephant, but could boast of a striped back that set it apart from the elephants she’d seen before. Lotho Reyaan had used his connection with her to gain a march over other Braavosi trading families. The Reyaans had come bearing gifts, seeking to become the only noble family with access to cloth in bulk to sell in Braavos. Lorath, Pentos, Norvos and Qohor had all sent emissaries, though they were more interested in connections with the king.

Elaena was taking advantage that nobles liked throwing impromptu feasts and drinking into the night, allowing her quiet and peaceful mornings. She’d been using the quiet to go over Jeyne’s words about taxation. Their tax rates were fixed, since the days of the Old King, and now that she was earning more, Jeyne wanted her cut. She didn’t feel it was fair. She’d taken all the risk, investing House Royce’s treasury with her breeding programs, funneling wealth to build up her Port and taking in that monstrous loan. Jeyne paid taxes to the crown and her taxes hadn’t been increased. The only justification Elaena could see was greed.

She’d asked her maesters to go over taxation records and law from the last three hundred years. Her only thoughts were of defenses that bordered on the illegal, that might not work in this society. She first thought of splitting her holdings between those of Lord Royce of Runestone, inherited over the centuries in an unbroken chain, and those owned by Elaena Royce, private owner. Split the ownership of her holdings and her possessions in Gulltown, if possible, in the Port as well, between Lady Royce and Elaena Royce. Elaena Royce would pay her taxes to Lady Royce, at a rate set by Lady Royce; and the incomes of Runestone would see little change on paper. She didn’t know if it would be plausible to defend her holdings in that way.

Her other idea, riskier since it relied on strangers, would be to find distant Royces, old and childless, and split her holdings between them. Only on paper, they’d earn some income, but she’d retain all power over them and the bulk of the profit. She’d have to find good candidates for that, the sort that would not overreach. She wasn’t above the riskier solution of making up the distant Royces. What would Jeyne know of the make-believe Ser Robert Royce, eight cousin to Elaena? She’d prefer the first solution, easier to manage, she’d approached Maester Qarlton and asked him to turn his knowledge of Law towards it. If not possible yet, she’d look for ways to make it so. Lady Royce and Elaena Royce would be different people on paper, despite being the same person. She’d pay taxes to herself, low ones that would allow her to continue growing, and what Lady Royce paid to Jeyne would see, at most, a slight increase.

Jeyne was holding court in her pavilion. It was a rare chance to air your grievances and make requests without the need to climb the Eyrie. And it was a good opportunity to meet with more distant neighbors. Escorted by Olyvar, she made her way to the Arryn tent. She wished for him to introduce her to his older half-sister, the Dowager Lady Melcolm, so they could begin talking about a potential marriage alliance. Lord Waynwood was also there, another potential match. Jeyne was currently listening to long argument, generations in the making, about hunting rights in a forest to the north of the Vale.

“Sister,” Olyvar led her towards an older woman, dressed entirely in black, with a small gold anchor hanging from her neck. “May I introduce you to Lady Royce?”

“My Lady,” Elaena greeted Olyvar’s sister. Dark brown hair accompanied blue eyes on a face that had little of Olyvar. Close to forty, Elaena judged, the widow Alysanne Melcolm had ruled for her young son for the last five years. “’Tis good to finally meet one of my closest neighbors.”

“Likewise, Lady Royce,” nervous eyes looked to Olyvar, before locking on a nearby septa. “We’ve been quite excited about meeting our Olyvar’s betrothed. The entire family extends their well-wishes.”

“And to thank you,” the septa had approached, an almost identical, though older, version of Lady Melcolm. “You’ve looked after my only grandson, my Eldric,” the eldest Templeton sister, Myranda, was Arnold Arryn’s mother, taking her septa’s vows after her husband’s death.

“He’s an able squire, well on his way to make a fine knight,” she turned towards Olyvar. “I’ve been made to understand that Olyvar has spoken to you about our offer?” Barba, her eldest niece, betrothed to Galbart Melcolm, child lord of Old Anchor. To sweeten the deal, the dowry accompanying her niece was close to a king’s ransom.

“Aye, Oly has,” it was Septa Myranda who spoke, not the boy’s mother. “And we are inclined to accept your offer. But we would like one thing in return,” and she lifted a finger for emphasis. “I wish to serve at Runestone, whether at the castle or a nearby motherhouse is no matter to me, I desire to be close to Eldric.”

“That can be done,” Septa Roelle was becoming more and more her secretary, writing her letters and keeping her confidence; another septa, who took on the duties of teaching young noble girls, could be a welcome addition to her household.

“How wonderful!” Lady Alysanne Melcolm joined her hands as if in prayer. “We shall join our families twice over then, and ‘Randa will be with Eldric,” Olyvar had told her of his sisters’ close relationships, and the fact that they all looked to the eldest for direction. “Let us leave dowry discussions for another day, when shall they marry? When your niece becomes of age, my Galbart will only be twelve.”

“If you have no issue with it, when Galbart comes of age,” this was the most important point of the discussion for Elaena. “Barba will be twenty, slightly older, yes… but stronger and healthier of body, all the maesters agree.”

“That will be fine,” she waved her worries away. “Ser Vardis, Galbart’s steward, implored me to inquire of the extent of the alliance between our houses,” the lady’s eyes fixed on Elaena’s dress.

“An increase to trade is ever welcome,” Old Anchor, seat of House Melcolm, sat across the bay from Moondancer’s Port. The Melcolms had once been a maritime power, building and outfitting the fleet of the Arryn kings, and while their shipyards no longer had the capacity of yesterday, fat-bellied cogs transported the produce of the Vale from Old Anchor to Gulltown. Most of the Melcolm fleet were fishing ships, with the odd pirate-hunter here and there.

“Marvelous,” Alysanne Melcom gave her smile devoid of nervousness. “Let us leave matters of coin to those better suited to it and speak of brighter things. Tell me, where might one find some nice turquoise cloth? I’ve seen the merchant stalls, but honestly? I am completely lost when dealing with them. I do so wish to make new dresses for my children,” she smiled towards a group of girls, Galbart Melcolm’s three older sisters.

While Elaena was getting to know her new good-sisters (the third sister, Janna, married to Lord Sunderland had also joined their conversation), Jeyne’s headache was growing. A small forest lay between the lands of Ser Thaddeus Clint and Ser Bors Whitestone, both landed knights. The Clints and the Whitestones had feuded over that forest for close to ten generations, when a Clint maiden brought it to Whitestones with her dowry. The bride, however, had died not long after her wedding, no issue. The Clints had demanded the forest back, the Whitestones had refused, and a small war had begun between both houses. The Arryn king had put down the fighting and granted the forest to the Whitestones. Three generations later, they began fighting again and the new Arryn king granted the forest to the Clints. And to this day, those two houses continued fighting over the forest. At present, it belonged to the Whitestones, but a Clint had been caught hunting in it. Instead of calling their swords, they brought the matter to Jeyne.

It seemed they’d actually draw steel then and there and demand a duel over the forest. If Elaena remembered her lessons from the Eyrie’s maester, the last duel had been just fifty years ago, when Ser Ormund Whitestone killed Ser Petyr Clint and won the forest back for his family. With a sigh, Jeyne ordered her guards to disarm the feuding knights and implored them to remember they were not savages who killed each other at weddings. “Any blood is shed between your houses during the wedding and the forest will go to Arryn hands,” she warned them.

As entertaining as seeing two knights trying to glare each other to death, Elaena laid eyes on the lord she was looking for: Lyonel Belmore. Father of her old friend, Lanna, and of Bethany, who they wished to betroth Eldric to. Lyonel had married his eldest daughter to Olyvar’s nephew, the heir to Ninestars, and he was Elaena’s cousin; her grandmother, Rhea’s mother, had been a Belmore. Lord Lyonel stood alone; eyes fixed on nowhere. When Elaena approached him, he was surprised at her apparently sudden appearance.

“Lady Royce, ‘tis good to see you. Lanna and Beth tell me you were most kind to them in the prince’s wedding,” he recovered quickly. “You’ll have to forgive me; I’ve just been in the Eyrie and this discussion is but a continuation. They’ve been at it for nearly a year, and I’ve learnt to lose myself in my thoughts, so I don’t have to listen to Clint’s incessant grumbling about geese migratory patterns and elk mating season.”

“Pay it no mind, Lord Lyonel. We are kin, after all. Though I was not aware their discussion went into so much detail.”

“We are,” interest colored his face, eyes turned towards the Templeton women. “My sons are already married, so I’m afraid you may not find what you seek there. As for Clint,” a heavy sigh. “’Tis likely that maester of his, putting ideas into his mind about the animals of his land using the forest to mate and Whitestone taking animals born to Clint forests. And don’t let him get started on where the source of one particular creek is, he has many maps.”

“I see, does that shift Jeyne’s mind towards any decision?”

“No. Nobody understands half of what Clint is saying,” a disappointed shake of the head followed, as he looked at Clint try to explain the composition of elk dung found in the forest.

“’Twas not about a son of yours that I wish to speak, cousin,” if reminding him of mutual kinship helped, she would call him her favorite cousin. “Bethany is not promised to any.”

“She is not,” he spoke carefully, eyes looking for someone. “Your nephews are not set to inherit anything, am I correct?"

“I do not speak for my nephews, but for Eldric Arryn.”

“Arnold’s boy?” interest crept into his tone.

“Him. He is a few years younger than Bethany, but once he comes of age she’ll be of a good and healthy age.”

“She will,” his eyes focused on Jeyne and the knight standing behind her. “Whispers claim that Jeyne will be marrying Joffrey Arryn. If Jeyne has children, my Beth would remain wed to a landless knight.”

“Joffrey Arryn?” Elaena knew Jeyne would not marry but could not reveal why. “What does Lanna say about that?” Lanna also fostered at the Eyrie, and remained after Elaena had returned home, she was bound to know more.

“Only good things. The girl once wanted to marry Ser Joffrey, handsome knight that he is, but he’s too lowborn for her,” he shrugged. “In time… she understood. Luceon Templeton is a much better match for her. Mayhaps,” another shrug, “mayhaps one day we can come to an accord. But I will not risk Beth to an uncertain future. I am not looking to betroth her at this point, so if you can provide more certainty to Eldric’s inheritance…” he left the sentence open, before excusing himself and walking towards his wife. Elaena hadn’t given up on the Belmore marriage. It would merely require more finesse. Looking around, Jeyne held a hand to her forehead; the Corbray brothers were aggressively whispering to each other; Ser Mandon Lynderly glared at the two arguing knights, standing behind Jeyne; and Jessamyn and her brother were locked in conversation with Lord Hunter.

A sudden crash. Whitestone threw a chair at Clint, with a shout of “Nobody cares about Elk shit!”
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Elaena held court that afternoon. It was a good opportunity for smallfolk from faraway villages to seek her justice. And a good opportunity to get to know her most powerful, and distant, vassals: Amos Coldwater and Edwyle Tollett. She’d met them before; the day she came into her lordship they travelled to Runestone to give her their oaths and a handful of other occasions that they’d made the journey south. But the bulk of her interactions with them was through ravens. Their holdings were close to the Fingers, the domains of multiple lords standing between them.

Lord Amos was the older of the two, some seventy years old. He was completely bald, with piercing green eyes. His son and heir, the eight-and-forty year old Ser Aron, was also balding but could boast of a few black hairs remaining. Apple orchards and lumber were the bread and butter of the Coldwaters, and Coldwater Cider was famous all over the Vale. Its barrels chilled by the river’s waters, even in the hottest summers. Lord Amos sat to her right as she held court, his son behind him.

Lord Edwyle was in his fifties, married to a daughter of Lord Amos. He was uncle to one of her ladies. Tall, with a prominent chin and messy brown hair, Edwyle Tollett was an able knight. In his youth, before coming into his lordship, he had been her grandsire’s closest companion, having squired together. His heir, Ser Jon, had been Yorbert’s squire. The Tolletts of Grey Glen ruled over a modest but fertile patch of land; small ditches and canals had been dug out around the lake in their lands, watering vast farmlands. The lord sat to her left, his heir behind him.

With her two most powerful vassals at her side, she listened to her smallfolk. Only one in ten came with complaints, many more had come to simply offer their greetings and look at their liege. Grazing disputes, a missing dowry and a stolen donkey; it all seemed to be another average court day, with the usual disputes, when two knights stepped forward. They were landed knights, holding small keeps in the eastern coast of the peninsula. They had agreed to a betrothal between a son and daughter, but, once the time had come, the betrothal was broken.

Ser Clarence Royce, a fifth cousin or so, had resolved to marry his only daughter, Marei, to the son and heir of Ser Artos Royce, a fourth cousin. They had been waiting for the boy to come of age, but when it had finally come to be, Ser Artos broke the betrothal and married his son to the daughter of a wealthy merchant. Marei Royce was three-and-twenty, a difficult age for a landed knight to make an advantageous match. Ser Clarence accused Ser Artos of wasting his daughter’s time and stealing her chances for a good match. Ser Artos argued the betrothal was never definite, a dowry had not been set, and his son had never courted the older Marei.

“Lies!” Ser Clarence shouted, clutching a stack of documents. “I have it all here, my Lady! Correspondence detailing the dowry! A love poem the boy wrote for my daughter! I have everything!”

“Fabrications,” Ser Artos scoffed. “My boy can’t even write his own name.”

“Betrothals are usually set before the eyes of a septon,” Lord Tollett cut in. “Can you provide the witness?”

“Septon Chelsted passed two years ago,” Ser Clarence started looking through his parchments, before finding the one he wanted. “But I have his words, here’s his signature.”

“A fake, I say.”

“Ser Artos,” she’d not spoken yet. “Please allow Ser Clarence to speak without interruptions. I will look at what evidence you’ve brought; then I will hear what you have to say, Ser Artos.”

Ser Clarence had brought a large stack of documents, but after quickly skimming over them, only three were of any consequence. The personal journal of a village septon, signed by a Septon Chelsted, but while it spoke of a witnessed betrothal between two landed knights, it gave no names; a letter, written in the same hand as the journal, and signed by the ‘Knight of Crumblestone, Ser Artos Royce’ agreeing to the proposed dowry, but the signature beneath the name was just a mark, an X; and, finally, the love poem. Clumsily written in a shaky hand, it spoke of the little practice the writer had with a pen. Calling it a poem was undue praise, she reasoned, leaving the compositions that Olyvar had written aside, this poem didn’t even have any of the qualities that popular songs from the Vale did.

“You know how to write, Ser Clarence?” Lord Coldwaters was looking through a paper where the knight had written down the dowry.

“Aye, my Lord,” he puffed out his chest with pride. “My father had a maester.”

“And we don’t,” Ser Artos scoffed. “Always looking down on us. My boy had nowhere to learn letters, there never was no courting.”

“Is your son here?” Elaena was going through the septon’s journal, mayhaps there was something else there. “I would like to speak with him.”

“He stayed home; someone has to look after our keep.”

“What about your daughter, Ser Clarence?”

“She is, come Marei, speak to Lady Royce.”

“My lady,” a woman, close to her age, curtsied. She was tall, taller than Elaena, dressed all in brown. Simple colors, but fine stitching.

“You received this letter?”

“Yes.”

“When, where, how?”

“Uhm,” she looked towards her father, who nodded in encouragement. “A year ago, before Yohn married his new wife. A drover gave it to me, told me it was from Yohn...”

“Where is this drover?” Lord Coldwaters looked up from his reading.

“He serves at Crumblestone,” Ser Clarence explained with a grimace. “At Ser Artos’ keep.”

“He is not here, then,” Lord Tollett said with a sigh. “If you want my advice, my Lady,” she nodded, asking him to continue, “summon the boy and drover to Runestone. ‘Tis best to give an informed ruling before plunging two families into a possible feud. We’ve all seen what a little forest can cause between two knights,” those who’d been witness to the never-ending fight between Clint and Whitestone laughed, Elaena allowed herself a smile.

“You’ve heard the wisdom of Lord Tollett,” she announced. “I will keep these,” she waved the journal and pointed at the parchments Lord Coldwaters held, “and read them. Bring your son and the drover to Runestone, Ser Artos. If you’ve brought a false drover, I will take it as you acquiescing to Ser Clarence’s accusations.”

“It will be done,” Ser Artos bowed. “I have no fear, my Lady. I have done no wrong.”

“If I may, Lady Royce,” a septon interrupted, one of the High Septon’s companions. “How did you come upon this journal, Ser Clarence? A septon’s personal belongings are to go back to the Faith upon his passing.”

“The journal?” the knight seemed surprised at being questioned by the septon. “The new septon, Donnic, lent it to me after hearing of my plight,” the septon just nodded, and sat back down.

“Lady Royce has spoken,” Lord Coldwaters stood. “Go forth and do as she’s ordered,” the two knights bowed their heads and left.

“Thank you, Lord Amos,” she stood as well, no more supplicants remained in her impromptu cloth hall. “I believe we are done for the day, just in time for the roast aurochs that Ser Olyvar and his nephews hunted. Will you join me for dinner, my lords?”

“An honor,” Edwyle Tollett stood as well. That night, as they dined on juicy meat, slightly charred on the outside, Elaena learnt about the land of her northern vassals and the small issues they had. Lord Coldwaters was concerned about the lack of recent clansmen attacks, worried they were plotting something, and Tollett shared those concerns. She promised she’d sent a few knights their way, those best skilled at tracking and fighting clansmen.

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The morning before her wedding officially began saw the king holding court. Every guest of note had arrived and they all wished to pay their respects to Viserys, and put their petitions forward. Her position as host granted her a seat to the king’s right. The left was taken by an advisor, someone she didn’t know, from an unknown house, the heads of three red harts diagonal over vair.

“All stand for His Grace, Viserys, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men!” the lord of the red harts exclaimed when Viserys appeared from behind a cloth flap, a big smile on his face. “Protector of the Realm and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!”

“What a voice Lord Harte,” she should have guessed, seeing the sigil, “has, doesn’t he?” he asked his vassals, and sat on his wooden throne. “Now, who’s first?”

“Lord Jason Lannister,” a herald announced. The Lord of Casterly Rock was identical to Ser Tyland, though he exuded even more pride.

“Your Grace,” a bow with a flourish. “It is always good to see you. And what a shame the princess could not grace us with her beauty,” Elaena thought she could hear sarcasm. “I know you aren’t the one getting married, but I’ve brought a gift for you,” a snap of the fingers had a servant rushing forward with a bundle of cloth. “A set of skinning knives, with jewels incrusted in the pommels, the finest in Lannisport.”

“A handsome gift, Lord Jason,” the king began to admire his new knives. Small golden dragons with ruby eyes roared in the pommel. “I will treasure them and remember Casterly Rock whenever I am out hunting.”

What followed was the most mind-numbing parade of lords trying to one-up each other on their praise for her uncle. Lannister, in her opinion, remained unbeaten, as he was the only one to have brough a present for him. Those with grievances were directed to present themselves at the Red Keep. Only a few petitions were heard. Lord Baratheon wished for gold to repair a lighthouse in a region with heavy storms, arguing its benefit for the realm’s trade and its importance to King’s Landing; the Crown agreed to fund half of its repair cost. Ancient Lord Grover Tully, possibly eighty, wished to offer his grandson, Ser Elmo, for prince Aemond to squire for; the king stated his desire for the prince to squire in the Red Keep to a Kingsguard, but mentioned that he was sure Princess Rhaenyra would be open to fostering a son in Riverrun. The old trout looked towards Rhaenyra’s children, said his thanks to the king and walked away.

The petitions finally ended, after almost three hours of sitting next to her uncle receiving compliments. At least her father wasn’t there, glaring at her. What followed was a feast, hosted by the king, with foodstuffs brought from King’s Landing. The room soon divided between the kingdoms; lords preferred to sit near their own. Elaena left the high table, with all its princes and the threat of her father finally arriving now that food was being served, for the Vale table. The lords were sharing war stories. Lord Egen was animatedly describing a three-day hunt in the mountains tracking a shadowcat.

“We then came upon a group of savages,” he pointed with a thick finger, shiny with grease. “They were five and we were three, poorly armored at that. I took my sword in hand and before the wretches could act, plunged it into the belly of the closest one,” he laughed and reached for another piece of duck. “Bastard didn’t know what hit him, dead before reaching for his dirk. We fought hard and strong, they managed to cut me,” he lifted his sleeve to show a faded scar, “but the day was ours. Now,” he leaned back, finished with his meal, “we didn’t know this at the time, but the blood had attracted the shadowcat and, once night fell and we made camp, it struck. Before we could do anything, the beast went for one of my men. He was dead before he hit the ground. I made a cloak from the beast’s skin and gave it to the widow.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Lord Martyn Waynwood rose to the challenge. “Ten years ago, I remember the day, stormiest day I’ve ever seen. News was brought of a burned down farm, so me and my brothers rode in strength to hunt down the clansmen. They were long gone when we arrived and we were ready to move on, when I heard a cry. A woman’s cry. I got off my horse and began looking for her, when, in one of the buildings, I spotted a trap door. Three of them had hidden down there, with the farmer’s daughter. I jumped down, with only justice in mind,” laughs around the table, “and fought all three at once.”

“What happened to the farmer’s daughter?” asked Ser Joffrey Arryn.

“She was thankful for the rescue, of course. Gave me two strong sons, who’ll make fine knights of Ironoaks. She worked some in the kitchens, before marrying a guardsman and returning to her farm.”

“Your Grace,” Lord Dutton was the first to notice the king, who had wandered over to their table.

“Please, don’t stand,” the king took the seat offered, next to Jeyne. “I’ve come to speak with the fine men of the Vale. What are we talking about?”

“Sharing war stories, uncle,” Elaena had no stories to tell, and she suspected her uncle to be in the same boat.

“The brave deeds of the great Knights of the Vale, eh?” he was all smiles. “Who’s daring tale of bravery is next?”

“If you will allow, Your Grace,” Joffrey Arryn spoke up, and at her uncle’s nod. “A year ago, Lady Jeyne ordered a patrol be sent north of the Bloody Gate. I took command and led a dozen knights into the mountains,” he lowered his voice and leaned forward. “We came upon a group of clansmen committing horrible deeds. They had a prisoner with them, a merchant by the look of his clothes, and had tied the poor wretch to a heart tree, a pine with an ugly face carved in. We rushed forward, resolved to rescue the man or give our lives; but before we could get close, the woman with them plunged a bronze knife in the merchant’s neck an lost herself in the mountains. The men remained and fought to the last.”

“Aye,” Amos Coldwater, one of the oldest among them, spoke after a moment of collective silence. “They’ll do that. From time to time, a witch will turn up amongst the clansmen and demand sacrifices. Why, I remember a story my father told,” he looked around and leaned forwards as if speaking of a great secret. Her uncle was among the first to lean in to listen. “He was a squire then, to Ser Rymond Arryn, father of our late Lord Rodrik,” Elaena barely managed to hear the king’s whisper of ‘Aemma’s father’. “Lord Darnold and Ser Rymond were leading a party, chasing a group of wildling raiders who led them deep into the mountains. They were ambushed three times: the first ambush claimed Ser Rymond’s life, Stone Crows; the second claimed Lord Darnold; but the third?” a shake of the head. “My father, and six others, managed to escape. My father spent fifty years fighting the clansmen, and never again did he come upon whatever clan ambushed them last,” he took a long drink of wine. “They were carrying the bones of Lord Darnold when a group of wildlings, dressed in dark bark and armed with bone and bronze, set upon them. My father saw three men drag a screaming Ser Patrek Grafton into the forest, never to be seen again. Led by Ser Malcolm Corbray they rallied and fled into the night with their liege’s body, outnumbered as they were. They got lost in the forest. And, under a full moon, the screams began. My father, tasked with scouting, crept close and carefully to find where the screams came from and what he saw stayed with him for the rest of his days. A witch, dressed in animal bones, used a bronze blade to water a weirwood tree with the blood of captured knights.”

“What happened next?” Jeyne was clutching the table.

“My father ran, told Ser Malcolm what he saw, and they all ran for the entire night.”

“Aye, my father once spoke of a similar tale,” Lyonel Belmore added, his keep was close to the mountains, nestled in a valley surrounded by high peaks. “Nightfires and screams that even the other clans fear.”

“Quite ghastly,” her uncle spoke, though his face betrayed his excitement around their stories. “I know sleep will not come easy tonight, but it is good to know the men of the Vale stand guard against such monsters. But come, we must hear something happy before we leave, else our dreams will be full of bone-clad savages and sacrifices before weirwoods.”

“A marriage has been arranged,” Jeyne spoke after a pause. “Our own Joffrey had oft asked for the hand of Lady Catelyn Hunter and her father has finally agreed to a match,” Elaena tried to remember what she knew of the bride while lords congratulated Joffrey and saw Jeyne with calculating eyes. A niece to Lord Hunter, by way of his younger brother; a cousin to Jessamyn Redfort, by way of a Redfort mother. Joffrey Arryn, a distant cousin of Jeyne’s considered barely above a hedge knight, was marrying a maid of Hunter and Redfort blood. Lord Lyonel Belmore locked eyes with Elaena and gave her the slightest nod.

Chapter Text

122 AC

Today she was getting married. Last night she had met a hundred new people who had come to see her wed; and bed, she thought with a grimace. She was shaking with nerves, and cold, as her ladies moved around her in the pavilion, getting ready to dress her. She’d long given up on understanding how the seasons worked in her new home; year long “summers” that nonetheless had little springs, autumns and winters of their own, if mild. Her wedding was in the cold season; a cool chill flew in from the sea. Further north it apparently snowed. She wished they’d prepared her dress before bidding her to undress.

“Let’s go over the plan,” she told Septa Roelle, whose eyes were locked in concentration at the parchment with the seating plan. “Uncle Jorah sits with the Corbray brothers and Lord Waynwood, yes?”

“And he knows he is to goad them into drinking contests,” the belligerent Corbray brothers were what Elaena would describe as party animals. She tasked her uncle with making sure they were far too drunk to participate in the bedding ceremony; Lord Waynwood was a lecher, his drunkenness was also desired. “We’ve given Lord Lannister and his brother places of honor in the king’s table, next to your father,” who’d do a good enough job at glaring at the Westermen. “We’ve surrounded Lord Grafton with knights known to get too, ah, excited during weddings,” unknowingly, Grafton would assist her by demanding said knights match him drink for drink, thus hopefully taking them out of the ceremony. Her cousin Aegon was still half a boy, a married boy, but if he was anything like in the series? She’d told the servers to ensure he always had a full cup of wine, best to take him out in that way. Roelle kept reading off the seating plan, eyes completely focused on the piece of parchment, when Mya finally finished preparing her dress.

She was wearing a white dress. She stood in her intricate lace stockings, with a wool camisole over her undergarments, as her ladies began dressing her. She was wearing layered skirts, four separate skirts of different lengths, each one another layer between her body and the guests. And each skirt embroidered in silver thread with a distinct rune of protection: her own Royce armor. The shortest skirt, the outer one, was made entirely out of silk and was the only skirt belonging to a dress. She wore it over her camisole, an unadorned body of thin wool and a fine silk skirt.

A thick bodice, elaborately embroidered with scenes of nature, covered the wool dress. On top of everything she wore a long ankle-length vest, open in the middle, of colorful silk brocade. Pleated on top and with ruffled sleeves, it boasted dragons in flight—the only allusion of her father’s house—runes and stars, for the Templetons. It was tied over her chest, letting just a hint of the white bodice underneath show. Hopefully its extravagance would make some hesitant to pull at it. She was putting as much cloth between her body and her guests, and if, during the bedding, Willam managed to get her as fast as possible to her pavilion, she might be able to ensure her guests saw nothing of her body. A veil made from lace and her bridal cloak would finish her dress. She would be wearing her mother’s maiden cloak. It was custom to marry wearing your house colors, but Elaena felt white was the color she had to use for a wedding. Her vest, primarily in Royce colors, was her compromise.

Before her ladies could begin setting her hair, the flaps dividing the room in her pavilion opened, revealing her father. Dressed all in black, with a red dragon sewn over his heart, he wordlessly stepped into her changing room. He looked her up and down, examining every detail of her dress. He stood in front of her and traced the dragons embroidered on her vest. Elaena silently commanded her ladies to leave the room, guessing her father wished to speak to her alone.

“The dragons are of fine make,” he began, once they were on their own. “Though it’s quite lacking in our colors,” his face turned into something between a sneer and a smile.

“The finest seamstresses in Gulltown made the brocade,” she looked him in the eyes, trying to find out what he wanted. But he revealed nothing. “I embroidered the bodice, but most of it is covered,” she continued, trying to fill the silence.

“A very chaste dress,” he japed. “Are you sure you aren’t taking a septa’s vows instead?”

“You would not understand it, but I have no wish for strangers to see me unrobed.”

“It’s meant to be fun,” he sighed. “No one would take undue liberties with you, being my daughter,” he sat down.

“I intend to only accept one man’s assistance when taking off my dress, everyone else is unwelcome.”

“You’ve spent far too much time in the Vale, taking in all their prudish ways.”

“Hah,” a scornful laugh. “I see you’ve never seen Lord Upcliffe around serving girls, no matter if his wife and daughters are in the room; the Corbray brothers during feasts; Lord Lynderly’s naked songs when he drinks too much. You don’t know the Vale,” and you do not know me, she thought.

“Mayhaps,” a sigh. “But I did not come to discuss the ways of the sheepfuckers. As much as you like to dress only in your mother’s colors; you are still my child.”

He took out a small box with a dragon carved on it. Inside was an elaborate silver necklace, festoon she’d call it, with around fifty sapphires of exquisite cut. It belonged in a museum, or a locked vault, she thought. Her father stepped behind her and clicked his tongue, urging her to move her hair away so he could place it.

“It’s a family heirloom, from before the Doom,” he smiled, seeing her wear it. “Not everything we own has dragons on it, see? Our gift, from Rhaenyra and me, to you.”

“Are you certain? It seems a kingly jewel,” a queen in the place from before would wear something like that necklace, and Elaena was uncomfortable with the scale of the gift.

“Viserys cares little for gemstones and had the good sense of giving them to Rhaenyra before that shrew he calls a wife could get her hands on them,” her father shrugged. “Sapphires are fine but rarely look as good as other gemstones on the women of our family. Worry not, Rhaenyra will not miss it, she much prefers pearl and diamond,” he began to walk away. “Of course, if you wish to return it, you could always have a daughter to marry to one of my sons and include it with the dowry,” Daemon laughed when he saw the look of horror in her face and left with a smile. No child of hers would be marrying her siblings.
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It was time. She was as ready as could be. Olyvar was already inside the sept, with the High Septon and whichever guests fit inside the building. She was nervous as she watched her nieces and sisters, in their matching lilac dresses fill their little baskets with flowers.

“Are you ready?” Roelle had stayed behind. “Your father is waiting outside to escort you.”

“I am cursing myself for hosting so large a wedding, there’s too many people out there.”

“They’ve come to celebrate your marriage, to offer their blessings.”

“They’ve come to drink my wine, eat my food and knights knock each other off their horses,” she put her hand to her necklace, confirming it was still there. “They are all strangers, lords and ladies I had never even heard of.”

“You are being unkind,” Roelle chided her with a small. Elaena knew she was right, but she couldn’t help but feel that way. All those strangers had come seeking entertainment and she was part of it. She was to be paraded before them and then they were looking forward to undressing her and seeing her.

As she prepared to leave her pavilion, her flower girls lining up in front of her, she prayed to the Seven. To the Maid for protection, to the Mother for her future, to the Father for justice in her marriage, to the Warrior for bravery, to the Smith for high alcohol percentages in her drinks and to the Crone for wits; she even prayed to the Stranger, for herself, the stranger amongst the Westerosi. As sunlight was let into the pavilion, she stepped out.

Baela and Rhaena, as status dictated, walked in front of everyone. Her flower girls threw petals as she walked arm-in-arm with her father, whose face was locked in a permanent glare. Elaena didn’t know the nobles around her; she didn’t know the man of the Sleeping Lion, nor the Lady with the plowman or the lord of the checkered lion. Surrounded by strangers, escorted by a father who might as well be a stranger, she resolved to stare only ahead.

Banners had been set up along the path to the sept, Royce banners to her right, Templeton to her left. Strings with colorful pieces of cloth connected the poles. She had once gone to a fair decorated like that, in the place from before. She kept walking, she thought once or twice that she might have tripped from the nerves she was feeling but her father kept her steady on her feet. She thought she recognized a guest halfway to the sept, but nerves kept her from looking at the man’s face. Near the sept’s entrance, however, she finally saw someone she knew: her old sworn-shield, Yorwyck. The knight of the Mountain Pass was the one of the first people she met after she remembered the place from before. He was carrying his daughter, named after her.

She had actually been feeling lonely. Surrounded by so many strangers, she felt friendless. Many of her guests were unknown to her. A wedding should be for family and friends, she thought. And in a sea of people she’d never met, there was one. Someone she had befriended; someone she had made enough of an impression on that he’d named his daughter Elaena.

The sept’s doors were wide open. A hint of incense remained in the air; the mix of perfumes unable to completely do away with the smell. The guests inside the sept were known to her. Family, old and new: Targaryens, Royces, Templetons. Nobles from the Vale she had known for years now, though she would not consider herself close to many of them. Septons and septas, the leaders of the religious communities in her lands who had she had insisted be granted seats inside the sept. By the altars to the Mother and Father, Olyvar waited next to the High Septon.

Elaena walked towards him, feeling a chill on her skin. Her nerves were never about Olyvar, they were reserved for the ceremony itself. She’d chosen him. As she stood in front of him, watching his face as the High Septon led them on prayers, she looked for all the little things she’d noticed about him. The slight dimples that showed when he smiled; his long eyelashes over blue eyes, how his wandering eyes betrayed his nervousness, his hands callused by harp strings. For a short time, her guests did not exist, and she was alone with him. The knight who’d written poetry for her and braved the lists to declare her the fairest. He wore a fine black tunic full of tiny golden stars that made one think of the night’s sky. On his chest he bore the Templeton sigil. Lambskin gloves and boots, breeches and a fur hat finished his wedding dress. Maidens would have no trouble undressing him when the bedding came.

They spoke the seven vows, invoked the seven blessings and made the seven promises; these were always the same, at every wedding, and were basically a marriage contract spoken before the gods. Then the singing began. Both the hymns and the wedding song. She thought her father might make a scene during the song, when it was asked if anyone opposed the marriage, but he remained silent.

Faster than she had expected, her father was taking off her cloak and Olyvar placing his on her shoulders. He was glaring at Olyvar, who did not give him the attention he craved. To symbolize that he was marrying into her family, Olyvar’s cloak had the Templeton and Royce coats quartered. Templeton black contrasted nicely with her dress. It was a fancy cloak, lined with sable and embroidered by Olyvar’s sisters.

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” the said in unison and shared their first kiss. Only Olyvar spoke the next line, his idea: “and take you for my lady and wife.” He’d reasoned it was best for her vassals and fellow lords to hear those words and understand he did not come to power in Runestone and she remained the lady of Runestone, with all its authority.

“I now declare these two nobles, come freely before the Seven, to be man and wife,” the High Septon declared to the guests. “They are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Cursed be whoever seek to break a union made before the Gods!” After nearly three hours inside the sept, she was now a married woman.

Her guests inside the sept began cheering and offering congratulations. When Olyvar led her outside, the sound was deafening. From what she assumed where her vassals and smallfolk came shouts of “Lady Royce!” and “Runestone!”. They walked towards the feast area, the sept’s guests falling in behind them. It was a short way from the sept, and a shorter way from her pavilion. The Bronze Sept’s single bell rang to announce her marriage. Cheering smallfolk began leaving for their tents; they had set up their own small cookfires and several musicians had made the trip to play at the smallfolk feast.

They’d built a dance floor and set up long tables all around. Tall torches illuminated the area and colorful banners hung all around them. The high table stood on a small platform. The cookpits were close enough that hot meals would arrive quickly. Here, in a world where sugar was a luxury, pies were the wedding dish of choice. Large pies cut by the married couple, releasing hundreds of live birds. She was quite unsure of wanting to eat something with live animals, but the Templetons had offered to provide the pie, and she didn’t wish to refuse them. It was a massive pastry, needing two men to carry it over. She’d brought Lamentation with her to open the pie. The sword had not seen use since her grandfather had last wielded it in battle. Its first use in years would be as a glorified cutlery knife. She and Olyvar cut the pie together and, with the birds freed to fly away into the sky, she breathed a sigh of relief. It had been full of the blue mockingbirds that called the Mountains of the Moon home.

Servants began cutting up the pie and placing it in front of her noble guests. Wine and ale began flowing freely and musicians played Vale favorites. The pie was quite savory, made from lampreys from the lake near Ninenstars. Her uncle finished his own piece of pie faster than everyone else and asked for seconds. Halfway through her own, she’d forgotten her reservations at eating something where, not long ago, live birds had been. It was easy to understand why lampreys, horrid looking as they were, were sought after far and wide.

Next came her favorite: buried mutton. A local dish from the Vale, it had been a staple dish since the First Men first arrived. Cooked overnight in a buried hole in the ground, it was tender and greasy.

“It has quite a few advantages,” she began telling her uncle as he enjoyed his food. “When deep in the mountains, there is no fire and little smoke so enemies will not see you cooking. As it cooks overnight, it doesn’t require much attention and can be left alone. And, most importantly, in the depths of winter it warms the ground around the pit, making camping less dangerous.”

“Should have expected there would be sheep,” Elaena glared at her father, who was looking wistfully at the pie on Rhaena’s plate.

“You can ask the servants for more pie, if you wish. There will also be baked fish.”

“Bring me a fish,” Daemon commanded a passing servant. “Are they bringing the food from the nearest castle kitchen?”

“We’ve built clay ovens.”

Her father appeased with his fish; Elaena started playing host. She’d send plates of food to lords, alongside her greetings, and would soon start walking around. Stuffed mushrooms made their way to Lady Melcolm and her young son; she sent a bowl of clam soup, full of bits bread, to Lord Grafton, hoping it’d assist him in getting his dinner companions drunk; to Jeyne she’d sent tender meat from the sheep’s cheek.

She drank little, wishing to stay sober, but her table did not follow her example. The king was enjoying himself, he’d eaten at least two of everything and a servant with a wine pitcher was always close to him, a watchful Kingsguard a step behind. Her father had disappeared somewhere, leaving his fish half-eaten. Aegon, she was glad to see, had taken the bait and was trying to match the king drink for drink; Aemond, his poor brother, was being dragged into Aegon’s drinking games. She’d have said something about children and drink, but Viserys had laughed when he saw Aegon hand his younger brother a cup and given Aemond his permission to drink as much as he wanted. Olyvar was drinking with his nephews, laughing about anecdotes from Ninestars.

Baela was still going through her meal, but Rhaena had left the table. Looking around, Elaena found her, dancing with their father. Jacaerys waited for Baela to finish before walking up to her and inviting her to dance with him. As soon as Jacaerys left, his two brothers ran off from the high table, searching for something fun to do. Prince Aemond began nodding off, having been forced to drink too much.

“Ser Arryk,” the king turned from his conversation with the Lannister brothers. “Take my son to bed. He’s still got a way to go before he becomes a man, don’t you think Aegon?”

“Still half a brat,” the king’s eldest son began giggling into his cup. “If he’s not careful, Daeron will catch up and overtake him,” the king snorted and turned his back to his son. Elaena had intended for her father to deal with the Lannisters for her, but her uncle was the one demanding their full attention.

“How are you feeling?” Princess Rhaenys sat next to her, in the seat left empty by her father.

“I think the nerves are gone, seeing the lords make full of themselves helped,” as she spoke that, Lord Lynderly was trying to convince a musician to hand him a lyre.

“Laenor once mentioned about young Lynderly’s, ah, enjoyments,” she said with a sad smile. “He-”

“Oi!” Olyvar suddenly shouted. “Leave that for the yard!” the Corbray brothers were about to come to blows in the middle of the dance floor. “My apologies, princess,” he bowed, with a slight blush.

“Worry not,” Rhaenys’ voice was soft. “Though it would have been quite amusing to see which brother was stronger,” she winked at Elaena.

“Leowyn is the stronger one,” Elaena had seen them at several melees and jousts. “Though Corwyn has more skill in arms.”

“They don’t like each other?” Corlys sat down next to his wife.

“Willam knows them better,” Elaena looked for her cousin, standing guard by the high table. He’d not drink and enjoy himself until after the bedding. “Cousin, come tell us of the Corbray’s fighting.”

“My Lady,” he approached. “They like fighting each other, they’ve been at it since before Corwyn was granted their ancestral sword. If not the sword, they’d find something else to fight over. Skilled knights, though,” he quickly added.

“My father and uncle were quite like that,” Princess Rhaenys answered. “Though their rivalries were much friendlier.”

“Have you seen Luke and Joff?” the Sea Snake kissed his wife’s hand. “They were chasing after a blonde boy, but I lost sight of them.”

“Eldric Arryn,” the princess had met him when she visited Runestone. “They are cousins, let them have their fun.”

“Did you see the elephant?” Baela suddenly came running, barreling into Rhaenys. At just that moment the elephant was being brought before them. It stopped in front of the king and promptly made a small bow, causing a fit of laughter in King Viserys.

“A handsome creature,” the king stood. “What is his name?”

“Barro, Your Grace,” the Braavosi keyholder, Syrio Reyaan, bowed next to the elephant. “He has come to pay respects to the King of Westeros and the Lord and Lady in their wedding.”

“Such service must be rewarded,” the king stood with a gleam in his eye. “Ser Erryk, knight Barro.”

“Y-your Grace?”

“Ser Barro will return home a knight.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” the white cloak hesitantly approached the large beast and unsheathed his sword. “Uhm, Barro, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?” Syrio, struggling to contain his laughter, whispered a command at the elephant who then proceeded to sound his trumpet. “Then I dub you Ser Barro, stand a knight.”

“Where’s Daemon?” the king’s fit of laughter left him clutching his stomach. “He’ll hate missing this,” the elephant was led away from the feast, having earned the privilege of being knighted by the Kingsguard.

Elaena took that chance to leave the high table alongside Olyvar, to greet guests. She’d already spoken with most the day before, but it was good manners to thank them once again for coming. The Corbray brothers had chosen to settle their differences with a drinking contest, with her uncle Jorah and Lord Waynwood joining forces with a brother each. She egged them on, hoping they’d be too busy to join in on the bedding ceremony. Near them, Lord Belmore was carefully watching the other guests.

“Where is the boy?” he asked after their greetings.

“Hosting the princes, I believe,” both Eldric and Mya’s boys had disappeared after they finished eating. “Eldric has been sending letters to his cousins in Dragonstone.”

“I see,” a glint of interest shone on the lord’s face. “If you see him, let him know my daughter would accept a dance from him.”

“Certainly,” she smiled at the lord and moved on.

Once she finished greeting the Vale lords, the faces and names of lords from the other kingdoms blurred together. Olyvar was better at identifying heraldry, thus he began greeting the visiting lords. Having done their duty, they joined the dance. The singers played a well-liked ballad about Florian the Fool and Jonquil. Lords and ladies all began standing up to dance. She danced twice with Olyvar, once with Lord Corlys, with Adrian Redfort and again with Olyvar. With tired feet she asked Olyvar to escort her back to the high table, where they found the missing boys.

“Ah, niece,” the king’s voice was slurring. “Finished dancing? Jace was telling me how he showed the dragons to his cousin.”

“’Tis tiring, to dance so much.”

“That it is, though I don’t dance much anymore,” her uncle sighed. “And your father,” he placed a heavy hand on Daemon, who had gone back to his fish. “He never cared much for dancing. Rhaenyra loves it, however.”

Corlys then whispered something to his grandsons and invited his wife to the dance floor. Jacaerys and Lucerys took her sisters to dance. Joffrey, now alone, climbed on the king’s lap.

“Eldric,” the boy turned to face her. “Invite Lady Bethany Belmore to dance.”

“Aye,” he straightened up and looked himself over. “Grandfather told me all about it, thank you, My Lady.”

The musicians were now playing a song about King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, likely to win favor with her uncle, who at present was going through another plate of food. Her sisters danced with their cousins (Nephews? Stepsiblings? Elaena did not wish to think too much about it), and Eldric with his potential bride. Bethany Belmore, at six-and-ten, was around a head taller than Eldric, at two-and-ten, but he managed to lead in the dance without an issue. Elaena guessed Gunthor had given him dancing lessons. They’d make a good looking couple years from now, both golden-haired, Eldric with his blue eyes and Beth with her emerald green.

Her musings were interrupted when people began shouting for the bedding. The king began singing along to The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown. Ladies dragged Olyvar from his seat, laughing loudly. Heavy hands did the same to her. Someone took her vest from her, a quick look revealed it was Gerold, who was trying to keep hands away from the expensive brocade. She managed to free her hand and handed him her necklace as well.

A far too eager hand pinched her in the leg, while another tore at her skirt. Someone tried to tear her bodice from her body, but the cloth held. She was trying to stop herself from hitting someone as men laughed and dragged her towards her pavilion. Then, help finally arrived. With a scream of “You are taking too long!” her cousin Willam picked her up and carried her over his shoulder like a sack. The men with them laughed at that and kept trying to take off her dress. They’d managed to tear through two of her skirts before Willam reached the marriage bed. He put her down inside the pavilion and began herding out the rest of the lords and knights. Several grumbled, but she was left alone. Outside, they began laughing. The women pushed Olyvar inside, nearly naked.

She turned away from the entrance, trying to control her breathing. Olyvar put a hand on her back and led her further inside. She had her servants set up a tent within the pavilion. The marriage bed was inside the smaller tent, shielded by thick wool drapes. It was custom for guests to stay outside, shouting suggestions and laughing at the newlyweds but the thick cloth walls stopped sound from carrying. She stopped hearing their laughs and began calming done. Safe in the knowledge that those outside wouldn’t hear them, she turned to face Olyvar. With gentle hands, he helped her undress.

Chapter Text

122 AC

Elaena was tired of the teasing looks. Every married woman was looking at her with the knowledge of what had happened. At least most men had gone away to hunt, and those remaining were not invited to break their fast with the ladies. She’d completely forgotten about one of the worst local customs, having never been nosy enough to go looking: the public showing of the bloodied sheets. Before she could think to say otherwise, maidservants had hung the wedding sheets for all to see. Her maiden’s blood , as the locals charmingly said, had been exposed outside her tent.

Under the light of day, decorum had been remembered. She was free of bawdy jokes and comments about her wedding night; but she wasn’t free from the smiles. Every married woman gave her a knowing smile. Hoping to put a buffer between her and her guests, she sat between her sisters and nieces. A shield made from children, too young to listen to whatever the noble ladies were thinking. Most ladies were too educated to speak of adult subjects next to children. Princess Rhaenys and her new good-sisters shared her table, as well. Jeyne had not emerged from her tent, apparently having fallen victim to sweetwine.

“Your children will take on the Royce name, then?” Alysanne Melcolm asked, after a hushed conversation with her sisters.

“Aye,” Elaena reached over for sour cream to put on some fresh bread. “From the very moment courting began, that was the agreement.”

“Laenor did say you were ever so serious,” Princess Rhaenys smiled as she wiped Baela’s jam-stained fingers, oblivious to the way Baela was looking at yet another vat full of sweet jam. “A sensible marriage is all well and good, but do not close your heart to love in pursuit of duty.”

“The Princess speaks true,” Septa Myranda cut in. “Not many can say they found love in duty. Love is a blessing from the Seven,” she was quick to add, remembering her vows.

“You married grandfather for love, right?” Rhaena leaned on her grandmother. “Bards say you chose grandfather and arrived at your wedding on dragonback.”

“That is so,” a gentle tap on the nose. “He was the finest adventurer the world had ever seen, and the kindest. Who better to stand by my side?” her last comment had the eldest in their table shift awkwardly. House Templeton had voted for Viserys in the Great Council, and every house they married into had also voted for Viserys. So had hers.

“’Tis quite rare to marry as freely as the princess has,” Janna Sunderland sighed, her distaste for the Three Sister clear.

“I’m marrying Jace,” declared Baela. “Father said I will be queen. Me and Moondancer!”

“That is so, sweetling,” Rhaenys kissed her head. “Won’t you take Rhaena to listen to the singers? Let us old married women speak,” an excited nod and the twins ran off to get near the singers. Her nieces weren’t far behind. One of the singers in her employ, likely to honor Princess Rhaenys and her little sisters, began playing a ballad about the travels of the Sea Snake.

“Marriage is one thing,” continued her good-sister Janna, looking towards a maidservant carrying a toddler. “But children are another thing. I hope he takes his time to grow and won’t rush to join the lists like all the men in our family seem to.”

“That’s one thing you’ll have to look forward,” Septa Myranda turned to face her. “Templeton blood is knightly and, were it not for father refusing to knight them until they shed blood, Olyvar and Donnel’s boys,” Olyvar’s nephews, “would have tried to join the lists at four-and-ten. I know my Arnold did,” she sighed wistfully. “Eldric is tall and Gunthor claims he takes his training seriously, he’s likely to do the same.”

“Remember uncle Roland?” Lysa Dutton, the youngest among Olyvar’s half-sisters, leaned in with a grin. “He was father’s second cousin,” she explained for her and Rhaenys’ sake, “he had the grand idea of disguising himself as a mystery knight when he was three-and-ten,” the older sisters began giggling and smiling at each other. “So, he rides into the lists. He was tall but very skinny, and who does he have to face on his first tilt?” she turns towards Rhaenys. “Prince Aemon!” understanding seems to come to the Lady of Driftmark. “Poor Roland was so nervous he dropped his lance twice.”

“Was he the poor boy who fell from his horse as soon as the beast began moving?” the Templeton sisters all lost themselves to laughter, the princess soon joined them.

“Roland the Jouster, everyone began calling him,” Alysanne Melcolm said, wiping a tear as she tried to control her laughter. “He never jousted again but would boast of being,” she sat up straight and mimicked a man’s voice, “retired by a great knight like Prince Aemon.”

“But his son did quite good for himself,” Sara Egen, Olyvar’s only full-blooded sister, shared. “Roland the younger placed in many small tourneys, before meeting the wrong side of a clansman’s sword,” that put an end to the laughter.

“Well,” Septa Myranda continued. “You’ll have to hold on to your sons with a tight leash else they attempt to join a tourney at far too young an age,” a disappointed shake of her head. “And Seven willing none of your daughters will try it, like Aunt Myranda,” the sisters once again began laughing.

“Father’s younger sister, she fancied herself a lady knight,” Alysanne was the only one to share in Myranda’s disapproval in a sea of laughter. “Grandfather even allowed her to train with the squires. Father put a stop to it when he became Knight of Ninestars.”

“Pah,” Janna shook her head. “Father was just jealous Aunt Randa was a better rider than him. She stopped training after being married but oversaw the training of her sons and turned them all into champions, you know?”

“You only say that because you followed her around like a little duckling,” Septa Myranda teased. “Why, I remember you asked her to take you on as her little squire.”

“They don’t need to hear that!” Janna exclaimed, her ears bright red.

“Who were her sons, might be I’ve seen them at a tourney,” Rhaenys asked.

“The Good Queen herself arranged the match,” Alysanne boasted. “She married a Stormlander, a Selmy.”

“Is Lord Davos her son?”

“Aye, cousins Davos and Daven.”

“He’s a fine lance,” the princess smiled, remembering an old memory. “When I next visit the Stormlands, I must make sure to pay a visit to Harvest Hall.”

“A final piece of advice, sister,” Janna leaned in when her eldest sister was busy speaking Princess Rhaenys. “Olyvar is a second son, raised far from succession, eager to please and pushed around by older sisters for most of his life. Use that. When we marry a stranger, we must find our place in his hall and make a new life for ourselves. As we discover who our husband is, we learn how to handle him, as it were,” she looked around, making sure her sisters weren’t listening. “Some let their husbands walk all over them, others become the true rulers of their keep and,” a sad look at her sister, Alysanne, “just a rare few manage to become true partners,” Alysanne had the better marriage out of all her sisters but had become a widow after just twelve years of marriage. “Olyvar must now to find his place in your hall. I love the boy, but ‘tis your keep. Make sure he understands he is but your consort, and ‘tis your home he is marrying into, not the other way around,” Elaena was unable to interpret the look in her face, a mix of envy, longing, pride and sadness. “Please write to me, let me know how married life treats you and how you make a place for Olyvar in Runestone,” she squeezed her hand. “Sisterton is ever so lonely, I will look forward to any ravens you send.”

“I will, of course,” Janna was quickly becoming her favorite of Olyvar’s sisters. “Sisterton is a well-connected port, I am certain there will be many opportunities to host you in Runestone.”

After finishing her breakfast and hoping her guests had gotten their japes and teasing looks out with each other, Elaena began walking among the tables. She greeted, thanked and withstood the knowing smiles of ladies from all over the Seven Kingdoms, bar Dorne. Halfway through her tour, Rhaena joined, holding her hand. Borros Baratheon’s wife was surprisingly amiable and was even writing down the words to the ballad the singer was going through. She could take a guess to who did the heavy lifting in Storm’s End. Lady Tyrell questioned her for what felt like half an hour about cloth, dyes and dressmaking in Gulltown; Elaena foresaw a large order being placed in Gulltown for the Lady of Highgarden. Jeyne had finally emerged from the Arryn pavilion and was just getting started with her own breakfast.

“’Twas a lovely wedding,” Jeyne spoke between bites, Elaena didn’t see Jessamyn. “Passing through Gulltown and looking at all the cloth, I had an idea for our little problem,” Elaena sat down next to her, dreading what she’d say; her own preparations were still not ready. “But that can all wait, don’t you think? Say, six moons from now?”

“Half a year?”

“Aye,” she winked, “have to give you time to enjoy marriage. Jess has some ideas, but, just between us… she’s not to hear of this!” she had the same serious look in her face as when she used to sneak sweets for the younger girls. “She can be a tad overeager, and we can find an amiable solution to the little Gulltown problem without having to-“ as if summoned, Jessamyn Redfort left another table began walking towards them.

“Elaena, my best wishes on your marriage,” a sudden glint passed through her eyes. “Enjoying the benefits of married life yet?” She sat next to Jeyne, who was suddenly terribly interested in her porridge.

“Spare me the questions,” Elaena sighed dramatically. “I’ve heard them all and care little for them,” she still had important ladies to speak to, extricating herself from their company.

Having done her rounds, Elaena ordered the servants to bring in her own gift for her guests. She stood in front of the high table and raised her hands, asking for a moment. Servants brought in two boxes full of cloth and Mya and her ladies began shifting through them.

“My Ladies, I would like to show my gratitude for the kindness you’ve done me by joining me for this joyous occasion. I’ve prepared gifts,” she nodded towards Mya, who began directing the servants. They’d made handkerchiefs for every single lady, and, at Elaena’s insistence, they were the colors of their maiden houses—it had taken quite some work with some of her guests. Seamstresses had been working without stop, and with double pay, to make them as guests rolled in. They didn’t show complex sigils, having simplified them for the sake of time; but they were colorful and made with soft cloth, gentle to the touch. “I hope, when you use these many years from now, you think back to a summer wedding.”

Elaena handed the handkerchiefs to the ladies at her table. Her good sisters received their black and yellow handkerchiefs. “I embroidered the stars myself,” she smiled seeing their appreciation. They were made from a deep black dye, from Braavos, that had only been used for theirs and the Targaryen handkerchiefs, for her sisters and Princess Rhaenys. “I have one just like it,” she showed her sisters her own handkerchief in Targaryen colors, “so no matter how far away we are, these will bring us closer to each other.”

“And to grandmother!” squealed an excited Baela, prompting the Queen-who-never-was to hug the twins and beckon for Elaena to join them.

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Robert Waxley loved hunting. The forests near Wickenden teemed with game, and the danger that clansmen posed merely increased his passion for the sport. But hunting with a king, no matter how prestigious and honorable, was a dull affair. King Viserys was joined by far too many attendants, turning what should have been a battle between man and elk into a simple ride through the forest. The hunters would likely corral the beast, tie it and then they’d all clap after the king claimed first blood.

So bored was he that when Lyonel Belmore asked him for words in private, he did not hesitate to leave the hunt. They rode through the woods until the barks of dogs and the king’s laughter had faded away. Several men had joined them. Ser Luceon Templeton, young heir to Ninestars, likely here at his grandsire’s command; Martyn Waynwood, with one of his brothers; Lords Hersy and Moore; even drunk Lucas Grafton, with his son and heir. They all waited for anyone to begin.

“You’ve all seen the princes,” Belmore broke the silence. “I had heard of the rumors but judged them to be just that… rumors. But the proof lies there for all to see, the princess would seat a bastard on the throne.”

“Princess Rhaenys is black of hair as well,” Waynwood countered, but the tone in his voice betrayed his lack of conviction in his words.

“His Grace breaks tradition,” the young Templeton knight spoke. “He would seat a woman in the throne when he has sons of his own, and she would spit on the Gods and have children born of sin follow her,” Robert had known old man Templeton long enough to know these were his words.

“There is nothing we can do,” Ser Marq, heir to Gulltown. “The King’s word is absolute.”

“And we’ve all given our oaths,” spat Lord Hersy. “When it was between Daemon Targaryen and the little princess, the choice was clear. But there are sons now, and the princess married Lord Flea Bottom.”

“Oathbreakers are cursed by both Gods and men.”

“And even if we called our banners,” Moore’s words of rebellion surprised the others. “Our Dear Maid would support the princess,” the lord had long resented having to give his oath of fealty to a girl of ten when he’d come into his seat. “With Redfort behind the Eyre, and possibly Hunter now, those would raise in defense of the Maid and put down any revolt.”

“What of Prince Aegon?” Lucas Grafton swayed on his saddle. “Will he not press his claim? He is a dragonrider, the Conqueror’s namesake… Will he not rally the lords behind him?”

“If it is between Prince Aegon or the Velaryon princes,” Robert spoke. “I know where I stand,” his eyes went to all of them, one by one. “But I’ve given my oath to the princess, and I’m no oathbreaker.”

Before they could continue their conversation, a sharp scream cut through the forest. They rode back, hard and quickly, to discover the commotion. In a small clearing, the giant elk lay dead, its antler having gone through a horse’s neck. The king’s horse. A maester was hovering around the king, but Robert saw no injuries on His Grace.

“The horse panicked,” the king explained, seeing an audience had gathered. “It reared up and I fell, but in doing so, the noble beast saved me. The elk charged it and took it in the neck, right where I would have been,” he shook his head with amazement. “Are you all right, my boy?” Prince Aegon stood next to a tree, hands shaking and bloodied.

With a quick look around, Robert could guess what had happened. Broken ropes meant the giant elk had gotten free of its restraints and charged the king. The three bloodied spears in the ground belonged to two of the hunters and one of the Kingsguard. Once the animal was dying, Prince Aegon had been granted the honor of the kill. And, judging by the shaking, ‘twas his first.

“A fine strike, my Prince!” a knight began clapping; ‘twas likely a Reachman, Robert guessed. “Quite like his namesake, wouldn’t you say, Lord Jason?”

“Quite so, an Aegon to match his forebears,” the Lord Lannister grabbed his squire. “Go clean the prince’s hands, Tom.”

“Yes, yes, I’m all right,” the king complained as the fussing continued. “Just a bruise… now, what say you we find something else for Jace to get the honor?” he looked around the crowd. “Aegon? Where is your brother?”

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Aemond cursed Aegon once again. They’d left for the hunt, and he had not woken him up. This whole wedding was just proving Aegon was the worst brother. He had thought that mayhaps if he answered the challenge during the wedding song, he might have convinced his father that he was a better match for his cousin; but Aegon began pinching him in the back. He had to bite his lips to stop himself from crying out. Then, he thought during the feast he might challenge the Templeton knight for his cousin; but Aegon forced him to drink so much that he missed the entire feast. And now? Now he left him alone in their pavilion.

With a throbbing head, he wandered the wedding grounds, followed by Ser Beryl, one of his mother’s sworn swords. The ladies were breaking their fast while the men hunted, and his cousin would be there. But he was a man, a prince of the realm, not some boy to eat in the company of women while others hunted. He was hungry, however. Before noticing, he had stepped into the camping ground for commoners. It wasn’t as horrid as he’d had thought; it did not smell anything like King’s Landing, or even Duskendale; and the tents were much nicer than what he’d expected from smallfolk. The prince was simply unaware the spot he’d wandered into had been claimed by merchants.

“My Prince!” a portly man knelt when he saw him. “An honor, My Prince, an honor!”

Soon enough, half a dozen people were kneeling and greeting him. Ser Beryl’s hand on his sword, and Aemond acutely aware of the stares on his eyepatch. “Well met,” was all he thought to say.

“Do you need a sword, My Prince?” a spindly man asked. “I sell the finest steel in Gulltown.”

“A new cloak, My Prince?” now the first man. “My workshops work with the Lady Royce herself, the warmest and most comfortable wool for when winter comes!”

“A jewel for a lady?” the only woman among them stepped forward. “Fine silverwork from Gulltown, fine silver from Lord Redfort’s mines.”

“I,” his voice broke. Red-faced, he continued, “I’m hungry. I’ll allow you to share your table and speak your offers,” the merchants led him to a simple, if sturdy, table.

Their food was much better than he’d expected from the lowborn. Roast meats, a greasy soup that did wonders for his head and soft bread. The various merchants had their servants run off to get their best wares. He’d seen merchants court his mother before and been bored out of his mind as they paraded cloth, silk and jewels before her; but this was not so bad. It might have been because of how many swords they showed him. Instead of cloth, he was shown capes, cloaks and vests. They had all been given allowances and Ser Beryl carried his. His own sword was of finer make, though he hadn’t been allowed to wield it still, but he bought a skinning knife, for hunting, and a glove for hawking, with green vines embroidered all over. Daeron was annoying at the best of times, but he looked up to Aemond so he bought him a pair of lambskin gloves. Nothing for Aegon though. For his father he bought a pair of chalices, silver, decorated with the waves of the sea and gulls flying over them. And quill from a swan’s feather for his grandsire.

He wished to buy matching necklaces for his mother and Helaena but was hopeless when picking out jewels. With the merchant woman and Ser Beryl’s help he’d narrowed it down to two seven-sided-stars in silver, with crystals incrusted in every point and a jewel in the middle. But there were so many different jewels that he’d never know which to pick.

“How do you choose the jewel?”

“One that matches the lady is best, My Prince.”

“And how do you know what matches a lady?”

“The eyes, the hair, the colors that they like,” Ser Beryl was betrothed to a lady from a minor house of Oldtown and oft sent her gifts from the King’s Landing jewelers.

“Pick one,” he commanded the merchant. “That would match a lady of my coloring. As for my mother…”

“The Queen!” the merchant was quick to grab a necklace. “There can be nothing else but diamonds, My Prince. Brought by the Sea Snake’s fleets from faraway ports in Essos, all the way to Gulltown.”

“I’ll take it,” returning to his tent, Ser Beryl looked less like a sworn sword and more like a mule, packed as he was with gifts. Servants were quick to take them from him when they approached his pavilion. His father and brothers were back already.

“Ah, you missed the hunt Aemond,” his father chided with a smile. “But I see you’ve kept yourself busy, visit the merchant’s stalls?”

“They brought their wares to me.”

“I see, well… what did you get?”

Aemond showed off his new hunting knife and hawking glove, preferring to give out his gifts once they’d returned home. Daeron then began excitedly speaking about the hunt and getting to give the final strike to a deer. Soon enough, came the time for the afternoon meal and the gift giving. Their mother had sent them with her own gift for their cousin, and a short speech that Aegon would give.

When they sat, at the high table, most of the guests had already arrived. They sat in front of their nephews, likely father’s doing, who still believed they could be made friends. His cousin was as beautiful as ever, even when wearing the drab Royce colors. At her side sat Templeton, laughing with his father.

“They made friends during the hunt,” Aegon whispered in his ear. “So stop being stupid and just smile.”

Their father was the first to present his gift, a magnificent chariot carved with dragons, stars and runes. “For your many travels around the Vale, dear niece,” he shouted for all to hear. With an elbow to the ribs, Aegon got Daeron off his seat, and they stepped forward, in the middle of everyone to present their mother’s gift. A servant was carrying it to the feast, but Aemond would be the one to hand it over.

“Lady Elaena, cousin,” began Aegon. “From our mother we bring you the illustrated works of Septon Myles,” born four hundred years ago, if Aemond remembered his lessons. “ The pious ways of the Mother, the Maiden and the Crone, ” it was a ponderous tome detailing how noble women should behave, be raised and raise their children. Aegon began reading off a parchment, “When Septon Myles wrote this, he was unaware that the noble woman he wrote of, the perfect lady, would be born after his time and raised without his help. You have show to the realm how a lady should behave herself and will now show to the realm how a wife should behave herself,” Aemond couldn’t help but smirk at his nephews. “With diligence, piety, propriety, chastity and duty, you’ve shown the realm an example of what a lady should strive to be,” Aemond would have loved for his elder sister to be there, just so he could see her face.

He handed the book to his cousin, whose calm smile almost managed to hide tired eyes. Weddings must truly be tiresome, Aemond reasoned. Lady Arryn was next, but just as she was standing from her seat, Daemon stood and dragged Rhaenyra’s bastards with him.

“How kind and generous of our queen to gift a book to my daughter,” the Velaryon boys looked uncertainly around them and Aemond snickered. “My, and Crown Princess Rhaenyra’s gift was given before the wedding, so that my daughter could make use of it. We have given her a piece of House Targaryen’s history. I am sure you’ve all seen the necklace on her neck,” Aemon, and every guest, turned to look at it, silver and full of jewels. “Rhaenyra thought it best to show her the generosity of our House with one of the ancestral heirlooms of House Targaryen, a necklace made in the workshops of Old Valyria,” gasps and interested whispers followed as a smug Daemon led the Strong boys back to their seats.

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“How was the hunt?” Elaena asked once she was alone with Olyvar. The gift giving had extended quite a bit, and the feast had threatened to extend all the way to dawn. Even now there were still lords and knights drinking, ready to welcome the sun.

“It went well,” Olyvar was exhausted, his head already nodding. “There was a close call when the elk charged His Grace, but nothing serious happened.”

“Good,” Elaena began going through Queen Alicent’s gift. She’d heard the barbs directed at Rhaenyra, obvious and tiresome and thanked the Seven they didn’t place her close to the throne and directly in the line of fire. She was not particularly interested in the contents, a ponderous tome on the proper education of ladies, written by a celibate septon, but it was beautifully illustrated; whoever Septon Myles commissioned for it had made vivid and colorful miniatures of the dresses of their time. “Did you yourself hunt something?”

“The King and princes did all the hunting,” Olyvar, who had woken up before the crack of dawn to prepare the hunt, had already closed his eyes. “We all chased and threw spears, but ‘twas the King who chose who’d give the last strike.”

“Tomorrow they’ll cook the elk, I’ll make sure you get the choiciest cut,” something to reward his efforts. Olyvar smiled, eyes closed and soon fell asleep.

Elaena covered him with a blanket and stood to look at her gifts. It had been such a flurry that she hadn’t had the chance to properly look them over. Her uncle’s carriage, for example, hid many more things beneath the elaborate carvings: thick velvet drapes to keep it warm in winter, cushioned seats with hidden compartments underneath them and a woven carpet on the inside. Jeyne had given them matching saddles; Lord Lannister a set of elegant silverware; Lord Baratheon had given Olyvar a bow from the Marches and, for her, another bow that she could give to her first son—she tried to pull it after asking Olyvar to string it and found it impossible—; Lord Tully had brought a pair of hunting dogs; Lord Tyrell an elaborate saddle meant for tourneys.

Many gifts were meant for knights, either for Olyvar or a future son. Most of the gifts meant for her were jewelry. The Braavosi gave her a chest full of silks, the Prince of Dorne had sent a box of Dornish spices, Lord Manderly a set of warm furs for the coming winter and a hunting horn made from the tusk of a walrus, sent by the Starks of Winterfell. Corlys and Rhaenys brought a small model ship to represent the one being built in the shipyards of Hull at that very moment; she’d been asked there and then to name it and chose Lady Rhea. Baela later revealed that Corlys had wanted to gift her with jewels from the east but Rhaenys insisted on a ship.

The gift she appreciated the most, however, came from the merchants of Gulltown. They’d brought a tapestry made in Gulltown and of exquisite quality. She’d be willing to put it next to a Norvosi tapestry and consider it its equal. It showed a noble lady on a brown horse, probably meant to be her as the dress worn looked like the one she’d worn to the Feast of Arrival, holding a little lamb and looking out into a field where smallfolk worked and sheep frolicked; in the back, Runestone stood. Somewhere near the castle a knight in black and yellow led a hunting party into a forest. Flowers, trees and different shades of green gave the nature scene remarkable realism. The picture was framed in golden thread and embroidered vines, with small Royce and Templeton sigils in the corners.

She traced the embroidery with her fingers, hopeful in the knowledge that the skill was finally there in Gulltown. Soon their work would compete with Norvos and Myr and spread through the Seven Kingdoms. She laid down next to Olyvar, still a tad unsure about married life, and closed her eyes, ready to host a tourney tomorrow.
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Chapter Text

122 AC

Today Elaena was spending the entire day with her sisters. Their father had chosen to take part in quite a few contests, and she’d volunteered to look after them. They’d begged Daemon for permission so he’d allow them to watch the melee, where he would be fighting, and, after what Elaena could only name puppy dog eyes, he allowed them to watch. Which then prompted Rhaenyra’s sons to ask for permission, so all but Joffrey, the youngest, were allowed to watch the most violent of contests. And, though escorted by knights, she was tasked by both her father and uncle to look after the princes. Olyvar wasn’t taking part in the melee and would be escorting her, seating next to her in the stands.

Thus, breakfast found her surrounded by children. Her sisters were giggling with Mya’s girls about the knights who’d fight that afternoon, shooting glances at Ser Adrian Tarbeck (Mya had revealed to her that the girls were teasing Barba, the eldest, who found the knight handsome). Jacaerys was trying to lift the spirits of a sulking Joffrey, making faces and playing with his food, whilst Lucerys listened to the squire’s boasts of Eldric and Mya’s boys. When Viserys heard that she’d been asked to look after his grandchildren, he’d sent off his sons, the princes, to her as well. He wished for them to spend time together as family. Aegon, Aemond and Daeron sat to the side, quietly eating.

“You squire for your uncle Willam?” Lucerys asked Allard, the elder brother and the one closest to knighthood, at four-and-ten.

“Aye,” he mimicked a sword with a chicken bone. “I joined him on the battle against the clansmen and will soon earn my spurs when next they try and raid our lands,” Elaena had been looking for matches for her nieces, but she’d completely ignored her nephews. Allard would be set to inherit a keep one day, so she thought that mayhaps she should arrange a match for him, but when she approached Mya with the question, she’d told her she’d look for one herself.

“I wish I was a squire already,” grumbled the second prince after a boast about crossing swords with a clansman. “Who do you think mother will have me squire for?”

“One of the Kingsguard, probably,” Jacaerys had given up on cheering Joffrey up and was now focusing on his porridge. “Or Daemon, mayhaps… Ser Alfred Broome and Ser Robert Quince are the best swords in the garrison.”

“I don’t like Ser Robert; he shouts at his pages.”

“He wouldn’t shout at a prince,” Eldric argued. “You should squire away from Dragonstone, and the Red Keep, in the Vale, mayhaps, or another of the kingdoms.”

“Explain your thinking, Eldric,” Jacaerys looked at the young Arryn as if he was speaking another language. Elaena had been testing Eldric like that for the past few moons, asking him to further explain the reasoning behind his statements and opinions.

“Well,” he put his hand under his chin, thinking, “the bonds you make as a squire stay with you for life, and when you foster away you deepen the relationship with your foster house. So,” he held out his fingers to count, “you gain lifelong friends, become allies with lords and vassals, travel the realm to discover new things and learn all sorts of lessons. And there are good knights everywhere, not just under white cloaks and dragon banners.”

“Who do you squire for?” Joffrey asked, forgetting he was sulking.

“Ser Simon Storm, formerly of Griffin’s Roost,” Eldric held out his chest, his friendship with the Stormlander had come naturally to both. “He is one of the best swordsmen in the Vale, he knows how to command knights into battle, and he leads Lady Elaena’s guard.”

“I have to ask mother to send me away, then?” Lucerys asked, eyes wide.

“Wards are usually sent by age eight,” Elaena herself was six when she was sent to the Eyrie. “But I don’t know about princes.”

“I have an idea,” Eldric’s eyes were shining. Elaena had learnt to identify whenever the young Arryn had a plan. That was the look he gave Allard and Robar whenever he’d come up with a scheme. “I’ll be a knight soon enough, and when I’m one you can squire for me in the Vale, where your kin live.”

“I’d have to ask mother.”

“No fair!” Joffrey stood up. “You’ll go to Driftmark with grandfather, and I’ll come to the Vale and fight the clansmen!”

“Joff-” Jacaerys began, but the youngest prince ran off, a knight hot on his tail. “Come Luke, we have to find him.”

Joffrey had not managed to get far when Daemon wandered in, looking to break his fast. It took only one look for Joffrey to stop cold on his feet and meekly return to the table. Daemon was in a terrible mood. He had joined the horse race (that is, one of his horses had joined the race, ridden by a knight in Dragonstone’s service) and he’d lost to the Prince of Dorne’s bastard brother. The small but hardy sand steed had shown off why the breed was so sought after outside of Dorne. Daemon had lost a small fortune betting on his own horse, a gift from the Prince of Pentos, and had been on the warpath all morning. The king even had to talk him down from flying on Caraxes to Dorne and avenging Queen Rhaenys.

“What is it then?” he brusquely asked Joffrey once he’d sat down at their table.

“I want to watch the melee,” the youngest Velaryon prince mumbled, looking at his feet.

“I already said no.”

“Then,” he looked as if he was about to cry, when a sudden burst of courage possessed the boy. “I want to squire in the Vale, fight clansmen and earn my spurs!”

“A prince has no need of a knighthood,” Daemon looked towards Aegon, who seemed to shrink under his gaze. “But if he is to get one, better one earned and not gifted,” he locked eyes with Joffrey. “I’ll talk to your mother; it’s up to her.”

A cheer went up from the prince, who then was quick to get a promise out of Eldric to make him his squire. None but Daemon Targaryen noticed that Eldric, Arnold Arryn’s son, smirked in Jeyne Arryn’s direction. The rogue prince himself merely shrugged. As for Elaena, she was thanking the Seven that her father had decided to participate in every event, she would likely have gotten a migraine if she’d have to spend the entire day listening to blacks and greens trading insults. She was certain the children would behave, at least in front of her.

“Will you be all right?” she asked her father. “Melee today, jousting the day after tomorrow,” Daemon, as an experienced jouster and champion did not need to ride the next day, where younger sons and hedge knights would try to claim a place in the main event.

“Fighting games with green boys do not tire men who’ve been to war,” he once more turned towards prince Aegon. “Will I meet the famous champion of the squire’s tourney of King’s Landing, Prince Aegon the Golden?” a smirk, beneath angry eyes.

“F-father has not given me permission.”

“Ah, I oft forget how young Aegon the elder is,” a dramatic shake of the head, followed by a giggle. “Do let me know when His Grace allows you to test your steel against men. We don’t want you to get comfortable under your mother’s skirts, do we, boy?”

Aegon turned almost as red as a pomegranate, but, beside him, Aemond was bone-white and shaking with anger and Daeron was clutching his cutlery with as much strength as he could muster.

“Father,” Elaena had to try and do something. She’d seen the show and knew what sort of people the princes would grow up to, but they were just children now—children being mocked by a grown man. “Mayhaps you should save your energy for the melee; we would not want an opponent catching you unawares. ‘Tis bound to be a difficult contest, the greatest knights in the Vale have come to fight.”

“Sheep knights.”

“Armed with Valyrian steel, nonetheless,” she’d seen the new Lord Lynderly give his uncle, old Ser Mandon Lynderly, their ancestral family sword. Jeyne’s knight of the Gates of the Moon was old, but his skill was still second to none. Willam had begged to borrow Lamentation, and she’d agreed to lend it for the melee. Ser Corwyn Corbray was armed with Valyrian steel as well. And those were only the swords she’d herself seen, there would be some twenty fighters wielding Valyrian swords of their own. She’d tried to prohibit their use in the melee, for safety, but Olyvar, Gunthor, Willam, Gerold and every other knight around her asked her not to. Gunthor had even went so far as to say: “women would never understand a knight’s way, so, My Lady, please try not to meddle.”

“Have it your way,” Daemon said with a sigh as he turned away from the princes and went back to his food. She swore he seemed less angry, however.

“I wish I was a knight already,” Allard, her eldest nephew at four-and-ten, said. “I want to fight against Valyrian steel.” Her father’s knowing nod clued her in on the source of his change of mood.

“Mother would kill you first,” answered back the younger Robar as the tables near the center were cleared. She’d had an idea, when planning, about the singing contest. Instead of listening to all of them at once, every singer would be in charge of the music during one mealtime. The latest of Olyvar’s apprentices, the man bound for the Red Keep and the Queen’s service, and with knowledge of a secret code he would use to send messages to Runestone, had the responsibility of that night’s feast. This breakfast belonged to one Arcaus of Lorath, who had a powerful and high voice, she’d call him a countertenor, with which he sang his foreign music. He was Elaena’s favorite so far, Lorathi music was unlike anything she’d heard before, slow and sweet and accompanied by brass flutes, but judging by the faces on most of her guests, Westerosi weren’t ready for Lorathi music.

Her father even left midway through the performance, mumbling something about oiling Dark Sister. Rhaenyra’s sons ran behind him, leaving her alone with her sisters and princely cousins. Rhaena was listening with closed eyes, though Baela had the same bored look as the rest of the audience. The Lorathi singer eventually finished bowing deeply before shuffling off alongside his troupe of musicians. There were three prizes for singers, one given by her, one by Olyvar and one won by earning the loudest cheers; Elaena was almost certain she would be choosing Arcaus of Lorath as her winner.

“Can we go to the stands?” Baela stood up mid-question, ready to bolt. “I want to sit at the front!”

“Let us be off then,” Olyvar stood and offered her his hand with a smile. “My Lady?”
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Jace dodged a squire carrying a large shield on his way to the stands. He looked back at his brother, who was struggling to keep up with him. They’d spent too much time listening to Joffrey complain to Daemon and were already late for the melee. Most knights had already taken the field, and they could already hear the cheers.

“Where, is,” Luke was panting, “Aunt, Elaena’s, stand?”

“There,” Jace pointed to a wooden staircase, flanked by banners bearing the bronze runes of house Royce, quartered with the three-headed dragon of their mother’s house and the sigil of house Templeton next to it. “You can see Ser Willis standing guard, come on!” he grabbed his brother’s hand and pulled harder, already hearing the clash of steel.

They made their way up the stands, seeing their grandsire sitting next to Lady Elaena and Ser Olyvar. Their betrothed, Baela and Rhaena, sat in front of them, and they’d left seats empty for them. Jace smiled at Baela as he sat between her and Daeron. His uncle was watching the first fights—hedge knights testing each other to earn a spot in one of the teams forming between highborn knights—but Jace did not miss the look of distaste that both him and Aemond shot them when they sat down. Their eldest uncle ignored them, far too focused on a serving girl carrying wine.

“You’ve come just in time, son,” the king leaned over with a smile. “Daemon has found himself a group of knights to lead, see?” Their stepfather was surrounded by men bearing the sigils of their mother’s court: Sunglass and Celtigar, Bar Emmon and Massey and the seahorse of House Velaryon standing proud among them. He knew his Cousin Daeron Velaryon’s aquamarine-tinted armor so the ones standing next to him must have been their uncles Malentine and Rhogar. He and Luke had only met them once.

“Three knights of the Kingsguard stand with father!” Baela boasted. Jace had been far too busy looking at the sigils around Daemon to take notice of the white cloaks, but he knew them all: Ser Steffon Darklyn and the Cargyll twins. Three more knights from the Crownlands. “Are the knights of House Royce fighting alongside father?” Baela turned to ask Aunt Elaena.

“I’m afraid not,” Jace swore he could see a slight smile on his aunt’s face as she gazed at a large group of knights, opposite Daemon’s group. “Ser Mandon Lynderly has taken command of the Knights of the Vale. They are all keen on the champion being a Valeman.”

“I don’t know my knights as well as I should,” the King mused, looking at the formidable block of Valemen. “There are many young men in the field, aren’t there?”

“Aye. There’s the Corbray brothers,” she pointed towards the two knights next to Ser Lynderly. “They are second in command to Ser Mandon and quite the formidable fighters. You’ve met my cousin Willam, that’s him in the bronze armor,” Jace had heard stories about the bronze armors of house Royce, inscribed with runes of protection; the large knight, testing his Valyrian sword, looked quite intimidating. “In the Arryn colors is Ser Joffrey Arryn, he leads Lady Jeyne’s guard, the two men in Redfort colors behind him are Lord Byron and his brother Ser Adrian. There are four Waynwoods there, all brothers, though I know not which is which. The man in Templeton colors is Ser Luceon, Olyvar’s nephew; beside him are Lords Moore and Hersy.”

“Who’s the best swordsman?” Aemond asked, though his eye was still fixed on two knights fighting each other.

“Only one I’ve seen fight seriously is Ser Mandon,” she turned towards her husband. “You know them better, who is the better sword?”

“Your cousin Willam is terrifying with a blade; I would not care to cross his path with Lamentation in hand. Ser Corwyn is likely more skilled, but he has a short temper. Ser Mandon has experience, but age spares no man. Ser Adrian is strong like an aurochs and faster than a man that size should be,” he began looking around the group. “There’s also Ser Simon Storm, though I don’t see him among the other knights.”

“His father asked him to fight with the Stormlanders,” Eldric explained from his seat behind Aegon. “That’s him there, next to Lord Baratheon,” and he pointed to a knight in simple plate.

“That reminds me uncle,” Lady Elaena turned to speak to the king, but Jace didn’t hear what she said: the knights had began moving.

An avalanche of horses rushed towards each other. Little was heard above the screams and the sound of hoofs. A large knight in Corbray colors, wielding a mace, led the Knights of the Vale in a savage charge at the Crownlanders. The initial charge knocked quite a few knights to the ground, many of whom began to limp away from the arena. Of those remaining, Ser Willam Royce began dueling with one of the Kingsguard, who was being pushed back; the other two white cloaks were fighting together against four men. As for their stepfather, Daemon was locked in a fierce duel with a knight with a black shield with what seemed to be green snakes.

“Who is that?” Daeron’s eyes were wide open as Daemon seemed to be struggling with the knight of snakes.

“Ser Mandon Lynderly, the deadliest sword in the Vale,” the pride in Eldric’s voice could be heard.

“This is quite something,” the king was smiling. “Rarely do I get to see Daemon fight with Dark Sister, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him against a foe also wielding one of our ancestor’s blades,” the swords sounded horridly, Jace thought, like screaming.

Ser Mandon had the upper hand in their duel, when Ser Daeron Velaryon arrived to assist Daemon. He charged the Lynderly knight, granting Daemon enough time to collect himself and, together, they forced the knight to yield. Jace saw his other grandsire, Lord Corlys, stand and begin cheering. He was about to stand and do the same when the knight of House Corbray charged Cousin Daeron. The knight of the mace quickly overpowered Ser Daeron, battering him into submission, before turning towards the prince.

“I’ve never understood Lord Leowyn’s anger at his brother,” Jace heard his aunt speak with Ser Olyvar. “He seems much happier fighting with a mace.”

“’Tis a valuable heirloom, a mighty sword of their house,” Daemon had managed to disarm Lord Corbray, but before he could demand his surrender, the Lord of Hearth’s Home grabbed Ser Daeron’s sword by the blade and began battering Daemon with the hilt.

“Well, he wouldn’t be able to do something like that with Valyrian steel,” that set the king laughing. Lord Corbray was stronger than Daemon, but he was nowhere near as skilled. Soon enough, he was forced to yield. Baela, Rhaena and Luke both began cheering and jumping in their seats.

Jace began looking at the other teams. The Reachmen were locked in combat with the Stormlanders, on the far side of the arena; and the Riverlanders, who had been cheering after defeating the Westermen, were now fighting each other. A knight lay on the ground, unmoving, blood pooling under him. Jace felt he was going to be sick.

“How have your lessons been going?” the king placed his hand on his shoulder, taking him away from the sight of the dead man. “At your age I knew most of my sigils.”

“Grandfather?”

“I rarely see you and your mother never says much about your lessons in her ravens.”

“I’m learning a lot with Maester Gerardys.”

“I’ve a fun idea for a game, now that there are less knights fighting,” Aunt Elaena beckoned over Jace’s uncles as well as Eldric. “Let’s make two teams, whichever team can name the most sigils wins a prize.”

“The king’s sons against the princess’s sons?” Lord Wylde, who’d remained silent behind the king for the entire melee, cut in, interest coating his voice.

“For what I’m thinking, that would not be fair,” their aunt smiled. “Eldric has a deep knowledge of the Vale. So, he’ll face off against the princes, and my sisters.”

“One against many?” the Master of Laws looked Eldric up and down, just as another knight charged at Daemon, with a yell.

“Aye,” Lady Elaena ignored Lord Wylde and turned from him before pointing at Daemon’s current opponent. “What house is he from?” The knight’s shield had a big white crab painted on it.

“Is he a Celtigar bastard?” asked Aemond, looking at Jace. The king shook his head.

“Lord Crabb?” that was Rhaena. At the king’s shake of the head, Lord Wylde looked to Eldric.

“Lord Larence Borrell, of Sweetsister,” and as soon as Eldric had identified the man, Daemon had him on the ground, bleeding from somewhere.

“Let me see,” the king began looking around before pointing at a Reachman. “What is that house?” a door on a black field.

“House Rhysling,” Aemond answered almost immediately. They went on and on, them winning whenever the king asked for a lord or knight from a large house, Eldric winning whenever their aunt decided to choose a knight from a small house. Halfway through their game, Jace began to notice that Eldric was letting them win, and even then, they were tied in points.

“Only a few knights remain, so let’s see… what about him?” their aunt then pointed at a knight with a broken bone in a red field. Jace didn’t know him, and it seemed neither did Luke, Baela, Rhaena nor their uncles.

“Lord Walton Comyn, from the Fingers,” Eldric finally answered after he’d realized none of them would. “His house were once great lords in service to the Kings of the Fingers, but after the coming of the Andals they’ve lost most of their power and are now barely above landed knights. Ser Walton, his young daughter, and his brother are the last of their house.”

“Victory is Eldric’s,” Lady Elaena announced. “I’ll be sure to send word to your maesters for lessons to be increased,” Jace began to worry, but his aunt’s comment was followed with a smile that, hopefully, meant she was only teasing. “I believe you are old enough for real steel, Eldric. We’ll see about getting you a sword.”

Jace turned back to watch the arena. Lord Walton was Daemon’s current opponent. Jace had been so distracted by the game that he hadn’t noticed that Daemon was the last man standing from the Crownlands. The remaining Valemen had formed a ring around him, facing off against challengers who approached and facing Daemon one by one.

“I always tried to remind him to watch his words,” the king shook his head with a laugh. Ser Walton was outmatched by Daemon, but refused to give ground, no matter how much Dark Sister danced around him.

“He’s resting,” Jace overheard Aemond explain to Daeron. “That knight is no match for him and Daemon can keep him at arm’s length without tiring himself out,” the knight then, for whatever reason, tried to tackle Daemon, who, as if by reflex, stepped back and brought down Dark Sister in an arc, severing Ser Walton’s arm. The knight fell back but did not scream. A group of squires rushed forward, one of them screaming “Brother!” and pulled him away from the arena.

“I told them Valyrian steel was too dangerous,” Lady Elaena muttered.

“It’s all right,” argued King Viserys. “There is always danger involved in these games, and a little blood is expected.”

Jace wanted to vomit. He wanted to run. “Craven,” whispered Daeron quietly enough for only Jace to hear him. He closed his eyes but the sudden scream of Valyrian steel clashing with Valyrian steel forced him to open his eyes.

Willam Royce, tall as a giant, was now crossing swords with Daemon. The giant in his bronze armor with the Valyrian longsword dwarfed the black-clad Daemon with the smaller Dark Sister. The sound of dragonsteel clashing with dragonsteel was so loud that Jace wondered if his mother would hear it all the way in Dragonstone. Every attempt by Daemon to defend was met with a strike so powerful it might as well have come from a warhammer. Willam Royce was younger, Willam Royce was faster, Willam Royce was stronger, and Daemon, who had experience to balance the scales, was tired. After managing to barely deflect Lamentation, Daemon conceded and left the arena with murder in his eyes.

The rest of the melee was a blur to Jace. The look on Daemon had scared him and he’d only managed to calm down when three knights were left. Lord Borros Baratheon was a mountain of a man, his opponent, the knight of golden rings in a field of blue, was armed with Valyrian Steel. Ser Willam Royce stood a few paces away, waiting for a winner. Lord Baratheon struck hard and fast, but he was not fast enough, and the opposing knight disarmed him and forced him to yield. He turned, panting towards Ser Willam, who threw a waterskin at him and waited.

“The knights of the Vale are famous,” Aegon, who had been quietly drinking, not even participating in their game, spoke up. “But Bold Jon Roxton will show the mettle of the Reach. Care to place a bet, nephews? Let us bet on which knight is most strong, no?” Aegon smirked, his brothers snickered.

“Aegon,” the king warned him, to which the eldest prince shrugged and went called for more wine.

The knights slowly approached each other, right under their box. They walked in a circle, staring intently at the other. When, with a burst of speed so sudden that it drew a scream from Rhaena, Willam Royce charged. For the rest of his life Jace would swear that was the greatest duel he ever saw, but for the life of him he could never remember, no matter how much he tried, the particulars of the duel. Roxton was fast and fought with elegance; Royce took advantage of his strength and his sword’s greater reach. At the end, Bold Jon Roxton fell to one knee, Lamentation placed against his neck, and yielded. Willam Royce emerged champion of the grand melee to the applause of everyone.

“Your Grace!” the king was getting ready to leave when two knights crossed the arena to kneel beneath their box. “We beg you to allow us a duel to the death, for honor!”

“Speak your names!” Jasper Wylde’s shouts claimed everyone’s attention, stopping everyone from leaving.

“Ser Thaddeus Rivers, son of Ser Clarence Bracken, Your Grace,” the first knight spoke. “For this man’s fault, my father is dead.”

“Vile lies!” answered the other. “Ser Petyr Woodkiss, sworn to House Blackwood, Your Grace. Ser Clarence died from his own foolishness, challenging Ser Adrian Tarbeck. I demand satisfaction for this insult!”

“You left him surrounded by Westermen to save your own skin and I demand blood be repaid for the blood spilled!”

“Uncle,” Lady Royce spoke at the king’s ear, soft enough that people further away wouldn’t hear it. “A wedding is no place for a duel, please, do not give them leave to fight each other.”

“Niece?” the king seemed to consider her words, before Jasper Wylde spoke about legal precedent from a tourney in Ashgrove in the fiftieth year after the Conquest. The king, smiling at his Master of Law, went back to his royal seat and commanded: “You have my leave, fight to the death or until any one man yields.”

The crowd cheered. But Lady Elaena, escorted by her husband, left the stands, dragging Baela and Rhaena with her. Luke followed them, and perhaps Jace should have as well, but his grandfather grabbed him by the arm and bid him seat next to him. The duel between the Rivermen lacked the skill that the melee’s finals had boasted, but it showed a degree of savagery that Jace had never seen before; both men were hacking and slashing only concerned with killing their foe. All it took was a misplaced foot from one of the men for the other to stab him underneath the arm. The survivor knelt before the king and silently left the arena while a group of squires dragged the dead man away. Jace could not remember which of the men was which.

“Let us be off then, Jace,” his grandfather spoke to him with a kind smile. “Boys, let us go,” the king walked at the front of them, discussing dueling laws with Lord Wylde, when he misplaced his foot and fell halfway down the wooden stairs into the ground. He managed to catch his fall with his left arm but hit his head on the step above him.

“Someone summon a maester!” ordered Lord Wylde as he rushed forwards to help the king up.
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“Faster Beron, faster!”

Beron Harclay could easily keep up with his little lady, but he worried over the septa. The old woman was a shrew who oft looked at Beron as if he was a dirt wildling, but she was not so bad. He’d once seen her spend an entire day stitching cloth for the orphans of White Harbor and decided she was an alright sort. The little lady wished to escape from her septa, and Beron knew his lordship would shout at her for losing her, so he grabbed the lady and stopped her from running, the girl was breathless with laughter. Serena Manderly was the youngest of the Manderly’s daughters, at age eight.

Lord Desmond had come into his title quite unexpectedly, after the death of his older brother and nephew at sea. He had nieces, but in the North no man spoke for a niece’s right when there was a man to inherit. The Manderlys were an odd sort, Beron thought, like most southrons; but Lady Branda was a Northwoman and knew best who should rule, so she’d supported her younger son over her granddaughters. And besides, ladies Frida and Marla had both married outside the house, none of the other Manderlys spoke in their defense. Those in the south were a strange lot, the dragon king even set aside his sons for a daughter.

Septa Alys finally caught up to them, for a slight moment she looked towards him with something akin to gratitude, but her face soon curdled over once she remembered who he was. Beron had served house Manderly for some thirty years. He was a Harclay from the hill clans, his uncle was the Harclay. One cold year, many winters ago, the Manderly saved them from starvation and Beron’s uncle bid him serve them to repay their debt. He’d gone to serve a southerner in the North, with their quaint god with seven faces and their knights and pageantry. Septa Alys was from some warm place in the south and looked at him as if he was a savage from beyond the Wall, but Beron was used to those looks; they were common in the Merman’s court. Beron was barely more than a boy when he came to serve old Lord Theomore and had proved he deserved to stand above all the prissy knights in their shiny armors.

The septa took charge of their little lady, who gave up her resistance and allowed herself to be led. He’d been made to guard his lordship’s daughters for the past four years and Serena was the only one young enough to remain unwed. Out of all the Manderlys he’d met, Serena was among his favorites. The girl preferred to run and climb trees and chase cats over embroidery lessons. She reminded him of his sister Lyra, stolen by the Liddles.

The Manderly had gone to see his sons take part in the grand melee, a southron fighting contest as far as Beron understood it and barred his young daughter from attending. The wild child had thus decided to visit the market stalls and spend her allowance. The septa held a small pouch with more money than his clan would see in three lifetimes of selling furs. Jewelmongers shouted out for attention, but his little lady had more jewels than he had knives, and she never wore them. Lady Serena led them to a colorful tent where papers hung on strings. Two large men stood guard, armed with sticks. Beron sized them up as the little lady looked at the papers. He could take them both with a hand tied behind his back. Behind the guards were tables with painted plates; Beron had one in his room in White Harbor depicting a pretty lass.

“They are songs!” her little ladyship excitedly shouted, drawing his attention from the plates to the papers. “Maybe with this you can learn how to read!” she had been trying to convince him that reading was a good skill to have. But Beron knew no way in which reading would help him defend the Manderlys. “I could read them to you and then you’d learn, like I did!”

A thin man, having heard the shouting, appeared from inside the tent. He was twitchy and nervous. Beron didn’t like him. He lacked a man’s body, with his soft hands and thin arms. One look at his little lady and the septa was all it took for the man to begin bowing and smiling. The merchant led them into his tent, big enough to host a great lord, so it might be better to call it a pavilion. There was a table with books in the center, paintings and drawings hanging near the walls and even more papers hung on strings.

“Look at the drawings, they are so colorful!” Lady Serena had taken her septa by the hand and dragged her to an open book at the table. With one eye on the twitchy merchant and another on the book, Beron looked at the drawings. Scenes of nature in lifelike colors and knights and ladies frolicking in the pages. He’d seen one or two books like that in the Manderly’s solar. The book’s cover was even decorated with gold. “Just like father’s History of the Reach! Can we get it, Septa Alys?”

“How much?” the old woman looked down at the merchant, she was taller than the small man.

“W-well, sister, My Lady,” he spoke to both. “This here is the Book of Lord Artys and Maester Yorwyck, composed by the Lady Royce herself and written and illustrated by the good Septon Borros of Gulltown,” he grabbed a nearby book, modest in its binding and lacking many of the illustrations. “We also have a copy made by the good brothers of the Septry of Shallowgrove, not as expensive as-“

“Do you not know who you speak to?” the septa demanded, house Manderly’s merman proudly presented in the little lady’s necklace and in his own armor. Beron, experienced guard and watcher of emotions, knew from the merchant’s look that he’d always known who they were.

“I meant no offense,” he bowed deeply. “’Tis just quite an expensive work and I did not wish to deprive the young lady from the knowledge in these here pages,” he followed the letters with a finger. “Lady Royce filled it with all the lessons needed for a young lord, or lady,” he sagely nodded. “She even gifted one such copy to the king and the Princess of Dragonstone.”

“How did you come upon it then?” the septa’s question sounded like an accusation to Beron.

“My family,” the merchant stood up straight, with pride, “deals in ink. We sell ink and paper to houses all over the Vale and Crownlands. Septon Borros is a good friend to my father and is ever happy to accept donations in exchange for books.”

“You also sell paintings?” his little lady had not caught on to the septa’s accusations and was now looking at a painting of the Old Shrew herself, Alysanne Targaryen. He had met the queen once, when he accompanied old Lord Theomore to King’s Landing and they stopped at Dragonstone on the way home. The Manderlys had liked the old queen, but like any good Northman, Beron disliked the dragon queen. She’d even taken land from his clan to give to the Wall.

“Aye, My Lady. Horas!” a man came running from behind a flap. “Horas here is our best painter, trained in Braavos. His apprentices learn by making plates before being allowed to do any greater work. You can go back to your task.”

“That is all well and good,” the septa continued. “How much for the book?”

“Eighty dragons,” the man’s smile, half formed and awkward, seemed conciliatory, but his eyes spoke victory. “You must understand, the work of Septon Borros in the illustrations, the art in the binding, the many scribes who spent hours copying. ‘Tis all for a work fit for a king,” he once more took the other book. “This one is but six and thirty dragons.”

“I want that one,” Lady Serena held on to the septa. “Is my allowance enough?”

“We’ll speak with your Lord Father,” the septa’s words to Serena were always kind. “Merchant, expect a man of Manderly colors to come for the book with your gold.”

“My Lady, sister,” the twitchy merchant was all smiles as the little lady cheered and began to happily look through the papers hanging from strings. “Ah, allow me,” he took five papers from the string to hand them to the septa. “These are songs and poems in the new fashion,” the papers had words on them, and under them scratches and spots of ink. “This one was sung by Ser Olyvar in the tourney where he won Lady Royce’s heart,” the merchant began to go through the papers. “This one belongs to Abel of Gulltown… this is a hymn to the maiden written by Septon Osfryd…” as he went through the songs, Beron stopped listening and began to look at the paintings. The Old Shrew, some ancient king with a falcon banner, a knight, a hunter.

When the painter left, he’d left the half open and he could see him at work, in what looked to be the Lady Royce. Beron could easily recognize her, no one else had a silver streak in their hair. The painter was good, even Beron could tell. It was as if he was looking at the Lady herself in front of him. He wouldn’t mind if the Manderly replaced all their paintings of the Old Shrew with Lady Royce.

“Beron-,“ the septa was interrupted by a sudden clang, loud and horrid. Beron’s hand went to his sword, ready to die for his little lady.

“’Tis the tourney,” said the merchant. “Knights with Valyrian steel are testing their mettle.”

“Beron, we’re leaving,” the septa was carrying a bundle of rolled up papers, and a much smaller purse of coins. She led the young lady out, where the clang of steel overpowered every other sound.

When they returned to their tents, Lady Serena wasted no time in finding every noble child around them and organizing a large game of Come-into-my-castle. Beron stood guard, listening to the distant song of steel, trying to picture the swings of the blades. A small shape suddenly rushed past him, some noble boy drawn by the sound of laughter, a guard walking behind him. The knight bore some sigil that Beron did not know, a blue fish. He was well built but stood awkwardly in his armor; he was young, though Beron could not see behind his helmet. Beron was bigger, likely faster and more experienced, the young knight stood no chance against him.

“What’s your name?” Lady Serena approached the newcomer with a smile. The boy was large for his age, but Beron judged him to only be five or six, his fine black clothes announced his gentle birth, but the sigil on his clothes only confused Beron. He’d seen the Velaryon seahorse on the harbor back home, but the boy did not have the look of a Velaryon. Even he knew that the Velaryons were of the blood of Old Valyria and had the look of dragonlords—the Old Shrew’s mother was a Velaryon after all.

“Joffrey,” the boy answered. Not a Velaryon name either, whenever Beron heard a Valyrian name he had trouble pronouncing it. His little lady smiled at the boy and dragged him into their games.

They played for hours, when, finally, the clash of steel stopped, and servants began arriving for the children. Beron escorted his little lady back to her father, who was in deep conversation with a large man. Beron sized him up, the man was large and strong, but old. He would defeat him if need be.

“A giant!” exclaimed the little lady as she barreled into her father.

“Up you go,” laughed Lord Desmond. “Ser Gunthor, this is my youngest daughter. Daughter, this is Ser Gunthor Royce, brother to our new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Beron took in the man in front of him with new eyes. If the Lord Commander shared his build and the serious look in his eyes, the Watch had a good warrior to command it. “He wishes to visit his brother, bearing gifts for the black brothers and will be travelling with us.”

Beron was relieved by another guard, allowing him some time to eat before needing to guard the little lady during the feast. Lord Desmond was not worried something would happen, he was worried his daughter would run off and get lost. He passed by Ser Medrick, his lordship’s heir, reading through the merchant’s book. The young knight nodded at Beron, he’d learnt everything about swords from him, and returned to his book. The little lady will surely be pleased.
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Elaena was not happy. She hadn’t wanted Valyrian steel in the melee, but was overruled, and now men were dead or dying. She hadn’t wanted a duel during her wedding, but her uncle had decreed otherwise and now a man was dead. She took some perverse pleasure in changing the seating and granting the place of honor to the Riverlords, putting her uncle next to Blackwood and Bracken. Watching him walk around with a splint on his arm also helped soothe her frustrations. Her father not showing up to the feast and sulking somewhere was worrying, however.

“How’s Comyn?” she asked Lord Corbray, once he’d sat down. Tonight, she was seating with her fellow lords of the Vale. Corbray, the closest neighbor, and Jeyne were at Comyn’s side.

“Didn’t make it,” Leowyn, sporting a large bruise under his eye, began piling up food in his plate. “The brother requested he be made heir but Lady Arryn’s defended the girl’s rights,” a scoff came from somewhere in the table, “and has taken her under her protection, made the girl’s mother regent.”

“How old is the child?” Lord Hunter asked.

“Three.”

“A daughter comes before an uncle,” Lord Waynwood declared. Many knew he worried for his young son if he were to pass suddenly. His daughter Alayne would come next in line, but Lord Waynwood had five younger brothers.

“The Comyn lands have been raided in the past,” that was Corwyn Corbray, who had spent the entire afternoon cursing his luck: he’d been defeated by one of the Cargyll twins before he could face against Daemon. “A girl-child and her mother will not be able to defend them. The brother is a squire, but he is old enough to lead men into battle.”

“She is under Lady Arryn’s protection now,” the older Corbray shot back at his brother. “She’ll be sending them knights for that.”

“Pah,” scoffed Lord Moore. “What good is a house that can’t defend itself without outside help?”

“’Tis a liege’s duty to protect their vassals, my Lord,” Elaena argued. “Our oaths to Jeyne go both ways,” Moore clicked his tongue, but went back to his drink.

“That is so,” Belmore spoke, “but Moore does have a point, mayhaps the young lady Comyn should marry the heir to a stronger house and place their lands under the tutelage of a stronger house,” most at the table agreed.

Halfway through their meal, the singer arrived. Errol of Gulltown was not a handsome man. Balding, with a too-wide forehead and a potbelly, he’d look just at home cheering for his sports team in a bar and getting into street fights with his team’s rivals. His voice was strong, however, powerful and deep. With some better vocal training, Elaena could picture him atop a stage singing the commendatore’s part in Don Giovanni.

And he was clever as well. He knew how to read and write and picked up their secret code quite quickly. He had a widowed older sister who had raised him as her own, in return for his service she was granted a good position and stipend in Moondancer’s Port. His letters to her would hide any news worth knowing of the King’s court.

“Mayhaps my voice is not powerful enough to match the Song of Dragonsteel, but the gods know I shall try,” he began singing popular warrior songs, which was well received, and maidens cheered when he moved on to love songs. He ended with a composition of his own, a song he fittingly called the Song of Dragonsteel, a hymn to the Warrior turned into a love song.

Unexpectedly, he won tears for his song, from both ladies and lords—even her uncle was tearing up. A young knight had vowed to defend his lord’s only daughter from her jealous cousin. He sang of love, disguised as duty. He was granted her family’s ancestral blade to wield in her name and left her side to defend her seat. With a dragonsteel sword he brought down the jealous cousin but was in turn killed by him. The last verses were meant for the lady’s voice, who walked around the bodies after the battle and, when coming upon the knight’s body, declared her love for him and cried by his side.

Errol of Gulltown received the loudest cheers from her guests, flowes were thrown as he bowed. The cheers became even louder when the king announced he’d be taking the singer into his service. That was all agreed to beforehand, Queen Alicent had requested a singer for their court; but, having now heard him sing, Viserys was now happy to do so.

Casks of wine and ale were being brought as the food was taken away. Elaena stayed for just one cup of wine before retiring to her pavilion, praying that the next day would see no blood.

Chapter Text

122 AC

Aegon had a headache. He’d befriended a group of squires last night and overindulged in drink. The constant shuffling of maesters worrying about his father’s fall did not help. The first maester to see him said he was healthy and Aegon thought that was that. Unable to stand the heat inside their pavilion, Aegon left in search of something greasy to eat. Daeron followed after him; there was no sight of Aemond, Aegon hoped he wasn’t doing something stupid.

“Where are we going?” Daeron was in a good mood. He’d enjoyed the melee and had spent most of last night sparring with Aemond. Aegon enjoyed seeing Daemon battered.

“Looking for food,” he saw smoke rising in the air by a crimson tent. Lannisters. Aegon smiled, the Lannisters had always been very welcoming.

Lord Jason himself was overseeing the cooking. They’d put some sort of metal table over the fire’s embers and the lord of Casterly Rock used a metal fork to put cuts of meat over the table. Ser Tyland was the first to notice their arrival.

“Prince Aegon,” he smiled. “How is His Grace?”

“My Prince,” Lord Jason gave him a slight bow.

“Father is well, but the maesters are fussing like hens over chicks,” the Lannister brothers laughed at his jape. “What are you doing Lord Jason?”

“None of the servants can cook meat like I like it,” the lord shrugged. “When we were squires, Tyland and I joined a group of knights chasing some brigands. A hedge knight had a grill just like this, from him I learned,” he had the servant cut of a piece of meat and handed it to him. “Try it,” the meat was good, tender and juicy. His approval must have shown in his face, for Lord Jason shot a smug smile at Tyland.

“Please, my Princes,” with a look from Tyland, servants ran inside their pavilion to bring out chairs for him and Daeron. “You’ve come at the perfect time. The servants are nearly done.”

“A shame you did not ride, my Prince,” Jason Lannister had sat with them, but kept a close eye on the cook. “Your grandsire did mention you were not interested in tourneys, but after your last victory we were looking forward to seeing you compete once more.”

Otto Hightower oft lied about Aegon. After his wedding tourney, his grandsire warned him against competing again, lest he shame himself. He wanted to take part in tourneys after he’d won the squire’s melee, but when his grandsire told him he’d bribed his competition to gift him his victory he was crushed.

“I’m afraid you will have to wait for Daeron, as Aemond is also not interested in tourneys,” the words were painful to say.

“We shall look forward to Prince Daeron unhorsing Ser Laenor’s sons in the lists,” Lord Jason winked, provoking a smile on Aegon and his brother.

“I will do my best!” Daeron puffed up his chest. “Mother says I will be sent to squire away soon.”

“Mayhaps Casterly Rock,” Tyland shared a look with his brother.

“Some of the finest knights in the realm call the Rock home,” Jason received a piece of meat from the cook. The Lord cut it, examined it closely and nodded. Soon they were all served. “You will always be welcomed in my halls, my Prince,” he smiled at Daeron. “And I am certain my daughters would be overjoyed to host a prince of true Targaryen blood.”

Aegon knew Lord Jason was looking for a betrothal, and his mother and grandsire would likely accept. The Lannisters were wealthy and had proven stalwart allies to his cause. Ser Tyland was ever at his grandsire’s side, after all. Aegon would have preferred a Lannister to his sister. Helaena was nice enough to look at, but he’d seen Lord Jason’s daughters, and they were far comelier than his wife. The eldest was stunning, with hair of spun gold, small hands and plump lips, the younger ones were also pleasant to look at. The maid had come to the wedding, hopefully she would join them today.

“Are you taking part in the joust, Lord Jason?” Daeron interrupted Aegon’s musings.

“An old shoulder injury does not allow me, but,” he grabbed his twin by the shoulder. “Tyland will prove the skill of House Lannister.”

“Prince Aegon, Prince Daeron,” his prayers had been answered. Lady Lannister had arrived with her daughters behind her. The lady curtsied; the daughters curtsied. The eldest was as comely as he remembered. Mayhaps if he did not have a sister he would have married Cerelle Lannister. She was Helaena’s age, but his sister paled beside Lord Jason’s daughter; Helaena was shorter, thicker of body, and not as shapely. Mere silver where the Lannister was gold.

“Did you get what I asked for?” the lord asked his wife.

“Yes, lord husband,” a servant approached the lord, a set of fine gloves made for a woman in his hands. “Lady Calla will certainly appreciate those,” she curtsied once more. “With your leave, my Prince,” and left with her daughters behind her.

“For my lady in Lannisport,” winked Lord Jason, once Aegon turned towards him once more.

“Your lady wife does not mind?”

“We’ve come to an understanding,” behind Aegon, Tyland was shaking his head. His brother ignored him. “She understands that great lords have needs that a wife is unable to fulfill.”

“She truly does not mind?” Aegon did not think Helaena would mind, but their mother would.

“Women are women, men are men, my Prince, we all have needs of our own,” he grabbed him by the shoulder, leading him towards a cask of wine. “Can I offer you some Arbor red?” Aegon nodded. “Now, let me tell you about women…”

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The preliminary joust had thankfully gone on without bloodshed. Younger sons, untested knights and hedge knights had behaved gallantly, and none had asked to continue their loss with a contest of arms. She was praying for the day’s main event to go the same way. Her father had vanished after the melee, Caraxes had left in the afternoon and only returned shortly before dawn, missing the previous day’s events; he’d even bet on a few archers and won some coins, but missed the contest. She was praying that a visit to Rhaenyra had cooled his head.

Elaena was quite tired. Who knew that hosting a wedding spanning multiple days and a massive tourney was so tiring? She was breaking her fast in the quiet of her pavilion, joined only by her ladies and retinue. Olyvar had left with the first light, to look after his horse. He liked to brush her, saddle her and feed her himself on tourney days. Gerold was going through ledgers accounting their earnings, from the permits and fees that merchants had to pay and from those directly selling their cloth.

“The painter asked to be allowed to visit Runestone after the wedding,” her steward did not look up from his papers. He, and several others, disapproved of her accepting to model for a portrait. They called it vanity. But she liked the man’s work and wished to patron the arts. They day before her wedding, she sat, in her wedding dress, for four hours as the artist sketched and colored. Garmund, an older merchant who dealt in paper and ink, had boasted about his “Braavosi-trained painter” and, after seeing the portrait he’d made of Garmund’s wife, she was quick to hire his services.

“Let him know I’ll expect him a fortnight from now,” Gunthor grunted and nodded.

Her ladies were quietly eating, almost as tired as she was. She’d not seen Alysanne Arryn for most of the tourney; she and her father, Isembard, were doing their utmost to ensure a betrothal between her and Lord Tarth’s younger brother took place. The pleased smile in the girl gave hope to Elaena that she was close to a match, and to fulfilling her end of the bargain with the Gilded Falcon. She’d spoken well of the girl the few times she’d met the Evenstar and had hinted about the opportunities that a match with the richest man in the Vale could provide them. Tarth was not a wealthy island, but it was a prestigious house of ancient blood that boasted descent from legendary heroes. Olyvar’s eldest sister, Septa Myranda, had gone straight to work on her new duties and Mya was thanking her daily for looking after her youngest daughters, freeing her cousin to devote herself fully to her duties. Septa Roelle had kept to herself for most of the wedding. Her usual energy and easy smiles missing. Elaena knew that she did not have the best relationship with her distant Lannister relatives, thus, she made sure to do what she could to keep her away from them.

“Heard anything interesting?” she asked her nieces. They’d spent a fair amount of time with children from other noble houses, and children tended to gossip a fair bit. She could not afford ignorance. Especially not if she soon had to have a serious discussion with Jeyne. Mayhaps hearing something about Lord Moore could keep Lady Arryn focused elsewhere.

“There’s trouble in the North,” the eldest, Barba, was a good listener and naturally curious. “Lord Manderly’s daughter invited us to see her brother’s horse for the tourney. The brother was there, speaking with someone, about trouble in Winterfell.”

“They said the lord’s uncle was overreaching after the previous lord died,” Willa added.

“They were complaining about the uncle getting in the way of a marriage, but did not say whose,” Barba continued. Elaena had heard of Rickon Stark’s death, but did not know much about the new lord, only that it was a child in need of a regent. He might have appeared in the series, but she’d forgotten if he did anything during the war. She took the fact that she’d forgotten to mean he’d not involve himself much. “They stopped talking when their sister announced our presence.”

“Prince Joffrey was there,” Willa perked up. “And Rhaena’s betrothed came for him,” her nieces thought it quite romantic that Baela and Rhaena were both already betrothed to boys who stood to inherit great seats.

“We met Barba’s betrothed!” Rhea, second youngest, exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “He’s small but he gave her a flower. Ser Simon’s brothers were also there. They’re very red.”

Ser Simon had kept her informed about the comings and goings of the Stormlanders. He’d found out that quite a few nobles from the Dornish Marches were on the lookout for battle-tested knights to take home with them and had kept close eyes on the preliminary joust and the melee. It stood to reason that guests from the other kingdoms might be doing the same thing. Her guard captain had been spending time with his father, who he hadn’t seen in some eight years, and who wished for Ser Simon’s youngest half-brother to become a page in Runestone and a squire to Ser Simon. When he asked, Elaena told him the choice was his, but she wasn’t against receiving a page from an important house like the Conningtons.

Ser Simon had brought a fair amount of news from his meeting with his father and fellow Stormlanders. Lords Caron and Swann believed that there was some sort of bandit king in the Red Mountains of Dorne, and Borros Baratheon had thrice requested the king for forces to be sent to the marches in search of it, but her uncle was certain that it was but common bandits and there was no need to be alarmed; that it would only provoke the Prince of Dorne. After the third refusal, Baratheon had spoken to his vassals in anger, declared the king’s council craven and ordered the Marcher lords to remain vigilant and fletch more arrows, he’d be preparing his men to fight Dornishmen if the king was unwilling.

Elaena had still not forgiven her uncle for allowing a duel during her wedding, so he’d not learn from her about the Stormlords being on the warpath. He likely already knew, anyways, and had chosen to do nothing. According to her guard captain, nearly every lord sworn to Storm’s End shared their liege lord’s opinion on the king’s inaction. The lords from the Stormlands were unhappy. The war in the Stepstones had made their already small trade ports even more unpopular and dried up any trade coming into their lands. They cursed the Seasnake and her father in the same breath and complained about the king not controlling them.

“What was special about Ser Manderly’s horse that warranted being taken to it?” Mya asked her daughters.

“Its grandsire was a gift from Queen Alysanne,” Barba, now finished eating, was putting the final touches on a sash she wished to give Willam for the joust. “Joffrey wanted to see the horse after she said so, and she was one of the few who realized he was a prince. He doesn’t look like Baela and Rhaena, so the other children did not know.”

“I see,” her ladies had all met Laenor and none of them knew what to make of Rhaenyra’s sons.

“Princess Rhaenys’s hair is even darker,” Alysanne Arryn concluded, putting an end to that conversation. “Will Ser Olyvar wear your favor?”

“Aye,” she smiled at a memory. “I’ve asked him if he’d care for a new one, but he still carries the first one I gave him.”

“Ser Eldon has accepted to wear my favor,” Alysanne was all smiles that morning. She leaned in to whisper. “Father has had to promise three ships as part of my dowry, but I’ll marry a knight from a great house,” Elaena had heard from Isembard himself what he was willing to pay so his daughter married well, only princesses could compete with his dowry.

At midday, Elaena led her ladies out from the pavilion. One more contest, a feast tomorrow, and her guests would leave, and she’d return home. The stands were packed with guests; the standing gallery was full of all the smallfolk that had made the journey. Her and Olyvar’s families were already at her box. Olyvar’s father and a nephew were the only men of his family in the stands, as his two elder nephews were both riding that day. Dowager Lady Melcolm made sure her son properly escorted Barba, despite being almost a head shorter. Corlys and Rhaenys were looking after her sisters and nephews, the princes. Her cousins, the other princes, sat next to the king.

As for her uncle, the previous day, Viserys had stayed in his own pavilion, under a maester’s care, who feared a concussion. His absence had been felt during the preliminary joust. The Master of Laws had urged Aegon to sit on the king’s chair and Corlys had spoken to Jacaerys for the same reasons. Elaena did not wish for politics to tint her wedding, so she’d had the chair removed and the king’s place of honor remained empty. When out of the king’s oversight and whenever the adults were not paying attention, the children bickered. She didn’t hear them, but both Baela and Rhaena assured her it was happening, so, after the break for the evening feast, she separated the children, putting Corlys and Rhaenys between the two sides. A glare from the Queen-who-never-was was all it took for silence to reign among them.

The king was here today, however. The maesters had ruled that there was no danger. But they forbade him from drinking wine for a sennight and her uncle was looking at his own son, Aegon, with jealousy as the prince drank. Elaena hoped drinking didn’t run in her family. Viserys had to make do with a fruit juice that Corlys offered. The man was rich enough that he’d had ice brought over from Gods know where. While her uncle reluctantly accepted, seeing the Arbor Red that Aegon was drinking, she happily accepted Corlys’s juice. Sweet, cool and, as the Seasnake never tired of mentioning, good for your body.
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“His High Holiness is finally asleep,” Septa Imelda, in charge of the High Septon’s health, announced to her sisters in the faith.

All three of them had objected to the High Septon’s decision to travel all over the Vale before the wedding and His High Holiness was now paying the price. Imelda had known him for a long time, long before his elevation, being cousins, but could not make him understand that his body no longer had its former strength. The man would only say that he would rest when the Seven-who-are-One called him to their side and ignored the maesters.

“Thankfully he could rest before the wedding,” Septa Melinda had joined forces with her to convince His Holiness to rest in Runestone and to summon the Elder Brothers and Mothers to the castle, instead of travelling himself to their septries and motherhouses. The vigor that had characterized most of her Holy cousin’s life had abandoned his body, but his mind remained convinced he could continue working as he had.

“Our duty is to obey, sisters,” Mother Lynesse, Imelda’s cousin on her mother’s side, sighed. “Or so I would say if the orders were not killing him. He must rest. Maester Martyn recommends we return to King’s Landing by sea and that we travel on a barge down the Mander. I trust you will assist me in convincing His Holiness that another tour is out of the question?”

“Yes, Mother,” Imelda considered Lynesse one of her oldest friends, but their position when in service to His Holiness demanded she refer to her as so.

“I expect the knights have begun to hit each other with sticks,” Septa Melinda had a low opinion of jousts, her brother having died in a tourney. She was the youngest among them, only forty.

“The Warrior blesses them with strength of arms,” Mother Lynesse frowned. “And what do they do? They play games and waste their gifts for mundane rewards.”

Lynesse had joined them from King’s Landing because she wished to see how motherhouses outside the Reach functioned. As the Mother of the Great Motherhouse she commanded a certain degree of authority over all motherhouses in the Seven Kingdoms and desired to assert her authority. She was ever watchful for what she deemed lapses in Faith. To the fortune of the sisters they had visited in their journey across the Riverlands and the Vale, no motherhouse displayed any such lapses.

His High Holiness had agreed to rest before the wedding if they’d travelled to the motherhouses to report back to him, and if Septon Orren traveled to the septries for the same reason. It was an enlightening experience. Imelda was born in Oldtown, she became a novice in the Great Motherhouse of Oldtown, helped raise the current Lord Tyrell and his sisters, and returned to Oldtown to assist her cousin once he was chosen to become the High Septon. She had never left the Reach before that. To meet septas and sisters from the other kingdoms was the greatest blessing that serving His High Holiness provided.

“Come, His High Holiness needs silence to sleep,” she urged the septas outside. They did not care to watch the joust but there were still many interesting things to see.

“Sisters,” Septon Orren was waiting outside, with his brother, a knight. “How is His High Holiness?”

“Resting,” Lynesse was curt with the youngest member of the Most Devout. She believed the man had a mistress and would have seen him expelled from the Faith. She feared that long after her death Septon Orren would become High Septon.

“Come join us,” Melinda was eyeing the knight, hoping for an escort. “Maester Martyn is with His High Holiness.”

“Sister,” the septon smiled and offered an arm. The knight fell in behind them.

Melinda and Orrel spoke at length about the singing contest and their favorites. Whenever an attempt was made to include Lynesse in their conversation, her words were cold. Imelda had long ago stopped trying to make friends for Lynesse, so she did not press Lynesse. They had become novices at the same time; their mothers were cousins and Imelda’s brother was Lord Hightower’s squire. Their friendship was as much an order as a natural occurrence. But long gone was the girl Lynesse, only Mother Lynesse remained.

Lynesse had always been too severe, too set in her ways. She made few friends amongst the novices and, once she became Mother, she stopped trying to make new friends, if she ever did. Imelda had tried. She knew beneath Lynesse’s harsh exterior was a caring heart who only wished to do good for her fellow sisters. But Imelda stopped trying after the death of Septa Rhaella, a sweet and kind woman who had taught novices with patience and caring diligence, who’d comforted a scared girl sent away from her home. Lynesse had called her Sister Abomination. Imelda did not speak to her for two years.

She knew what Lynesse thought about House Targaryen but did not expect that level of vitriol against such a gentle soul. Beneath the curtesy and respect she paid Septa Maegelle, Imelda knew Lynesse thought the same. Only a select few ever heard Mother Lynesse’s private thoughts. Imelda was one of the few and she oft wished that she wasn’t. Lynesse belonged to a faction within the Faith that believed the Targaryens were demons sent to test the faith of the Seven Kingdoms, and their ancestors had failed the test. The destruction of the Faith Militant, the burnt and destroyed septs, the Doctrine of Exceptionalism: all of that was their punishment for submitting to the dragons. The Seven had smote Valyria for its sins and the Seven Kingdoms were on the path to inherit those very same sins. She had a surprisingly favorable opinion of Dorne, however. Twice she had tried to have one of the Dornish septons of the Most Devout elected to the most Holy seat. The only person she hated more than the Targaryens was Septon Barth.

“Where the septries different in these lands?” Melinda had given up on trying to include Lynesse in their conversation. “The motherhouses were quite interesting. In many ways they were like any other in the kingdoms, but there were small things that stood out.”

“Oh, in what way?”

“Despite being a humbler motherhouse, their library was large, like in the wealthier cloisters of the Reach, but they had many books not about the Seven.”

“The septries were the same,” Orren nodded. “I asked an Elder Brother, one Hugh, about it and he spoke of a deal they have with Lady Royce where they copy down books for her, and they’ve made copies of their own.”

“Lady Royce has houses of faith copying books not about the Seven?” Lynesse cut in, likely sniffing a possible lapse in Faith.

“Aye,” Septon Orrel continued, blissfully unaware of the storm that was likely brewing inside Mother Lynesse. “They began with the Seven-Pointed Star and books by learned septons of yesterday. Once every septry and motherhouse had a copy of their own, they began copying other sorts of works and trading for books with septries further away,” Mother Lynesse seemed to calm down. “Lady Royce provides paper and ink, asking only for copies for herself.”

“One of the motherhouses,” Imelda had paid close attention to the library, having spent three years as a novice copying the Seven-Pointed Star and understanding the price and effort behind every single book. “Has the complete works of Septon Thoron of Old Andalos,” Septon Orren whistled, impressed. Lynesse’s eyes went wide, but her face quickly soured, at the whistling.

“Lady Royce is very interested in the education of the faithful,” the Mother was the only one among them to have spoken at length with Lady Royce, at the Royal wedding. “It stands to reason the woman who pushed for the university would make sure to find and copy valuable and ancient books.”

“We should do the same in the Reach,” Orren clapped. “Who knows what little treasures are hidden in the small septries.”

“They had plenty of cloth too,” Melinda remembered. “They worked fine wool to cloth the poor.”

“This is wool country,” Orren said, pleased with himself. Imelda knew for a fact the man had purchased a chest full of cloth. “What else… what else… oh yes! The brothers were requested to choose two young men among them who would go to the university on Lady Royce’s coin.”

“Seven bless good and pious lords and ladies,” Lynesse declared, though Imelda could have sworn she whispered: “Even if it’s the child of an abomination,” they passed near the elephant. “The king shames our traditions,” Lynesse whispered in her ear. “Nothing is sacred to him. Not knighthood, not kingship and not family.”

Before Lynesse could start another rant about Princess Rhaenyra, they reached the Bronze Sept. An ancient and historic place of worship that symbolized the victory of the Seven over the Old Gods. They entered the sept, empty with everyone at the joust, and walked straight to the statues. Imelda had not had the opportunity to have a good look at them. She’d seen them before the wedding alongside the High Septon but her duties kept her away the past few days. Lynesse had been to the sept daily.

“Look at this, sister Imelda,” Lynesse was touching the Smith’s arm. “Feel it.”

“What is it?” Septon Orren joined them, grabbing on to the Smith’s other arm. Imelda took Lynesse’s spot.

“The muscles,” she could trace a real man’s muscles on the arm. She traced a large muscle on the forearm, the bone sticking out of the elbow and even bumps on the wrist.

“Look at the wrinkles in the Crone’s hand,” Lynesse directed their attention to another of the statue’s. “Lady Royce made the statues, out of clay, and carefully molded even the slightest details,” Septon Orren began comparing his own arm’s muscles to the statue’s. “His High Holiness asked for the molds to take to Oldtown, where he intends for our sculptors to learn from them and make statues as lifelike as they can.”

Imelda moved on from the Crone and walked next to Melinda, focused entirely on the Stranger. A horrible creature, Imelda had a nightmare the first day she saw it. A woman with her father’s voice had called to her. Imelda had not thought of her father in many years, he had sent her to the Faith when she was ten and died when she was eight-and-ten. When Imelda approached the woman in her dreams, a skull behind a veil laughed at her and told her, in her father’s voice, that soon they would meet again.

“I had trouble falling asleep when I first saw it,” Melinda whispered to her. “Whenever I closed my eyes I remembered the skull with the stars for eyes and I couldn’t help but remember Symeon Star-Eyes and all the old horror stories from my youth returned,” Imelda faintly remembered something about Symeon seeing hellhounds. “I felt quite foolish once morning came, a woman old enough to be a grandmother scared of children’s tales.”

She kept whispering, as if she did not want the Stranger to hear her. If the High Septon’s artisans learnt to make statues such as these, she hoped they wouldn’t make the Stranger so terrifying. Lynesse, naturally, thought otherwise and wished for the Stranger to be as scary as possible, all to keep the faithful in line and to never forget who was waiting at the end of every life.
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Tyland Lannister was thrown from his horse. The Prince of Dorne’s bastard brother had been a surprise. Ser Morgan Sand and his chestnut-colored sand steed had been making a name for themselves. Elaena politely clapped for the Westerman as he left the arena. Sixteen riders remained, Olyvar and her father among them, and no blood had been spilled.

“I didn’t know Dornishmen could be knights,” Jacaerys’s confusion was mirrored in most of the younger children. They’d grown up hearing nothing but the worst about Dorne.

“They follow the Seven, Jace,” Corlys explained. “Just as there are bandits in the mountains and mercenaries who use poison, there are brave knights from old houses.”

“Prince Qoren should not have sent him,” her uncle was still insulted that a bastard had been sent to represent Dorne. Elaena did not care, as far as she knew she did not trade with Dorne.

“Mayhaps a bastard was the best they could get,” Jasper Wylde’s offhanded comment was met by laughter from the king’s sons. “My third wife was from Dorne, you know?”

“Have you been to Dorne, Ironrod?” Aemond turned to face the lord.

“I was His Grace’s emissary to Dorne when the War in the Stepstones threatened to spill into our borders.”

“Did you not fear poison?”

“They are not so dishonorable as to murder a guest, much less an emissary,” the Master of Laws grimaced. “Unless they tried to kill me with their food, far too spicy for me.”

“My lessons said in Dorne a daughter inherits before a son,” Lucerys asked. “Is that so, Lord Wylde?”

“It is so, but not among all the houses,” the next contestants took the field, Ser Adrian Redfort and Ser Adrian Tarbeck. “The houses with the least Rhoynar ties do not follow that custom. Old Lord Yronwood had two daughters older than his son and today that son rules their seat.”

“Let us not speak of Dornishmen,” the king grimaced. “Look, we have a winner in the duel of Ser Adrians,” Jessamyn’s younger brother had unhorsed the Tarbeck knight and was now riding in front of the commons, who cheered for the Valeman.

“The Prince insults him,” Rhaenys leaned in to whisper. “And it is not the first time; he once refused Rhaenyra’s hand.”

“Look, it’s Daemon!” Joffrey was the first to notice him. Her father had claimed his victories in the morning and rested during midday. He had not said a word to anyone since his return. The king had asked for him, but he’d ignored his brother. On black armor, atop a black horse, he rode forwards to meet a knight from the Reach. The Reachman fell in the second pass, taking his horse down with him. Daemon, who usually loved the cheers of the crowd and paraded for them, left back to his tent, to prepare for his next match.

The Cargyll twins then faced each other, though Elaena was unable to tell which one had won. The announcer had to approach the brothers to ask. Ser Erryk was the victor. Olyvar unhorsed Ser Adrian Redfort, while the Dornish knight took down Ser Elmo Tully. And on and on the knights rode until sixteen were whittled down to four: Olyvar, her father, Ser Erryk Cargyll and Ser Morgan Sand.

“Let us hope a victory for Daemon will improve his mood,” her uncle grumbled. “I am getting tired of his tantrum.”

“’Tis good for him to feel frustration,” she couldn’t help but answer. “’Tis become apparent that he did not feel much of it as a child and has trouble dealing with his anger,” Rhaenys laughed.

“If you ever meet uncle Vaegon, he’ll love you, he always complained that we were spoiled,” Rhaenys laughed even harder. Corlys smiled at his wife and handed her his cup of juice, lest she choke. “You best not laugh cousin,” Viserys smiled. “Uncle Aemon was as guilty as father.”

“He was,” Rhaenys had tears in her eyes, caused by the laughter. “But when the good Archmaester said that, he was talking about grandmother.”

“We have an uncle Vaegon?” Joffrey interrupted the adults.

“Yes, he lives in Oldtown,” Rhaenys answered. “You can try writing to him, but it’s a rare day when Archmaester Vaegon writes back.”

“He’s busy, my boy. But look, there is Daemon taking the field against Ser Erryk.”

Her father, all in black, faced the white cloak. Ser Erryk rode like he never had. He defended himself from Daemon’s strikes masterfully and placed his lance in the best spots. Her father refused to lose, however. He held on with all his strength before finally, in their fifth pass, managing to force the kingsguard to drop his guard and throwing him from his horse. He rode off, not caring about the cheering.

“He’s still angry,” Corlys declared.

Olyvar then faced the Dornishman. Before, and in his previous matches, Elaena had never worried for Olyvar. He rode his horse as if he was born to. He knew when to defend and when to attack. But the Dornishman was good. After seeing the lance splinter over his shoulder, her heart had nearly left her body. Morgan Sand managed to sneak his lance through Olyvar’s shield and her husband fell to the ground. She only remembered to breathe when he stood up, unharmed. Rhaena was holding her hand, Baela was holding Rhaena’s.

Her uncle had said something, but she didn’t hear him. Daemon rode to face the Dornishman. Her father was determined to win, but Ser Morgan would not give him an easy victory. Thrice he deflected Daemon’s lance off his shield and twice more her father only managed to break the lance on the shield. Meanwhile, the Dornish knight struck true on two separate occasions.

“He’s getting impatient,” the king observed after the fifth pass, where Daemon’s lance slid off the opponent’s shield. “If he doesn’t calm down he is going to lose.”

Two more passes with similar results. The Dornishman’s aim was good, his shield placement better. Her father’s horse seemed to mirror his frustration. Both horses were getting tired. One final pass and a heavy crash. The lance broke right under their box. Splinters flew towards them; Elaena closed her eyes and turned her head away. When she opened them, she saw a massive splinter, long as a hand and as thick as one, had gone right between her uncle’s legs, stuck in his chair. Just a smidge away from where the artery was. But her uncle didn’t notice, his eyes were fixed on the field. Her father remained ahorse, the Dornishman was on the ground. The Prince of Dorne’s half-brother had a piece of wood sticking out from under his gorget.
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Chapter Text

122 AC

Her uncle had been pacing for the last half hour. She’d barely had the time to notice her father riding over to their box and crowning her Queen of Love and Beauty before the king whispered in her ear, asking for a private and quiet place to talk. The crowds cheered, nobles clapped and her father rode around the arena with a huge smile on his face. All while a group of squires dragged the Dornishman to a maester. She did not know if the man was still alive.

She’d led Viserys to the sept, the only building nearby that had stone walls. The king commanded his guards to keep eavesdroppers away and for her father to be led to the sept as soon as he was decent. They were followed by Corlys and Rhaenys. She’d tried to leave afterwards, but her uncle kept her there. She’d have judged it as a family affair, but Jasper Wylde and Tyland Lannister were also there. Her cousin Aegon was also there, seating meekly in a corner, flushed from a long day of indulging in wine. Tyland Lannister had told the king that mayhaps the prince should be there, he was a man grown and wed, an anointed knight, after all. Her uncle merely grunted, so Ser Tyland Lannister sent for the prince.

Corlys was whispering something to Rhaenys in front of the Maiden’s statue, it must have been some clever jape for she was trying to hide a laugh, while Tyland stared at the pacing king and Wylde examined the Warrior. Elaena sat in one of the pews and offered a prayer to whichever of the Seven could help fix the potential problem her father had caused. The sun was beginning to set when Daemon appeared. Her father arrived at the sept with a skin of wine and a large smile on his face.

“I’m overjoyed you found the opportunity to join us, brother,” she’d never seen her uncle speak so seriously. “Sit,” the king commanded. Rhaenys and Corlys sat in the pew behind her, while the members of the King’s Council sat in the one directly to her right. Her father sat next to her, and handed her the half empty wineskin.

“Who cares about the bastard, brother,” he smirked towards the Master of Laws. “I’ve done no wrong, have I, Ironrod?”

“None,” Lord Wylde shrugged. “Accidents happen in every tourney, tough luck.”

“Just so,” her father shot a smug smile at his brother.

“I know that!” the king shouted. “This was an unfortunate accident, I know that. But does Prince Qoren?”

“No matter how loved a bastard brother is,” Corlys leant forward. “No lord would call for war for him. They still remember mad Prince Morion’s folly.”

“And if the Prince is mad enough?” Wylde shrugged. “We have friends in Dorne.”

“Of course there will be no war,” her uncle was getting frustrated. “Dorne will not march for some bastard dead in a tourney, but who’s to say a hotblooded Dornishman will not seek vengeance on his own?”

“Let them come,” her father raised his chin. “I’ve killed my fair share of the wretches. The bastard was likely commanding soldiers in Bloodstone, wouldn’t you say so Corlys?”

“A warrior of his skill? Very likely indeed,” none seemed to grieve for the dead man.

“See?” her father turned back to face the king. “We’re better off with him dead, if any other want to come meet my sword, they’re welcome to it.”

“You killed a brother of his,” Elaena remembered Blood and Cheese, a son for a son, and grimaced. “Who’s to say they won’t try to kill a brother of yours?” the king nodded, aggressively. “Or a child?” she had only heard terrible things about Dornishmen during this life, and believed next to none of them, having decided it was all prejudice against the people who lived on the other side of the Red Mountains, but if even a tenth of what they claimed about Dorne was real? She’d be increasing patrols on Runestone and creating code words for the change of the guard.

“All it takes, Daemon,” Viserys sat next to her father, his head between his hands. “Is one rash Dornishman with more anger than sense. What if by trying to get at you they go for Rhaenyra? Or one her children, or one of yours?”

“Have it your own way, then,” her father sighed. “What do you mean to do?”

“A letter to the Prince, expressing your condolences,” her father’s face showed he wanted to do anything but, but he still nodded. “And his arms and horse go home with his body.”

“No.”

“Daemon?” Viserys was incredulous.

“I won that horse,” it was one of the famous sand steeds of Dorne, the beast that had won the horse race at her wedding—costing Daemon a fair amount of gold.

“It’s a horse,” her uncle’s voice was once more near shouting. “If you want a Dornish horse, buy one! Or is a horse more important to you than your family?”

“I won that horse,” Elaena could hear Rhaenys sigh behind her.

“Have your bloody horse then,” the king stood, red faced. “And when Rhaenyra asks you why a Dornish dagger killed her son, you can tell her that a horse was worth more to you!”

“Have it your way, take it,” her father stood, just a shade of red lighter than the king, took the wineskin from her hands and left. Just as the doors closed, a laugh escaped from her lips, having realized something about her father.

“Niece?” the king, calming down, asked.

“Forgive me, uncle,” she tried to stop the laughter, but that only made her laugh more. “’Twas simply that my father reminded me of a story,” she said between laughs. “And I cannot stop.”

“You’ll have to tell me the story then,” Viserys sighed and sat, seeming years older. Mayhaps she would one day tell the king about the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus. “Jasper, bring Lord Borros. Tyland, bring Lord Alester,” Baratheon and Tyrell.

“Your Grace,” the Master of Laws stood with a bow and left, Ser Tyland not far behind him.

“Worry not cousin,” Rhaenys put a hand on the king’s shoulder. “Prince Qoren is a sensible man; no more blood will be spilled.”

“Aye, Qoren is sensible enough,” Viserys shook his head. “But are his vassals? His knights? What’s stopping raiders from using this as an excuse to raid the Marches? To go after Daemon?”

“No ship enters the Gullet without my knowledge,” Corlys declared. “You can rest easy in the knowledge that my fleets will patrol the waters around Dragonstone. Gods know what I think of the Dornish, but not even them are daft enough to risk war over a dead bastard.”

Elaena had a sudden idea, but before she could share it with her uncle the lords of Storm’s End and Highgarden arrived, flanked by a few of their vassals. The lords knelt and looked towards her uncle. Baratheon seemed eager, him and his lords were on the warpath, and this was as good an excuse as any. Tyrell and his lords were more subdued. Elaena went back to her lessons, and the earlier introductions, to identify the men with the Great Lords. Royce Caron was Baratheon’s goodfather, she remembered him because they shared a name, the purple lightning in the starry night was Lord Dondarrion and the two swans could be no one but Lord Swann. With Alester Tyrell came the red huntsman of Tarly and the three castles of Peake. All Marchers.

“My lords,” her uncle began, with a tired voice. “I see you have brought company. That saves time. I have no desire for any bloodshed to come out of this tourney accident, be it from the Dornishmen or from us,” the king’s gaze was fixed on Borros Baratheon.

“What do you propose we do, Your Grace?” Lord Tyrell seemed unsure. “I can command my men, but no the Prince’s.”

“Keep guard over the passes but do not cross them,” Viserys sat down. “Peace will be kept by my lords.”

“Starpike is ever ready to serve, Your Grace,” Unwin Peake was the first to bow. “I shall command for watchtowers to be built along the roads to watch for raiders coming down the mountains.”

“Yes, do that,” the king nodded at Peake, then turned towards the Stormlanders. “Build watchtowers, keep a close eye on the mountain passes, but only that. Do not provoke the Dornishmen.”

“Your Grace,” Borros visibly deflated as he bowed.

With a flick of the hand, the lords were dismissed. Jasper Wylde left with his fellow Stormlanders, Tyland and Aegon, not far behind them. The king stood to leave, but Elaena signaled with her eyes for her uncle to stay. Corlys led his wife out of the sept until only she and the king remained.

“Niece?”

“The High Septon. Dorne follows the Seven, mayhaps he can speak to the Prince of Dorne and ease any tensions.”

“They do,” her uncle closed his eyes. “What will we do with that father of yours, he enjoys vexing me. Always has, ever since we were children,” a smile. “He stole a cake once, from Gael. Gave me half of it without telling me where he got it. When grandmother came looking for it, he placed all the blame at my feet. Grandmother was livid and I was punished. Your grandfather knew though,” he opened his eyes and looked at her, with a sad smile. “He always knew, and he would know what to do now,” something told Elaena that Viserys was not speaking about Ser Morgan. “Ser Arryk,” the Kingsguard had been there, a silent statue. “Send for the High Septon.”

“Do you wish for me to stay? I’ve a good relation with His High Holiness.”

“Stay. Though I do hope Ser Olyvar does not mind the realm stealing you away,” he smiled. “You’re a good lass. Everything that could be asked for on a daughter and lady. I’m sure your father knows this. I’m well aware he hasn’t been the most attentive father, and that he has turned that sharp tongue of his on you. But know that he doesn’t mean it,” a shake of the head and a sigh. “If you only heard half of what we shouted at each other in years past. But he always apologizes in his own particular way.”

“Worry not, uncle,” she had become accustomed to the insults, long periods of silence, gifts and grand gestures that followed. “I know him well enough now to know what to expect.”

“Write to him, won’t you?” her uncle squeezed her hand. “Gods know he has trouble making friends and maintaining bonds. It might ease his troubles,” what about my troubles? She wondered but did not say it. “To be looked after his daughter, I know it will do him good,” he gave her an earnest smile. “I pray you’ll be as helpful to Rhaenyra as you have been to me.”

The High Septon saved her from having to answer. He arrived alone and did not bow to the king, greeting him only with a nod. He shot her a smile, before kneeling in front of the Crone’s statue and lighting a candle.

“Come, Your Grace,” he held out another candle. “Let us pray for wisdom,” her uncle grumbled (Elaena managed to hear something about Queen Alysanne) but still knelt in front of the Crone and lit his candle. “A shame about that knight,” the High Septon’s eyes were fixed on the Crone’s face. “To have died so young and strong, when we grow so old and weak.”

“It is as you say,” her uncle begun. “When us old lords fight it’s the young that bleed. I am hoping that cooler heads prevail. Here, and in Dorne.”

“What do you seek, Your Grace?”

“Do you know who leads the faithful of Sunspear? I was hoping they could intercede with Prince Qoren and help us reach an amicable end to this bloody accident.”

“I do. Septon Aron. I placed him there and raised him to the Most Devout,” the High Septon’s eyes bored into her uncle. “I could send word to him, a request from Your Grace,” a slight smile. “I could even go myself, intercede with the Prince for you.”

“Would the Prince be… receptive to that?”

“Prince Qoren is not the most pious of men, that is true,” a shake of the head, filled with sadness. “But his wife?”

“Will you do this for me, for the sake of the Realm’s peace?”

“I can, yes.”

“What do you want?” her uncle sighed, used to ambitious courtiers and nobles.

“Worry not, Your Grace,” the High Septon stood, a large smile on his face. “We need not bother Lyman or Otto for this. Ask me again, in King’s Landing.”

“Again?”

“Again,” a ponderous nod. “My ship will travel from Gulltown to King’s Landing, from where I would have travelled overland to the Mander. Instead, I shall travel to Sunspear. When my ship is to set sail, come to see us off to the port where we will tell the people of the city, and the nobles of the court, that you have requested my assistance with Dorne.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Your Grace,” the High Septon once more nodded at Viserys. “My Lady,” he approached with a smile, holding out his hands, which she grabbed. “A thousand blessings upon your marriage, it was quite the incredible affair,” a shrug. “Blood notwithstanding.”

“Thank you, Your High Holiness,” the High Septon kissed her hand before leaving, bowing to the statues of the Seven, but not to the king.

“Quite the fellow,” her uncle stood next to her. “I’ll have to ask Otto his name, I think he might have been a friend of grandmother’s.”

“You don’t know?” she opened her eyes wide.

“Which?” a grin. “If he’s a friend of grandmother’s or his former name?”

“Both, I guess. He was a Mullendore, the current lord’s uncle if I’m not mistaken,” her uncle looked at her, eyes wide. “Runestone’s septon is a gossip,” she shrugged, provoking the king’s laughter.
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Olyvar was an early riser. He couldn’t see it, but he knew the sun was just rising. Elaena was sleeping at his side, in the dark of their tent-within-a-tent. He smiled. He heard her gentle breathing; she was still a few hours from waking. She didn’t have a father who insisted they wake before the rooster’s cry. He could make out the silver streak that framed her face, the shape of her nose and her lips, slightly open.

He closed his eyes again, he’d never been able to fall back asleep after waking, but he did not wish to leave until his wife woke. His wife, he repeated in his head over and over. He was the most fortunate knight in all the Seven Kingdoms. She was his and he was hers, from now until forever. The most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes one, a lady whose stewardship surely put the Old King’s to shame. The Gods had blessed him, Hugor of the Hill had likely thought the same after the Maiden created a bride for him.

That day they’d finally return home. Home. Runestone was his new home. The king and the lords would leave, and their new life would start. He had wanted to win the joust and crown Elaena, but Ser Morgan Sand was too skilled. At least the Rogue Prince crowned her, though he had to kill the bastard for it. Elaena had told him about the king’s worries, she did not seem to take them too seriously, but, during their wedding, Olyvar vowed to defend her from any threat and that was a vow he’d keep until his dying breath.

“Morning,” he whispered when he felt Elaena moving, long after the roosters would stop their calling. He stood to open the flaps of their tent, hearing the whispers of his wife’s ladies and maidservants outside. Light was let in, revealing sleepy grey eyes blinking away last night’s dreams.

“Morning,” she yawned. She was not a morning person, and Runestone went through far too many candles. But try as they might to convince her that late night work could be done in the early morning it came to naught. “Could you ask them to prepare a bath?”

“Tansy,” he left their small tent and called out to the head maidservant, “your mistress requests a bath,” the servant nodded and left to do her duties. Olyvar knew it’d take Elaena close to an hour to finish getting ready, she liked long and very hot baths, and bathed often, so he set out from their tent.

He found Ser Simon close by, sharpening his sword whilst Eldric polished his armor. Marriage had mellowed the Stormlander, not long ago Eldric would have been tasked with sharpening the sword as well. He’d not seen much of the captain of the guard, he had spent most of the tourney, with Elaena’s leave, with his lordly father. Olyvar had once asked Ser Simon if the Conningtons were originally from the Vale, kin to the Griffin King, but the knight knew of no connection with the Vale of the First Men.

“I hear you are to have a new page,” Olyvar sat next to the knight.

“Aye, my half-brother. The youngest one, Alyn,” he hit Eldric in the shoulder, softly. “You’ll finally have someone to give orders to,” Olyvar laughed, remembering his own squiring. “My Lord Father wishes for him to be a warrior.”

“Alas, the folly of fathers,” grim Ser Benfred left his tent, bare-chested and stretching. “Ever willing to give swords to children when they might live longer otherwise.”

“Who was your father, Ser?” Eldric asked, a toothy grin on his face.

“One Lomas Muttil, never met him,” Ser Benfred sighed. “’Twas my Lady Mother who forced a sword on me and my brothers, now only I remain,” the grim knight shrugged. “They took better to lessons on honor than to lessons on survival.”

“Don’t fill my squire’s head with your nonsense,” Simon chided him, with a smile. “He’s to be Lord of the Vale, how will it look if during a tourney he starts pulling beards and poking eyes?”

“That’s why I care so little about tourneys,” Benfred sat next to them. “No eye poking allowed,” Olyvar had seen firsthand how the knight fought, kicking clansmen in their private parts, biting them when they got too close, even saw him once put his armored hand inside one’s mouth and pull. He’d rather forget that last one.

“Ser Simon is right,” Eldric laughed. “I’ll forget myself and embarrass the Vale if I do as you teach.”

“Ah, but you’ll live longer.”

“A long life with no honor?” Ser Jon Royce joined in. Olyvar rarely saw Ser Gerold’s eldest, always busy with one of Elaena’s errands. His wife, Mya, always seemed the more capable of the two, anyhow. “Cousin Eldric shan’t be following your advice Ben, I hope.”

“When I’m old and fat, eighty and surrounded by grandchildren,” Benfred shook his head, feigning sadness. “And you’re all dead from a clansman’s axe because you fought with honor, I’ll drink to your words, Jon.”

They all laughed. The knights of Runestone were a lively bunch, Benfred’s grimness only served to contrast. His father had been a landed knight, his nephew was now the landed knight, and the man seemed content in his role as a mere household knight. But Olyvar suspected he was next on Elaena’s list of knights to be granted a keep. When he’d asked her about it, she spoke about the need to increase something called “density” and “oversight”. After a long explanation he understood she wanted knightly nursemaids to look after her sheep and smallfolk.

“Good morrow, Eldric,” a boy approached them, the eldest of the brown-haired princes, Jacaerys. He’d come from the royal pavilion. “What are you laughing about?”

“Good morrow, Jace,” Olyvar’s great-nephew (though his nephew Arnold was older than he was) stood and gave a slight bow to the prince. “We were discussing the best way for knights to live long lives,” they laughed, even Benfred allowed himself a smile.

“Grandfather oft says good food leads to long lives and strong bodies,” the prince shared the wisdom of the king, or mayhaps of the Sea Snake? Olyvar reasoned. The king did not seem to have the strongest of bodies.

“Fat or skinny,” Benfred bemoaned. “An axe cuts just the same. Best to be fat, methinks.”

“Ignore him, my prince,” Olyvar interrupted Benfred, before he could start ranting. “He likes when people listen to him,” Benfred faked a cry, mimicking a maiden, but they all had known him long enough to know it was all a jape.

“Aye, ignore Ben,” Jon shook his head. “Princes should pay little mind to shirtless knights.”

“Yes, yes, I get it,” grey-haired Benfred stood, “I know where I’m not welcome,” he bowed to the prince. “My Prince, by your leave, I go in search of a shirt.”

“He lost his nice wool shirt on dice,” Jon explained. “Against a woman of all things. She gambled her own dress and came out with all of Ben’s clothes. He looks for those promised grandsons under the strangest of skirts.”

“Eldric,” Simon discretely elbowed his squire. Who understood at once and invited the prince to a morning spar, leaving the knights behind.
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It was a merry feast, Rhaenys thought. The final joust’s death had done little to dampen moods, and the Vale lords did not wish to leave any wine leftover. Her kingly cousin had not yet graced them with his company. Her least favorite cousin was surprisingly subdued. She half expected him to still be throwing a fit over the horse and doing his best to think up some new insult. Against whom? Whoever sat closest to him. She’d known Daemon Targaryen since he was a pudgy little babe at her aunt’s breast. She oft cursed whatever God had made Corlys think it sensible to allow him to marry their little girl.

She could not put it all at Corlys’s feet, however. Laena had made her choice. She would not have been happy marrying some lord, growing old in his keep and having his little lordlings. Laena was too much like herself; she had chosen Daemon like she herself chose Corlys all those years ago. Laena was a great lady, beyond just any lordling. But she was gone now, and Daemon had remarried. Whenever she saw Rhaenyra, Rhaenys often thought, quite spitefully, that she was not even half the woman that Laena was.

She might be unkind, but these past few years she found little kindness in her heart for Rhaenyra. She knew that she had something to do in her little boy’s death, she just could not prove it. Both of her children had been left cold and dead in roads paved with the ambitions of Daemon and Rhaenyra. And now she meant to steal Baela’s inheritance. She had tried to care for the boys as Laenor had but every time she saw them, she only saw Harwin Strong and cursed Daemon for so readily agreeing to tie the fate of their granddaughters to Rhaenyra’s. Baela should be Lady of Driftmark after her husband. He’d argue she would be queen, but Rhaenys was not blind. The men of the realm would sooner bleed than crown Rhaenyra.

At least her granddaughters had a good example to follow on their elder sister. They’d have to wait for little Aegon and Viserys to grow to see if Daemon was capable of having only sensible daughters or if his sons would also manage to avoid inheriting his worst qualities. Baela and Rhaena would soon be old enough for fostering and she would love to host them both, but mayhaps Elaena could take one on. Meleys could make the trip between Driftmark and Runestone without an issue. All it’d take was for Daemon to agree.

Her niece sat with Baela and Rhaena, the girls were dreading saying goodbye. Her poor husband had Baela between them, though he was at present at the Vale table laughing with his Templeton nephews. If only Daemon was a better father… Rhaenys always thought whenever sleep eluded her, if only he was a better father, then Elaena might have been presented at court at a much younger age and mayhaps… mayhaps she could have arranged a better match for Laenor. Rhaenys doesn’t know if Laenor would have been happy married to anyone, but he had to marry. And he had been friends with Elaena; she’d always treated him kindly and knew. She certainly would not have given him horns.

But that never came to be. Laenor was betrothed long before they met Daemon’s eldest daughter. Corlys wished for his name on the throne, her name, she thought sadly. Jace was a sweet boy, who called her grandmother and asked for stories about Laenor, but he wasn’t Laenor’s. She didn’t see her son in their faces. She prayed that one day she could love them like Laenor had. He would always talk about wanting to take them hunting, teaching them to sail, teaching them to ride their dragons.

Elaena was a Royce, with their coloring, but she took after Daemon in many ways. She’d got a laugh out of seeing a girl who looked so like Daemon being so friendly with the High Septon. She could be as stubborn and willful as her father and had no doubt that had she been a son, she’d be as diligent with the sword as she was with everything else. Whatever she now thought about her grandparents, there was something of the Old King and Alysanne in her niece.

But even with all her talents and diligence, she had had her own issues with succession, all for being a woman. Ambitious uncles were the bane of every lady. Laenor told her of how he’d invite the knights of Runestone on hunts and arrive on Seasmoke, all to put some fear on them. Rhaenys was well aware what lords, and even kings, thought of female rulers. Rhaenyra would find nothing but hardship. There was only one woman that every lord listened to, and even then, many of them ignored their own mothers. Baela was a Dragonrider and, with Rhaenys by her side, they could keep Corlys’s many nephews in check. But that future had been stolen from Laena’s girls. But the future was never set in stone, it would be good for Baela and Rhaena to spend more time with Elaena and less with Daemon.

Her kingly cousin finally made his appearance, the pipers playing an old tune about the Conqueror and Balerion. She saw then what had kept him. Viserys was walking with a cane, helped along by a maester. He japed some about the fall on the stands the other day, but the ashamed look on Daemon’s face spoke otherwise. Last night Daemon had been furious, he had felt as if victory had been snatched from him to placate the Prince of Dorne. Elaena whispered to her, leaning over a Baela who was too focused on her sweets to notice, that Daemon had agreed, without raising his voice, to send the blasted horse to Dorne.

Something was clearly wrong with her cousin. He ate only fish, despite his love for meat, and drank some medical concoction that the maester had sweetened with honey. He still japed and smiled, but his hands shook.

“Uncle will be staying for a sennight in Runestone to recuperate,” Elaena let her know. “Ships are no good for his health and the maester does not wish to risk him going with Aemond on Vhagar.”

“Will he leave through the High Road then?” it would be a long journey, the throne left empty for too long.

“The maester would prefer it,” Corlys scooted over to her, listening intently. “But His Grace does not wish to miss the birth of Helaena’s children, so he’ll suffer a ship after regaining his strength.”

“Are any of the princes staying?” Corlys asked.

“Nay,” Elaena seemed glad of that. “I will not have to feed any large dragons,” a shiver seemed to go through her. “I don’t even want to imagine what feeding Vhagar costs.”

Rhaenys smiled at a nearly forgotten memory. Her father despairing at having to purchase large amounts of livestock for one of Uncle Baelon’s visits, a particularly long one. Dragonstone never had the largest of coffers and her father was an able steward who kept a close watch on the island’s incomes; he even planned the incomes years in advance. She did not think Rhaenyra did the same, and her cousin was likely much more indulgent with Dragonstone’s expenses than King Jaehaerys ever was.

The musicians moved on to a love song, one of the new ones to come out of the Vale, and Ser Olyvar asked his new wife for a dance. Her niece had made an interesting choice. She’d avoided any betrothal pushed by family and chose a Valeman. Rhaenys knew the boy was in love with Elaena long before the girl noticed it. The affairs of the heart were not her strongest suit. It took large gestures, songs and crowns of love and beauty, for Elaena to notice the lad’s affections and act upon them. She’d chosen sensibly, as well. Olyvar Templeton appeared utterly unambitious, a younger son raised as one, better ahorse than using his head for anything else. He had talent, of course, Rhaenys knew of no other nobleman with his skill for music and he was a jousting champion, but he would not be capable of taking on her niece’s work, even if he wished to. Rhaenys hoped the choice she made thinking of Runestone would also be the correct choice for her niece’s heart.

They retired after the feast. Corlys had been able to coax the truth out of a serving man about her kingly cousin (the servants of the Red Keep were always more loyal to gold than to the king). Last night, after Viserys had returned from the sept, he’d had a shaking fit. His nose had bled, he had fainted, and the maester feared the king was dying. The maester managed to wake the king, but he still feared for his life and had spent the entire night awake, next to the king. And, next to the maester, Daemon had also spent the entire night standing vigil for Viserys.

Chapter Text

123 AC

She had been married for three months now. With her guests gone, Runestone had gotten back to work. She thanked the gods for it, she’d rather read reports and hold court than host so many nobles for so long a time. Her uncle had been an easy guest, thankfully. Viserys spent his entire time at Runestone abed, one of his maesters hovering over him and Ser Erryk’s squire reading to him from her book. They’d managed to convince him that a long ship ride was not safe, so he travelled from Gulltown to Maidenpool, where he stayed an entire fortnight, a guest to Lord Mooton. A comfortable, and slow moving, carriage took him the rest of the way to King’s Landing. When she received a raven from him, thanking her for hosting him, she sighed in relief. She had worried that the king would die during his visit to Runestone and blood would flow.

The first encoded message from Errol, her spy in the Red Keep, spoke of morning walks by the King in the Godswood and Queen Alicent taking charge of his meals. King Viserys was now despairing at the lack of wine, meat and the abundance of vegetables. The message had travelled to Moondancer’s Port in a merchant vessel; Errol had paid its captain so he’d deliver the letter to his sister, who in turn sent it to Runestone with a patrolling knight. The seal was unbroken, that would be how they continue sending messages.

Olyver had taken on new responsibilities in the castle. He’d been put in charge of not only repurposing the cloth from the wedding tents into armor but also overseeing the armory’s growth. She’d stopped focusing so much on Gulltown, at least until she spoke with Jeyne, and recalled her uncle Gerold, who had left one of his assistants in charge of their business in Gulltown. With her uncle back home, she decided to advance with the Royce manor’s renovation. Men with sledgehammers were hard at work knocking it down, cleaning up the debris and, once done, digging a cellar and space for the foundation. Gerold was now drilling Olyvar and teaching him all that he needed to know about running the armory. Olyvar knew how to fight and command in a battle, but he had never been taught how to maintain a castle’s defenses. Elaena privately suspected that Olyvar’s father and nephews also did not know how to and left it in the hands of stewards and maesters. Gunthor had left North, he had sent word, first from White Harbor and then from Winterfell, from where he’d travel to the Wall. Septa Myranda, Eldric’s grandmother, had taken on the lady-training duties from Roelle, who had become something of her personal assistant. Myranda looked after her nieces and spent as much time as she could with Eldric; while Roelle spent most of her time with Elaena, going through documents and writing many of her letters.

Maester Qarlton had taken on more of Maester Rookwill’s duties; the older maester was owed some well-earned rest, Elaena argued. He was not terribly old, but age had not been kind to him. He continued to take charge of the ravens and was writing a treatise about them. The arrival of the younger maester had lit a fire on Maester Rookwill, who also desired to be remembered. Ravenry was his greatest passion, and he had learnt a fair deal about husbandry in Runestone. So long as his hands remained strong enough, he would write about raven breeding.

Ser Robert Stone had managed to get some information from the clansman they had captured, before he was hanged. He was terribly young, six-and-ten mayhaps, but had already raided a village and taken lives. He was a Painted Dog; he and his group went out to make names for themselves, and steal women, so that one of the more famous champions and chieftains would take them on. He knew remarkably little about other clans, but they at least now knew the names of the chieftains of the Painted Dogs: Gorm, son of Shagga, Morgran and Strag, both sons of Morgran, and Timett, son of Timett. Ser Robert had heard of another Timett, son of Timett, who burnt down a holdfast belonging to a younger Corbray, but that had been when he was a young squire. She still had not found information enough to meddle and make peace with the clans, but she at least knew more now.

She had worked with Maester Qarlton on a city plan for Moondancer’s Port. A wide main street leading from the gate to the city square, where the sept, Royce manor and great market would be, and to the port itself; orderly side streets placed upon a grid, meant for defense from a seaborne attack; and a tentative plumbing system. She had tried to remember as much as she could about Roman aqueducts and sewers and Maester Qarlton knew much about the sweetwater river, Braavos’s own aqueduct. There were many small creeks and rivers nearby from where fresh water could be transported. All throughout the grid of streets, Maester Qarlton had been drawing tentative placed to dig ditches for wastewater, all the small ditches leading to a much larger canal that led into the sea. The port didn’t have a population large enough that would demand a sewage system so robust, but it was better to place the first stone, as it were. One day in the future they would cover the ditches with stone and create true sewers.

Most buildings were made from timber and plaster, but she wished for a city of brick and stone. House Melcolm had quarries and friendly prices. The maester had drawn up different styles for apartment buildings, tall and thin buildings of colorful brick that would be hosting several families each, with shops on the ground floor. Outer walls of brick or stone and floors, roofs and inner walls of wood. The buildings were not particularly attractive, but they were robust, boasted large windows and would all have a space for a fireplace of sorts that would heat up homes during winter and, most importantly, allow smoke out of their houses. The wealthier could even have actual chimneys, with metal pipes, instead of stone. They would all also boast a small kitchen, where families could cook. That all, however, would increase the risk of fires; so, they would need to create a firefighting force of sorts. The aqueduct would ideally provide the water needed to combat fires. Maester Qarlton had at first thought of building like in Oldtown, but Oldtown didn’t know their winters, so the maester looked to Braavos and White Harbor. She would build the first and pray that enough wealth was created so others would follow in her footsteps and build beautiful buildings in the same styles, or better yet, create their own.

“The issue, Lady Royce,” the maester had in hand one of the drawings she had made for the palace in Gulltown. “I fear the Vale might not have the workers skilled enough for this,” she’d added plenty of arches and elaborate stonework. “Oldtown might have the stonecutters and masons, might,” though the maester’s face showed he didn’t believe Oldtown might. “The Free Cities certainly do, however.”

“We don’t need that many arches,” Gerold argued, looking at her drawings. It was a square building with an open courtyard in the middle, meant for a garden. The inner-facing side had pillars and arches holding up the upper floors. The main entrance was a large archway. And the arches and pillars were all finely carved stonework. No other lord would have pillars as pretty as hers. She remembered buildings from the place from before and was trying to emulate them. The maester had spent close to a sennight calculating the weight, mass and distance between pillars to make the building feasible. “It’s an eastern vanity, the maester says so.”

“How much would it cost to hire a team of experienced workers to come build and teach?” she ignored the steward. “From which city?”

“Judging from your preferences, My Lady, I would have recommended Myr or Tyrosh, but,” the maester grimaced. “I do not think it sensible, due to who your father is. Braavos would be an option as well, though their styles don’t suit yours I’m certain their skills will suit. It would be expensive however, to bring a group of Braavosi,” the maester seemed to be having trouble continuing. “There is another option. Cheaper and, honestly, better. This palace you have designed would find itself an equal, or even a better, of the palaces of the Old Blood of Volantis. If you were to buy a team of workers from Volantis…”

“No.”

“My Lady,” the maester sputtered. “I know slavery is a vile thing. But you would be freeing these men. They would know of the styles of Volantis, of Mereen, Tolos and New Ghis. Who knows what else these men might know of?”

“No,” Elaena was resolutely opposed. “You say I would free these men, but would they see it differently? Would they even have a choice after they’ve been brought to a strange land they know little about? Where they don’t speak the language? Where winters run for years unlike the warm Volantis? And what of the gold with which they are bought? Do you think it will sit in some vault? Be used to purchase food for the needy? Build temples? No,” she shook her head. “They would pay some pirate captain to kidnap children to turn into more slaves. Pay for training for other slaves. Buy from slavers and they will use that coin to enslave more people. To participate in the slave trade, even to free them, is to endorse it. What does the slavemaster care if you free what you bought when he can use your coin to buy more slaves?” she sat up straight. Gerold was nodding along to her rant. “Slavery is wrong, maester. We will hire men from Braavos, whatever it may cost,” she would ask at the Iron Bank’s office at Gulltown. “They will do the best they can, train local workers and return home with their pay.”

“My Lady,” the maester bowed. “My apologies, I did not know you thought so strongly on the matter.”

The maester’s proposal had put her in a bad mood. “We shall continue this another day. Leave me,” she sent them away, before she could continue ranting. The maester and Gerold bowed and left, Mya, who had been quietly embroidering in a corner, also left.

She had not calmed down when Olyvar came into her office. Living in a castle, surrounded by smallfolk, people born free who worked the land and lived their lives, had allowed her to forget how prevalent slavery was in this new world of hers. Cities, far to the east, existed solely for the sake of slavery. Olyvar sat next to her, in silence, whilst her mind raged. She could do nothing for them. She laid her head on his shoulder and tried to calm down, they sat there for close to an hour.

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Ser Clarence and Ser Artos arrived to make their cases heard a fair while after her wedding. She had wondered why they took so long to make it to Runestone, but apparently Ser Artos’s son, Yohn, had fallen ill and only now was he capable of making the journey. Ser Clarence was joined by his daughter, Marei. She was in her twenties and a broken betrothal had made it very difficult for her to find a new marriage. Ser Artos argued that a betrothal never existed. Ser Artos had come with his son, a nervous looking teenager, and they had brought the drover that Marei alleged had given her the love letters sent by Yohn, she confirmed it was the right man.

During her wedding she had been joined by Lords Tollett and Coldwater, today she was joined by Olyvar and Maester Qarlton. Amos Coldwater had been interested enough in the case that he’d asked for news once it was settled.

“What is your name?” she asked the drover.

“Owen, m’lady,” the boy stammered, looking at his feet.

“Owen,” she gave a look at both knights, they were not to speak whilst the drover gave his testimony. “Ser Clarence and his daughter Marei both say you delivered a letter from Yohn Royce, is this so?”

“I-I don’t know, m’lady. A soldier gave it to me.”

“What instructions were you given?” the maester asked.

“To give it to m’lady Marei, tell her it was from m’lord Yohn.”

“My boy cannot write,” Ser Artos interrupted. “’Tis all lies, Lady Elaena. Be done with this farce and let us return home.”

“Be silent, ser,” Olyvar told the knight.

“Yohn,” she turned towards the young groom. She had kept an eye on him, and he’d been twitching. “This love letter kept Marei from making a good match, believing you were hoping to marry her,” both her and her father had thought so. “Your father claims you cannot read, is that so?” She pointed towards Septon Lomas. “Know that the Gods are witness to this trial.”

“I-I learned to write from the septon,” the squire mumbled.

“Be silent boy!” his father shouted, prompting her guards to bring a hand to their swords.

“Ser Artos, do control yourself,” Olyvar leaned forward, the knight was redfaced.

“Did you write this letter?” she looked straight at Yohn Royce, the boy was shaking with nerves. He looked towards his father, anger clear in his face, then towards Marei Royce, with tears in her eyes.

“Y-yes,” Ser Clarence sighed with relief. “I-I thought I would marry her and so I courted her.”

“Stupid boy!” Ser Artos punched his son, throwing him to the ground. The guards at the entrance moved quickly to restrain him. “Let go of me! I must discipline the boy!”

“Ser Artos, please be still,” Elaena sighed. She wanted to do right by Marei but was unsure what the best choice would be. She and her father had rightfully believed that the betrothal stood; Ser Artos hadn’t and had married his son away. The boy was married now, and a marriage was not easily set aside. She turned towards Marei, who likely had never been asked what she wanted out of life and made a choice. “Ser Clarence, Ser Artos, Yohn, please leave the hall; I must have words with Marei,” Ser Clarence left readily, as did Yohn, but Ser Artos grumbled about women loud enough for her to hear. Once only Marei remained, Elaena turned her eyes to her. “I can think of two things, but I am willing to hear what you want, Lady Marei. Ser Artos would pay part of your dowry, allowing your father to find you a good match, or that same coin would go towards finding you a comfortable position in a motherhouse. What would you rather? Do you desire something else?”

“My Lady,” Marei bit her lips, looking towards the door where her father had left. After a while she spoke. “I-I want a family; I want children of my own to love and raise.”

“Bring back the men,” she asked a guard. Once they were back, she looked at Yohn, a squire of seven-and-ten, thin but tall. “Marei Royce would have married a knight, now she will have trouble finding a good match,” her father nodded. “Ser Artos, you might have not meant for the match to be, but your son’s letter ensured that Ser Clarence would not search for another match,” the knight was redfaced, likely ready to hit his son again. “Of the dowry originally discussed, you shall provide an additional two thirds, so that Lady Marei be able to find a good match for herself,” the knight seemed to start shaking. “Additionally, once he is knighted, your son shall serve in Runestone as a knight with honor, where he will strive to earn the gold necessary to pay you back.”

All the anger seemed to leave Ser Artos as she uttered those last words. What she thought most important was ensuring that no feud developed. Young Yohn would serve at Runestone, an honorable position for a distant cousin. And, perhaps most importantly, would earn the money he had lost his father and then some. Elaena did not wish to overtly anger Ser Artos, the knight had not known his son was at fault; he had not acted in the most honorable way, speaking of betrothals lightly, but he had committed no crime.

“Lady Royce,” Ser Artos knelt, followed by his son. “He will do right by you, I swear.”

“Ser Artos, stand,” she turned towards Ser Clarence. “Words have been said between you, who were once close enough to consider marrying your children to each other. I would have you embrace in friendship once more, knowing that all those words in anger came from ignorance,” the knights reluctantly hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks. “Coin will pass hands, swords will be sworn in service, and bonds of friendship shall be renewed.”

“My thanks, Lady Elaena,” Ser Clarence knelt, his daughter kneeling next to him. “I will find a good match, that gold will not go to waste, you’ll see.”

“My Lady,” Ser Artos was the next to kneel, his son, pale faced, next to him. “If the boy does not do his duty, be sure to thrash him.”

“Aye,” Yohn looked at his father. “A-a thrashing if I’m no good,” Elaena could guess the knight had had words with his son while outside the hall.

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“Ser Jon of House Royce, step forward,” most of the household was present that morning in the Bronze Hall. Her cousin Jon stood next to Mya, their six children behind them. To the side stood Ser Simon and his wife Ginger, carrying their little son, Jon. At her side a proud Gerold waited with two rolled up documents.

“Lady Royce,” Jon began once the hall quieted down. “I am your liege man, my Lady. I vow to ever be your shield and sword, to ever give you council, to give my life for yours. This I swear by the gods, old and new,” he knelt.

“And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new,” all of Jon’s family knelt. She stepped forwards, presenting her signet ring to her cousin, who kissed it. She then grasped his hands and helped him up. Elaena’s eyes searched for Mya’s and smiled when they made eye contact. “Arise, Ser Jon of Bronzehollow Keep," Gerold stepped forward, handing his son the documents for his new keep. It was an old castle, half a day to the east of Runestone, built in a valley with many farms and enough pastures.

Her cousin’s family all stood to the cheers of the hall. They walked over to the side, as now Ser Simon walked forwards. Somewhere with the squires was a young red-haired boy, Alyn Connington, who had come to squire with his half-brother and become a ward of House Royce, who was now witnessing him being granted a keep of his own. The vows and ceremony were the same, the keep granted being the only difference. “Arise, Ser Simon of the Woolway,” the keep once had another name, but she decided to change it. His keep was close to Runestone, and stood in the road between Gulltown and Moondancer’s Port.

The bastard from the Stormlands had knelt and now stood a landed knight, the first of a new house. The knights gave the loudest cheer. He had made many friends in his years in her service. She smiled as she sat back down, that night they were having a grand feast, Olyvar would be taking her two new vassals on a hunt for elk. The Great Hall began emptying, knights leaving for the hunt and retainers returning to their duties. Ser Simon stood forward, unshed tears in his eyes, his wife and brother not far behind him.

“Thank you, Lady Elaena,” he put a hand against his heart. “These oaths I’ve given will not end with me, you can know for sure that my sons, and their sons, will forever know the debt we owe to you and house Royce.”

“That loyalty will always be treasured and returned, Ser Simon,” she smiled at the Stormlander and his wife. “Have you thought of a sigil for your house?”

“I am embroidering one, My Lady,” Ginger stood next to her husband. Young Alyn was twitching.

“What is it, Alyn?” Ser Simon asked his brother, also noticing it.

“Why do you have so many castles to give? Father does not have empty castles in his land.”

“I wondered that once too,” she gave the boy a kind smile, remembering she had asked her grandfather the same thing. “King Hugh VII Arryn, some three hundred years ago, came into his throne as a babe,” Alyn had come to learn the sword, but also the history of the Vale. It was her duty to her ward to teach him history, not just because she liked it, she swore. “The long regency was dominated by infighting knights who tried to rule the Vale in his name. It took until Hugh’s twenty-third nameday for him to regain control of the Eyrie. In vengeance against his rebellious knights who would have taken the throne from him, he passed King Hugh’s laws. If a landed knight did not have the coin necessary for his sons to be dignified knights, their holdings would return to their liege. If a landed knight had only daughters and could not find a knight to marry into his family, their holdings would return to their liege. What followed was a short and bloody knightly revolt, but every great lord supported the king and took many castles from their own rebelling knights,” her own ancestor, Artos Royce, had done away with more than half of his vassal landed knights, giving away their keeps to his many relatives. Several of her vassals traced their lineage to one of Artos’s many brothers. “King Hugh’s law is still in effect,” she warned, though Ser Simon had already been made aware of the law.

The feast was of great merriment. Her knights were quite rowdy. She wanted to fill more castles with loyal men, but seeing them drunk, japing and laughing made it quite hard to judge them. She’d known some of them for nearly her entire life. She remembered which ones were closest with Gerold, which ones had been won over by her father, which ones were former hedge knights she’d seen on a tourney. Mayhaps with Ser Simon busy setting up his castle she could give others command against the clansmen. Olyvar could be given command as well, and he’d get a good read at the knights.

Ser Ulf of Gulltown was certainly not an option, the man was skilled in arms, but she knew how thickheaded he was; any keep under his rule would crumble before the year was out. Ser Larence was the leader of what she privately called the Cult of Daemon, he swore by her father and looked up to him as if he were the Warrior himself, his loyalty was surely guaranteed, but what about his skill? She’d have to keep an eye on him. Ser Benfred was another good choice, she thought, he had been loyal to her mother, and now he was loyal to her, and he was terribly clever.

Olyvar held her hand throughout the entire feast. He made it quite difficult to eat, she’d have snapped at him, but he soon moved to her left, freeing her dominant hand. He smiled at winked, having noticed. The elk was brought in; they’d found a large one and had spent the entire afternoon roasting the beast. The smell of charred meat made her feel sick. She was usually fond of roast meats, particularly those made by Pate the cook, who used plenty of aromatic herbs. But that day she couldn’t stand to be near the elk. She was known for rarely staying until late in feasts, so she left for her rooms, leaving Olyvar in charge of the feast, though he seemed to want to go with her.

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The day after the feast, she sat in front of the hearth, the days were quite hot, but cool sea winds left the castle chilly in the mornings. Olyvar was pacing behind her. She had shared her suspicions with him and the wait for the maester was killing him.

“Finally,” he exclaimed when they heard the familiar clink of the chain outside the door. Olyvar rushed for the door, letting Maesters Qarlton and Rookwill in.

The elder of the two approached her and began grabbing at her, searching for what? She didn’t know. The younger maester began asking her what she’d felt these past few days. She had been moody, quicker to anger and joy. The smell of cooked meat had been difficult, and that had been what made her suspicious. And her moonblood had not come. The maester nodded, and once Maester Rookwill was done looking at her ankles, they conferred in whispers.

“My Lady, My Lord,” Maester Rookwill finally approached them. “You are with child.”

Chapter Text

123 AC

“What about Royce?” Olyvar asked as he rode next to her carriage. She thanked the Seven that Uncle Viserys’s gift was comfortable.

“Royce Royce?” she grimaced, provoking a fit of laughter not only on Olyvar but everyone in earshot. “Will Royce Royce ride his horse with poise as he destroys his foes?” Willam nearly fell from his horse laughing.

They were half a day from the Eyrie and she was already dreading the climb. She’d confided her fears about the climb to Olyvar and was praying that Jeyne just so happened to be at the Gates of the Moon. They’d come with ten knights with their squires and twice as many guardsmen; her retinue of ladies, minus one Mya who was busy setting up her new keep, and Gerold, carrying a box full of documents. Eldric had wished to go with them, but knowing the boy’s father was stuck in a sky cell, she left him at Runestone. Her cousin Willam had command. She’d come as prepared as could be and hoped Jeyne would have sympathy for a pregnant woman. She was around four months pregnant, a bump already showing. Their journey had been thankfully uneventful.

“Mengo, so he’ll ride like the Great Khal,” she and Olyvar were thinking of potential names and were currently at a stage where only terrible names were spoken.

“If you want a warrior’s name, Lucamore Strong was the finest sword of his time,” Willam offered, giggling at the tale of Lucamore the Lusty and his three wives, a tavern favorite.

“Please do not start singing that horrible song,” Gerold rode next to his son, who was beginning to hum the popular song of Lucamore the Lusty. “You think it a jape, but Ser Lucamore broke his vows to the Kingsguard and to his wives. No Royce should be saddled with that name. If you wish to name him after a white cloak, Victor is a good name.”

“You did not meet Ser Victor father, he died when grandfather was a small child,” Willam laughed. “Might have been a right prick and there you go naming the future lord of Runestone after him.”

“Lady Alyssa had nothing but good to say about Ser Victor,” Elaena’s great-grandmother.

“No Kingsguard then,” Elaena called out from inside the carriage. “Temperance,” they all tried to hide their distaste, to her amusement. Some virtues were names; others were decidedly not. She would not be naming any child of hers Constance or Prudence, but she enjoyed the grimaces those names provoked. “Mayhaps your nephew should name one of his children that, Temperance Templeton and Royce Royce would be great friends,” she gave Olyvar a smile as sweet as could be.

“Please do not say such to my father,” Olyvar groaned. “He is so struck by Targaryen magnificence that a jape from you would be taken seriously, and all my nieces would be called Chastity, Charity and Patience,” she laughed, dreading the climb just a little less.

“Stop,” Willam suddenly commanded, hand going to his sword. “Riders approach.”

She could hear them before she could see them, stuck inside the carriage. And before she could even think of putting her head outside the window to see, Olyvar closed it, a knight closing the one on the other side. To her side, Cella Tollet was clutching a needle as if it was a weapon. The windows were their last line of defense, they were made from good and thick wood, quite heavy. Her new carriage had a little slit at the front from where she could see. She let out a sigh of relief once she made out the banners the riders carried: Arryn and Lynderly. The aged knight at the head of the party was Jeyne’s Keeper of the Gates of the Moon.

“Well met, ser,” she heard a muffled Willam and soon enough her windows were opened once more.

“’Tis good to see you lad,” Willam had squired for Ser Mandon Lynderly. He rode towards her carriage, lowering his head once he saw her through the window. “Lady Jeyne bid me escort you.”

“Ser Mandon,” she nodded at the knight. “Lead on,” once they had fallen into a pace, much more silent than when it was only Royce men, she began speaking to the old knight. “Jeyne awaits at the Eyrie?” she was praying the answer would be no.

“She does, the usual court is up the mountain,” the knight, blind to her fears, was in good cheer. “Corwyn Corbray has been performing feats of strength, methinks he hopes to be appointed Knight of the Bloody Gate.”

“An honorable post,” Olyvar declared, after her silence.

“That it is. And the gods know that while Ser Arlan is dutiful, he is old now,” Jeyne’s Knight of the Bloody Gate had served at his position since the days of Jeyne’s father.

“How is Beth?” she finally said, asking after her old companion from her days in the Eyrie. Bethany Hunter had married the much older Ser Mandon, after spending her entire wardship in love with the knight.

“She’s doing well, the children keep her busy,” they had three sons. “All ready to be squires, I might just send one your way, lad,” he turned towards Willam.

“It’d be an honor, ser.”

Soon enough they could make the Eyrie, high up on the mountain, and see the Gates of the Moon awaiting them. They had made good time and would be making the climb that very day. Her carriage was too large, so it was abandoned at the first waycastle for the sure-footed mules. Rationally, she knew that no mule had ever fallen in living memory, but she was still afraid. Olyvar, mumbling about worrying over his pregnant wife, shared a mule with her.

She grabbed on to him, squeezing and shutting her eyes. The first stretch of the climb, to reach Snow, was a comfortable enough ride. He had covered her with his cloak, so she did not even feel the wind. Upon reaching Snow, she was offered a small cup of warm wine for the chill at the top of the mountain. She’d been avoiding wine for the past few months, but the nerves and shaking hands won over good sense. Olyvar let it know she’d still be sharing his saddle, so they were given the largest and strongest of the mules. With closed eyes, she was carried by him up the mule, trying as hard as she could to ignore the strong winds, where Olyvar put her in front of him, facing him. She felt she was going to be sick.

The path to the last waycastle, Sky, was an entirely different beast than anything before. It was impossible to ignore the wind, strong enough that it threatened to knock them off the mountain, or so she believed. Their mule kept on walking, as surefooted as it had been all its life. But Elaena was certain that soon she’d be falling. She clutched on to Olyvar, holding on as tight as she could. When a rock came loose, Gerold’s mule was responsible, she began to have difficulties breathing. She could hear Olyvar trying to say something, but, even next to her, the wind carried away his words.

Throughout it all, the mule kept on walking at its own pace. When she heard footsteps near her, she almost lost the ability to breathe, but Olyvar held on to her. It was Mort, the mule handler, leading the beasts on foot through the narrowest stretch of the path. Even without trying to, when hearing the wind, she remembered just how tall the Eyrie was. It was easy to ignore once inside the castle, as it had rooms that faced the courtyard and heard little of the mountain winds. But here and now? Every time a mule made any sound, she held on harder to Olyvar.

So certain was she of her imminent death that she failed to notice the wind stopping. After nearly an hour of torture, they had made it to Sky. They were taking refuge behind the waycastle’s single wall. Still with eyes closed, Elaena was led towards the basket that would take her the last six hundred feet up to the Eyrie. Someone grabbed her hand, but she did not open her eyes until she heard “welcome to the Eyrie, Lady Royce.” Next to her were Septa Roelle and Cella, hair messed up by the wind but otherwise all right, outside the basket were Ser Joffrey Arryn and some others she did not know.

“Your rooms have been made ready, My Lady,” Ser Joffrey helped them get out of the basket. Behind him stood Jeyne.

“Elaena!” Jeyne smiled. Before her eyes widened upon seeing her stomach. “You should have said something, I would have come down!” she chided her, glaring at her.

“Wished, to, surprise, you,” she had yet to recover her breath.

“That will not do,” Jeyne signaled a group of servants. “Lead Lady Royce to her rooms and call for the maester,” she turned towards her cousin Joffrey. “Word has been sent, Ser Olyvar and Elaena’s knights are climbing,” Elaena felt a pit in her stomach. “Be sure to receive with warm wine and something to eat,” she walked over and locked arms with her. “And you, you are staying in bed, and we are not speaking until the morrow,” Elaena nodded, exhausted. It was late; the climb had taken the entire day.
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Jeyne’s solar was just as she remembered. Whilst her own rooms, the same from her childhood, were completely different, now missing her grandfather’s furniture, Jeyne’s hadn’t changed at all. There were some new tapestries and hangings (made in Gulltown, Elaena smiled, recognizing the work) but everything else remained unchanged. Jeyne sat on her couch, bare feet pointed towards the hearth, her head resting on Jessamyn’s lap.

“Once your steward and mine finish looking at numbers,” Jeyne smiled at her. “We can sort this out and send you back home so you can rest,” she frowned at Jessamyn. “You likely knew and said nothing.”

“I did not,” Jessamyn was offended. “I’d never would have asked her to make the climb, better for uncle Horas to go down the mountain,” Horas Redfort was Jeyne’s steward, appointed a few years back.

“Do not blame her,” Elaena scooted towards the fire, she’d forgotten how cold the Eyrie could be, even in summer. “I’ve told no one yet, the maesters recommended we wait, in case…” she didn’t finish, the expression of acknowledgement on her old friends finishing the sentence.

“All the more reason,” Jeyne pointed a finger at her. “Don’t do this again. I know how you get with the climb,” she’d witnessed it before.

“Pregnant women have climbed the mountain before,” Jessamyn tried to placate her. “Jasper III was born halfway between Snow and Sky,” Jeyne just grumbled. Elaena smiled, memories from her childhood being brought back.

“So,” Jeyne sat up, with a grin. “Are you naming your child after me?”

“Alas, I’m afraid it will not be,” she shook her head, feigning sadness. “One of my maids spoke to a woods witch and she is certain it will be a boy,” her friends laughed. “Gold will be his sword, whatever that means.”

“You did not marry a Lannister, did you?” Jess teased her. The maid had reported many more things about what the woods witch had said, but she did not wish to repeat them here. She’d sent someone to look for her, but the witch could not be found. Through her son the song would be resung and from his blood comes the Prince that was Promised. She remembered enough about the show to know none of those things sounded good.

“Too bad, Jeyne,” Jessamyn gave her a pat on the head. “The woods witch says no Jeyne Royce,” Elaena laughed at Jeyne’s pout.

“I hope you were able to sleep; Cousin Arnold can tell when there are visitors,” Jeyne shuddered after a while. “He howls and howls and sings nasty songs.”

“I-I heard nothing,” Elaena shivered, the very concept of sky cells terrified her. She hated even being near them and could not stand looking at the Moon Door.

“Good,” Jeyne closed her eyes. “Nothing good comes from listening to a madman’s singing.”

“’Tis a shame you did not bring Arnold’s boy,” Jessamyn stretched after a while. “Would have been good for him to see his father,” Elaena did not care for that comment.

“My Lady?” a knock at the door.

“Come on in,” Horas Redfort was a small man, shorter than her by close to two heads and completely bald. Jessamyn’s great-uncle, he was the grandfather of Joffrey Arryn’s new bride. Behind him came her own steward, Ser Gerold, who positively dwarfed the smaller steward.

“We’ve looked over the numbers, My Lady,” Horas passed a sweaty hand over his forehead. “No discrepancies and nothing untoward.”

“Of course,” Jeyne stood up straight. “I’d expect it from Grafton or Moore, but not Elaena,” she held out a hand, waiting for the papers. “Leave us.”

Gerold handed her their own papers, showing her a smile that only she could see, and bowed before leaving with his counterpart. Jeyne had a quick look through them, nodding, before quickly putting on her cloth shoes and walking towards her desk.

“Jess, my love,” she smiled sweetly at Jessamyn. Since they both knew she knew, they had been quite affectionate in front of her. “Could you bring in the hippocras? The mellowest one, warm,” Jessamyn’s eyes narrowed briefly, before walking over to kiss Jeyne in the cheek and leaving for the kitchens. “It will take her time to get it, come sit.”

“You don’t wish for her to be here?” Elaena sat in front of her, a plate full of food to the side.

“Things will go smoother if we deal with this on our own,” Jeyne handed her a thin and long fork. “Are you hungry? Eat some,” the plate had various meats and cheeses. “Try this one, ‘tis ham cured and aged in the mountain air. You’ll take a leg with a you,” Elaena tried it, it was salty and full of flavor. “This sausage is made from a deer hunted by Joffrey and mountain herbs; this cheese comes from the Riverlands and this...”

“Mayhaps we should wait for Jess before eating? And talk now?” Jeyne grimaced.

“Let us pray she does not return before expected,” she took out a map of Gulltown. “Nobles from the Vale have ever been able to own properties and workshops in the city, but before you and Isembard none had ever owned so much of it. Lucas Grafton is unreliable at best and an imbecile at worst, allowing this to happen. He has been selling off far too much of the city to Isembard, and to you.”

“Is this what this is about?” Elaena had come prepared, ready to use as many financial solutions as she could, vetted by her maesters, as she could. “I thought you wanted to increase my taxes,” she always thought it was better to be direct when speaking about coin.

“Your taxes in Gulltown, aye,” Jeyne was biting her lip. “Jess wants me to tax your ventures in Gulltown so that coin would not go to Grafton but to me, and with you as precedent we could extend that tax to everyone else. But I’d rather something else, before meddling too much in the city.”

“What is it?”

“Can’t you just move your properties, the workshops and whatnot, from Gulltown to Moondancer’s Port? And sell the buildings back to Grafton or other merchants who aren’t named Arryn.”

“Moondancer’s Port is small, nowhere near the number of workers that Gulltown has,” Elaena looked down at her papers. “What about the taxes on Runestone then? You said you wished to talk about them.”

“Jess’s uncle thought you were cheating on your taxes,” she waved a hand away, an expression of distaste, “to buy up Gulltown, I told him it was not so, but we still had to see your ledgers.”

“Aye, ‘tis not so. I took a loan out, I’d have thought Jessamyn would have told you, she always seems to hear about everything.”

“Well, she didn’t hear about you being with child,” Jeyne wrinkled her nose. “Who did you borrow from?”

“The Iron Bank.”

“Ugh,” a decidedly unladylike sound came out of Jeyne. “No wonder she did not hear it, Braavosi guard their gold better than their children. Can’t you use that gold to move all the workers? Grafton is too drunk to care.”

“I’ve been trying,” Elaena sighed. “But people would rather not leave their home if they don’t need to. Those moving have been second sons without a place in their father’s workshops and those who live outside the city walls,” under the Old King’s reign the population of Gulltown had nearly doubled, spilling out from its walls.

“Can you not think of a way to move your businesses away from Gulltown? It does not even have to be all of it, just enough that come a few years we do not have to do this again.”

“Not enough ships come by my port, we sell most of our cloth through Gulltown. There are not enough buildings for the workers as well,” she shook her head. “Mayhaps if I could increase the number of docks… a new guild… and have more control over customs and tariffs…”

“Three years,” Jeyne held out three fingers. “I can grant you more freedoms for three years, on the condition that you move as much as you can outside of Gulltown. Then we will discuss its laws and obligations again.”

“Five years,” if she could increase the rights and incomes of the city, she knew she could attract more people. “We are beginning to build, with an increase to the merchants visiting the port, and an increase to the gold coming in, smallfolk will begin moving in larger numbers seeking work. In five years, I will have moved most of my weavers from Gulltown,” she hoped at least. She was not certain when her uncle would die, Helaena’s twins were around four years old in the show, so she suspected she had only that time.

“Five years…” Jeyne was deep in thought. “You seem very certain you will move your weavers in that time.”

“’Twas always the plan. But I thought it would be slower. With increased rights, however, coin would come in, fattening the purses of merchants and workers, attracting more people to fill the port. Then I’d be able to start shifting away from Gulltown and into my lands,” gold would stay in the Port and be used for the Port, maybe even attracting people from outside the Vale.

“So be it,” Jeyne nodded. “I do this out of our friendship, though Jess will be upset. The five years over, we will discuss this again and properly observe what obligations are owed. Increased rights mean increased duties to the Eyrie. For now, let us leave the numbers and details to Horas and your steward.”

Elaena smiled as Jeyne offered her hand. Things had not been as severe as she had feared. She had been planning to turn over her Gulltown possessions to Elaena Royce, a separate person from Lady Royce, and would thankfully not have to risk skirting the law. “You have issues with Isembard, then?”

“Oh, don’t get me started,” Jeyne laughed, just as Jessamyn returned with a servant carrying a large jug. “Set it over there. Come Jess, we are talking about your favorite Arryn.”

Isembard Arryn had been spreading his influence all over the Vale, apparently. Jess had tracked down seven different merchants that he worked through and suspected there were many more. The merchants owned businesses all over the kingdom, but Isembard had them in his payroll. He owned much more than was commonly believed, from inns and mills to brothels and lumberyards.

“His possessions are a net of deceit,” Jessamyn grumbled. “He is cheating on his taxes but we don’t have enough evidence to prove it, and ‘tis likely Grafton knows and keeps silent, paid under the table most like.”

“Ser Mandon says Ser Corwyn wishes to be Knight of the Bloody Gate,” Elaena changed the subject.

“Aye,” they had moved back to the couches, Jeyne leaning on Jess. “He’s a fine knight, but I’ve not made a decision yet.”

“He’s a brute,” Jess dismissed him with a shake of her head. “Him and that brother of his, best suited to hammering each other with blunted swords than ruling a castle,” Jeyne laughed.

“They were always here, you know? I thought they both wished to marry me, but now they are both married, and they remain constant visitors.”

“Corwyn is ambitious, Leowyn hates his wife,” Jessamyn smirked. “He’s also got a mistress in a mill near the Gates of the Moon.”

“Didn’t you say it was a merchant’s daughter in Gulltown?” asked Jeyne.

“Aye, and there’s a third one in Hearth’s Home’s kitchens,” Jessamyn began laughing, mainly at Jeyne’s shocked face. “You are too innocent, love. You should have been here, Elaena,” she was red from laughter, “when I told her she has a baseborn sister in Gulltown.”

“I wanted to bring her to the Eyrie,” Jeyne had an abashed look on her face. “But she’s married and happy and I’d just be meddling.”

Elaena allowed herself just half a cup of watered down hippocras. She’d never cared much for the sweetened wine, Jeyne’s favorite, but ever since her pregnancy she’d been craving sweets and fruit more. They spoke about their shared memories, telling stories about their old friends. When leaving to prepare for the evening’s meal, Elaena could hear Jessamyn begin drilling Jeyne about what they had talked about.

She spent a sennight in the Eyrie. Gerold and Jeyne’s steward discussed numbers, trade, tariffs and solutions—every evening Gerold would show her their day’s work and pass on her corrections and requests the next day. The time she wasn’t spending speaking with Jeyne; she spent in the library looking at illustrated manuscripts. When she was a child the maester didn’t allow her to look at them, but now as an adult she had free reign of the library. Olyvar went down the mountain twice, joining Corwyn Corbray on hunting trips; a group of farmers had complained that a herd of deer was going through their crops.

When the day to leave finally arrived, Moondancer’s Port had acquired an increase in its autonomy and rights. Jeyne wanted Gulltown to remain solely under the influence of the Graftons, and her. She’d been instructed to step back from the city and given free reign over her own port to achieve it. Jessamyn had even promised to step in in case Lord Grafton complained. They would need to speak again afterwards, to set the laws around Moondancer’s Port in stone. Elaena prayed it was during winter, so she’d never have to make the climb again. The climb down was much calmer, the wind was calm and the mule she shared with Olyvar was in a rush and made great time to the second waycastle, the path ahead being gentler.

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Lord Commander Osric Royce had been reading a report from the Shadow Tower when his brother arrived. His blood brother, not black. He’d not seen Gunthor in close to forty years. He’d received ravens from his brother, but Gunthor had not stepped foot in the North since before Osric had taken his vows. Lord Bennard had sent word from Winterfell of his brother’s coming, and the gifts he bore.

Meeting his brother in the courtyard, he’d half expected to see the same boy who he had said goodbye to. The man in front of him was old, nearly as old as him. Gunthor had always been tall, the few years he missed of his youth had only made him taller. Even in the Wall they heard of the Bronze Giant of Runestone, Osric smiled. They embraced as if no days had passed.

Behind Gunthor came a wandering brother, a wagon full of gifts and a group of mangy looking recruits. Osric scowled, it had been far too long since a knight of any repute had come to pledge his sword. He grunted at his personal steward, a Flint from one of its many branches, “Make ready a room for a guest, start a fire in my solar.” Ser Lyle Moreland, the master-at-arms, took charge of the recruits.

“Come, brothers,” he saw Tommard, the First Steward, approaching the wagon. “Let us see what my little brother has brought for us,” the wagon had a few casks of drink, the brothers would appreciate it, whatever it was. Some cheeses and cured meats from the Vale, Gunthor had brought his favorites, Osric smiled at that. And a great many bolts of black cloth.

“This is good wool,” Tommard put on a bolt as a cloak. “Warm too.”

“A gift from Lady Elaena Royce, and from Runestone,” Gunthor’s eyes were fixed on the Wall as he announced the gift givers. He’d have to take his brother to the top, show him the edge of the world and then take him hunting in the Haunted Forest.

“That’s Rhea’s girl, yes? The prince’s daughter?”

“Aye,” Osric remembered Rhea. A tiny girl begging Yorbert to take her on horse rides. “She’s brought many changes to Runestone.”

“If electing a Royce to command,” Pale Pate, a former poacher and the best archer in the Watch, japed, “gets us so many gifts mayhaps we should choose more Royces,” his brothers laughed.

“What say you Gunthor,” he smiled at his brother. “Care to trade your cloak for a black one? Or one of your grandsons?”

“Willam would rather a white cloak and Lady Elaena sent my namesake to the Faith, he’s soon to take his vows as a septon. The other one’s married.”

“I’ve a septon nephew, eh?” Osric could not imagine it.

“Looks just like me,” Gunthor smirked. “A large lad, taller than any around him, in septon’s robes.”

“Come, let the brothers enjoy their new cloaks,” he led his brother to his solar. “Nute,” he saw the cook walking by, “Open one of those casks for dinner tonight, we’re celebrating,” a cheer came from his brothers.

“Winterfell was much chillier than I’d expect it,” Gunthor said once they sat down by the hearth. “I did not see the young new lord, I wished to pay my respects and offer my condolences.”

“Aye,” Osric beckoned his steward, the youth knew more about northern politics than he did. “Some of the lords think Bennard is overstepping his bounds, the lad knows best?”

“Lord Rickon was in talks with the Norrey for a betrothal between Cregan and one of Norrey’s daughters,” Alester Flint had been the youngest of three sons, taking the Black at his eighteenth nameday, only for his two elder brothers to die from a fever and a cousin inheriting their seat. Dornish Pate, one of the older stewards, suspected the cousin was a poisoner. “After his death, Norrey approached Bennard to make the match official, but Bennard refused him and now the Norrey is fuming.”

“Child lords and their regencies are the bane of many a house,” Gunthor complained. “Lady Elaena’s regent was her knave of a father, but he had the decency to leave Runestone well alone and go off galivanting in the east.”

“Tell me about Yorbert’s granddaughter,” Yorbert had been his nephew, but due to the age difference he had been more like an elder brother to him and Gunthor. “We hear very little about the south, but we did hear about the Bronze Wedding, the grandest in the realm to rival Queen Alyssa’s wedding,” he smiled, remembering what Ser Alan Flowers, the Redwyne bastard that commanded Eastwatch had heard from a smuggler.”

“Aye, the lass likes her tourneys,” Alester handed them each a horn of ale. “I half-feared the girl would never marry and stay a maid forever like Jeyne Arryn seems intent on doing but thank the Seven she made up her mind and did not marry a relative. She married one of Jonothor Templeton’s sons.”

“If it’s the same man I think of, wasn’t he older than us?”

“Aye, the same. He took a younger bride. Lady Elaena is clever and hardworking; she’s been making a fortune from wool. My son Gerold feared she would bankrupt us, spendthrift that she is, but for every coin that goes it, it appears that another two come in.”

“The High Septon himself married her?”

“Aye, she made friends with His High Holiness,” no wonder Osric now had a septon for a nephew. “She created some sort of Septon Citadel in Gulltown, they’re all very excited about it. My namesake is studying there, I don’t know if he is forging links or what.”

“She’s very pious then?” at that, Gunthor grimaced.

“She sings the songs and goes nearly daily to the sept and favors motherhouses and septries; a septa holds her closest confidence. But she does not act a septa, at the least,” Gunthor nodded. “Her piety is not excessive, it does not command her actions and her time. When the situation demands piety, she shows it; when it doesn’t, you can forget she is so involved with the Faith.”

Before he could continue learning about his distant niece, a single horn sounded out. When no second horn sounded out, he knew it was rangers returning. Godric Dustin had been out on a ranging up to Hardhome, chasing a group of raiders.

“Come to the Hall, brother, let us break bread,” he led him to the Shieldhall, where the officers and knights ate.

“How long are you staying for? You must join me hunting, the game beyond the Wall has no equal this side of the Narrow Sea.”

“A sennight mayhaps, I’ve spoken to Chiswyck,” the wandering brother. “We’ll leave for the south together.”

“Good,” Osric smiled at his brother. “And mayhaps you will send word down south. We need more men of quality. Honorable knights that take the black have become rarer and rarer. The houses of the south forget us. We do not have the numbers anymore, and those few we have are poachers, rapists, murderers and others of their ilk seeking absolution. We’ve had to abandon Greyguard and I fear Rimegate will be next. When I joined the Watch and old Ser Symond Crane was Lord Commander, there were six thousand black brothers. I command some four thousand and too few knights,” he had to make his brother understand. The Watch was undermanned and in disrepair. “When Aegon landed, we were ten thousand. One hundred years past? We are less than half that number. You must tell Rhea’s girl; she’s niece to a king. We need help, we need more knights. The wildlings grow ever bolder.”

His brother promised to speak with the new Lady Royce. He even spoke of convincing some distant cousins. The sight of the Shieldhall must have unnerved him. They were the watchers on the walls, the shield that guards the realms of men and their Shieldhall, that had once boasted hundreds of knightly sigils now numbered closer to a hundred than a thousand.

“When I joined,” he told Gunthor as they ate. “For every northern highborn there were three southerners. Now? For every northerner there is a southerner. The realm must remember we are here, that we need the swords of brave and honorable knights,” Osric feared the day the south would forget the Night’s Watch, but he feared even more the day the North would as well.

Chapter Text

123 AC

One of the most common foods that commoners ate during winter was pickled fish. It had an overwhelming smell and a powerful taste. Normally, she’d cared little for it, but she’d been craving pickled fish for breakfast almost daily. The cook had sent for a small cask from a fishing village, and it was almost empty now. She was also eating a lot more onions. She was due any day now. Elaena had prepared a room for the birth. It had been cleaned as thoroughly as possible with a soap bought from a Pentoshi trader, and the bed was outfitted with new and clean bed sheets. The maester had talked to her about the process and she’d been surprised to learn she was expected to squat for the babe to come out.

The past month had been quite dull. She’d been unable to leave the castle for long and, if they had had their way, would have been stuck inside her rooms. She saw it in the maester’s eyes, he’d rather she stays still and wait for the babe to come out. She wouldn’t have it, however, so she went on daily walks around the Godswood, spending as much time as she could under the sun and seeing far too many spars, all for the sake of escaping confinement. She understood that horses were no good for a pregnant woman but had not expected that the bouncing of the carriage was also not recommended, so she could not travel her lands as she liked to.

She still worked, however. She saw petitioners, resolved disputes and read through whatever reports needed reading. She’d also spent a fair amount of time sculpting and sewing. Part of her lady’s education did involve sewing and knitting, though she did little of both. Repose and boredom, however, had turned her towards both. She’d made clothes for babies, a scarf for Olyvar, gloves for Septa Roelle and was making a long shawl for herself, so her child could eat in privacy. She was making a statue of herself, for the university. She had mentioned to Olyvar, in passing, a small and growing desire to do so, and he’d encouraged her to do so. She’d sent a message to Septon Robin, the Chancellor of the university, and he’d responded positively, saying that as the founder she was within her rights to do so. She’d gotten the help of Cella and her nieces to create her face, and everyone agreed it looked just like her.

Maester Qarlton had made the final design for the Royce palace in Gulltown. Three floors, a courtyard with space for a small garden, a cellar and offices for Royce business in the city. The Iron Bank had been more than happy to find skilled workers willing to travel to Gulltown to work and teach and they had already arrived. She’d met the foreman, a large bald man with large gold earrings named Olthyn. She had hoped the construction would be fast, but when the Braavosi arrived with their families in tow, she knew it would take years to finish the palace. Construction in Moondancer’s Port was not terribly expensive, so she could focus their efforts on Gulltown. Once there were enough buildings for workshops in her port, she’d start attempting to move people.

That day was the last day of petitions until after the birth. It was as average a day as any: a knight requesting leave to visit a sister, a tanner bearing gifts and wishing to set up shop in her lands, a traveling septon paying his respects and asking for a place to spend the night, and well-wishers. Quite a few of her people had made the journey to Runestone only to wish her fortune and a healthy son—they always offered prayers for a son. As soon as people heard she was with child she began receiving gifts and prayers from her people. They brought crops, dried herbs and woodcrafts to give her.

The night after the first time it happened, she began to cry thinking of their gratitude. She wanted to pay her people back. From both her and her child, she’d be giving chickens and roosters to every village, farm and town in her lands. Whether people chose to have a feast, raise them for eggs or breed their new birds, she wanted to share the growing wealth of house Royce with the people through whose effort it had come to be. They looked after the herds, sheared the sheep and worked the wool; it was thanks to them and their acceptance of her that she had increased her house’s fortunes. Gerold had gone through the numbers, and it would not be particularly costly.

Her cousin Jon, the usual errand boy, was busy with his new keep, so she sent his sons, Allard and Robar, to Gulltown to see to it. One of Gerold’s assistants went with them, to make sure they were not cheated. Eldric accompanied them as well, the three of them were thick as thieves. Eldric now knew his way around coin, better than most noble heirs at least. He’d finished the task she put to him with satisfying results. He’d asked a merchant for the sort of things they bought at Gulltown to carry elsewhere, then he had gone to nearby villages and paid a few coppers to the local children for every mushroom they could find in the forest. With mushrooms in hand, he hired a farmer to dry them for him and sold dried mushrooms to a merchant (after seeing his proud smile, Elaena did not have the heart to tell him he didn’t need a farmer to dry them). They purchased thousands of chickens and roosters, which would begin to make their way through Gulltown in the coming months.

Done with court, a farmer’s complaint that his neighbor’s livestock was grazing on his land, she retired to her rooms. Normally she would have gone to her office, but only her rooms had a comfortable couch near the hearth. She sat by the fire with a blanket on her lap as she continued knitting. To her side, Septa Roelle was going through her messages, decoding the latest from their singer at court. Most were from merchants wishing to visit Runestone, both to greet her and to sell their wares, or from nobles wishing to continue an acquaintance, but there were a few personal letters mixed in.

“Did you read the letter from His High Holiness?” Elaena nodded from the couch. The High Septon had spent nearly an entire turn of the moon in Sunspear before returning to Oldtown. The Prince of Dorne had, at least outwardly, accepted the king’s condolences. The High Septon had attempted to broker a marriage between Martell and Targaryen, but the Prince was not interested in tying his house to the dragon’s. Once more, her uncle was wroth with Dorne’s refusal. In his letter, the High Septon revealed to her that if the Prince could, he would create an ocean between Dorne and the rest of the kingdoms to forever rid himself of Targaryen neighbors.

“Could you hand me my sister’s letter?” Elaena held out her hand after reaching a good stopping point in her shawl. The letters she received from Dragonstone were all in her father’s aggressive and small script, with a few sentences written down in Baela’s large and round letters and Rhaena’s attempts at elegant letters. The latest, however, was entirely in Baela’s hand. The large circles atop the i’s always got a smile out of her. Baela was making good progress in her letters.

Her father and Rhaenyra, along with all seven of their collective children, would be travelling to Runestone. She’d thankfully seen that the small dragons did not eat as much, so feeding only two adult dragons would not prove too difficult. And a side effect of producing so much wool was that her castle was full of spare cloth and bed sheets, so she could provide for many guests. From time to time, weavers seeking her favor would gift her with wall hangings depicting dragons and in Targaryen colors, Daemon and Rhaenyra would surely appreciate their rooms decorated with them.

“Anything new?” she asked after seeing Roelle nodding and carrying the singer’s message to the fire. Today her child was very awake and kicking. She didn’t know it was possible to love someone that much without even meeting them yet.

“The Grand Maester keeps a mistress in the city, a girl from Lys,” Roelle pursed her lips. “The court fool sells information through a brothel, he’ll try to discover which. Prince Aegon has two bastard children, from different mothers; the Queen is doing all she can to keep it quiet but one of the mothers, a young girl, he writes, came to court to ask for gold for her child. Aegon is never seen far from a wineskin,” Roelle sighed. “They’re planning a tourney to celebrate the first nameday of your cousin’s twins. Your uncle seems to be in better health.”

“If anyone ever says I should foster my children at court, be sure to remind them the sorts of things that happen there,” it was not a good environment to raise children. Everyone had a secret plot and a secret lover.

“Your uncle, Ser Gunthor, sent word,” Roelle held out a letter. “Lord Coldwater’s great grandnephew is joining the Night’s Watch,” her uncle had returned from the Wall with a mission: to convince as many knights as he could to join the Night’s Watch and help his brother. She’d decided to help, making gifts of warm cloaks, weapons and strong shields to those who volunteered. She was certain there were no white walkers in these times, but better safe than sorry. How people described Others made them sound quite more terrifying than the white walkers she had seen. She prayed to never see a giant ice spider. So far, a few distant cousins who stood to inherit nothing, and a bastard uncle she never knew she had, had volunteered. Gunthor had gone north to visit Lords Coldwaters and Tollet to find any other volunteers. Elaena was also quite confident in guessing that he’d left to avoid seeing her father.

“I should send invitations to the lords for the child naming ceremony,” it would not be a particularly large ceremony, Septon Lomas would hold it at the castle’s sept. “To the vassal knights as well, I’ve not spoken much to Ser Andrik Shett,” the knight of the Gull Tower, one of her most important vassals. “He has a daughter of ten, I believe. I intend to ask my father for my sisters to ward at Runestone, I would like to invite her to become their companion.”

“M’lady?” one of her maidservants, Tansy, went through the door. “M’lord bid me tell you dragons are approaching.”

“That was fast… Won’t you help me up?” Elaena held out both of her arms. She swore her baby was heavy enough to break records. The maester had assured her it wasn’t twins, but the weight had her doubting.

She walked towards the courtyard; Olyvar was fast to notice her coming and rushed towards her to help her down the few steps in her way. In the distance, she could make out a group of flying dragons. Two large ones surrounded by a bunch of smaller ones flapping around them.

“I can recognize Caraxes now,” Olyvar was squinting. “There’s a gold one next to it, too large to be Prince Aegon’s dragon.”

“Rhaenyra’s Syrax is gold as well,” she’d been introduced to Syrax years ago. “I can’t see anyone riding it, can you?”

“I can’t,” Olyvar shook his head.

When Caraxes landed outside their open gates, Syrax, with its empty saddle, landed behind it, followed by the five small dragons. Her father dismounted with practiced ease, whispering something in Syrax’s ear and calming the dragon, who was looking around searching for something. Caraxes, already familiar with Runestone, herded the smaller dragons towards an empty hill nearby; Syrax did not wish to be left alone and followed as well.

“She’s looking for Rhaenyra,” Daemon explained. He walked forwards, looking her up and down. She thought he could see hesitation in his eyes, before he hugged her. “You look well, that’s good,” he turned to Gerold, recognizing her steward. “Have someone bring in food for the dragons, that’ll calm Syrax down until Rhaenyra arrives. Prepare a horse for me, I’ll go escort her from Moondancer’s Port.”

“Moondancer’s Port?” Elaena was surprised; her visitors usually arrived at Gulltown. Her port was closer to Runestone, but it involved a longer ship ride.

“Aye,” her father smiled. “Baela insisted that Jace had to see her dragon’s town,” he began stretching, easing the cramps from dragonriding. “Rhaenyra did not mind the longer journey.”

“Willam, prepare an escort for Princess Rhaenyra, you’ll lead,” she turned to her cousin, ever eager to look good in front of her relatives and prove himself worthy of a white cloak. “Prepare my carriage as well, it’ll be more comfortable for the younger children,” Willam nodded and left for the barracks. “Would you care for something warm to drink while we wait?” she turned to her father.

“Aye,” Daemon looked towards the building behind her. “But only after you sit down somewhere.”

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Rhaenyra was thankful Moondancer’s Port was not terribly far. Going around the peninsula had not delayed them long. Her personal ship, the Queen Aemma, a large galley with three hundred oars, made good time and soon they were dropping anchor. Baela was the most excited, she had not been to the Port in a long time and was excited to show it off. Aegon was ready to run off, trying to tear himself away from Elinda’s arms, he’d been fussy the entire journey; Viserys was behaving much better, asleep in her arms. He pouted like her father, she thought fondly.

“My Princess,” the captain, a knight who once served Corlys, bowed by her cabin’s entrance. “Targaryen and Royce banners await in the docks, Prince Daemon leads them.”

“Marya, take Viserys and Aegon to the nursemaid,” she handed her sleeping youngest to Harwin’s youngest sister. Marya Strong and her sister had been her ladies-in-waiting for over ten years; Marya was waiting for her brother to find a good matches for her, but Lord Larys was dragging his feet. Falyse had married Lord Darry, her father had arranged the match not long before his death. “Lodd, have everything packed and ready to leave,” she ordered the chief servant. “Captain, we’ll be staying in the Vale for a moonturn or so. There is plenty of coin for you to purchase cloth, sell it in Pentos and buy what’s on this list,” she’d worked with Daemon to make the list: spices, silks and gemstones for Dragonstone. The captain bowed once more, taking the parchment.

Elinda helped her change into a black dress with dragon wings stitched in rubies over her chest, calling attention to it. A chain of small dragons made from gold, their wings interlocked, served as straps for her dress, decorating her bare shoulders. Marya returned just in time to set her hair, lately she’d been quite fond of wearing a hennin, shaped like dragon’s horns, but today, after days of not seeing him, she wished to wake something in Daemon, and he loved her silver hair; so Marya braided it just the way she liked it. A heavy necklace with a pink diamond held on a dragon’s open maw hung between her breasts. Once ready, she stepped out on the deck, the children already waiting.

“Rhaenyra,” Daemon called out with a smile as soon as he saw her. He got off his horse and up into her ship with the speed of a man possessed, got on one knee and kissed her hand, making her blush. “I dreamed of you, alone in Dragonstone,” his eyes, of intense dark purple, bored into her, looking her up and down as if he’d never seen her before. If the gods of their ancestors smiled at them, soon he’d give her a daughter of her own. A little princess to spoil and love.

The small port town was not particularly impressive. One of her cousin’s knights, a Ser Willam, led them through the streets towards an extravagant carriage; likely the one her father had given Elaena. Most buildings were still being built; there were mules dragging cartfulls of stone or wood everywhere and the few finished buildings were all large blocks of wood. The market, however, was much more interesting. Open stalls displayed multiple lord’s ransoms worth of cloth, merchants moving all around them and stopping just enough time to bow to them before going back to browsing cloth. She knew her younger cousin had a knack for counting coppers and increasing the coffers of Runestone, but seeing the cloth displayed before her, she realized that Elaena mayhaps warranted a higher degree of attention.

“They make all that cloth in those workshops over there,” she heard Baela tell her sons, pointing at the blocks of wood. “Elaena showed us how they work the looms and how they color the thread.”

“How many merchants visit this port, ser?” she turned to Ser Willam.

“My apologies, princess. I know not, but my father will know. As would Lady Elaena,” the knight was large. Near Harwin’s size if not a tad larger. “Allow me, princess,” he opened the carriage door for her and her ladies. Now she remembered, this was the knight who had defeated her Daemon during the melee, Ser Willam Royce.

The further they got from the market and the port, the more workers she saw. There were men with shovels, men with hammers and mules dragging even more tools. Her Aegon had stated he would ride with his father or not leave the ship at all, so only Viserys joined her in the carriage. Her boys all had ponies of their own now and all insisted on riding to Runestone. It was only yesterday when her Jace and Luke were crawling in her bedchambers, demanding their mother’s attention, and now they were old enough to ride on their own. Even Joffrey had demanded his own pony. Her little knight in the making, twice as bold as his older brothers and thrice as impatient.

“Look at all the sheep, Viserys,” she bounced her youngest on her knee. The road to Runestone was well maintained and thankfully flat. On both sides she saw herds of sheep, peacefully grazing. Whenever the peasantry saw the Royce banner carried by one of the knights, cheers went out, calls of “Runestone!” and “Lady Elaena!” and a few cheers for her father, from those few peasants that saw the Targaryen banner.

Runestone was a stout castle. That was the best compliment she could give. It was not one of the grandest, nor one of the better looking castles. It was defensible, with thick and tall walls behind a ditch and a strong gatehouse boasting an iron portcullis and a heavy wooden door banded with iron. It was the older sort of castle, if she remembered her lessons correctly it was the kind that was in fashion nine hundred years ago. Four tall square towers stood in every corner; newer round towers had been built halfway between them. The caste town was surprisingly large, but it shouldn’t surprise her, having seen the wealth flowing out of her cousin’s lands.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” various Royces knelt before her as Daemon opened the carriage door and offered his arm.

“I told Elaena to go sit down somewhere,” her Daemon whispered. “She’s very large. The babe will be born soon,” Rhaenyra took his arm and smiled at the household.

“Stand,” Rhaenyra commanded. She recognized Ser Olyvar in front of the group. She’d met the knight before, though had cared little to notice him then. He was tall but likely seemed of average height when next to her tall cousin, with brownish blonde hair and pale blue eyes, as well as the nose she’d seen in a few Vale lordlings and in Jeyne. Hugor’s nose mayhaps? She thought with some humor. He was more pretty than handsome. “Ser Olyvar,” she acknowledged the knight.

“In the name of Lady Elaena Royce, we welcome you to Runestone,” a servant held a plate with bread and salt for her and her party. “We have made rooms ready for you, Princess.”

“Lead me to them,” she turned around to look for her sons, smiling when she saw them follow Baela and Rhaena somewhere. “I’m afraid someone will need to escort my sons to their rooms some other time.”

The keep’s doors were quite impressive. A bronze relief made by Elaena, as Baela and Rhaena were always happy to mention when describing the castle. She’d have to get a proper look at it, under the morning sun. The halls were clean and well lit, covered with wall hangings and tapestries. Behind the high seat hung a masterful painting of Elaena. The painting looked just like her and was terribly lifelike. She’d have to ask for the painter’s name and invite him to Dragonstone.

“These are your rooms, Princess,” the rooms were adequate. Smaller than the ones in Dragonstone, dwarfed by those in the Red Keep, but well-furnished and decorated in the colors of her house. The sheets were soft, the mattress sturdy and the adjoining rooms for her youngest sons and ladies were connected to hers. Daemon had already made himself at home, one of his cloaks hanging from a chair.

“This will do,” she gifted a smile to Ser Olyvar, before turning to her escort. “Ser Lorent, speak to the guards to arrange your watch,” the Kingsguard bowed, leaving Ser Steffon behind. “Elinda, see about arranging things how I like them. Molly,” her maidservant, “I would like a bath tonight,” Elinda got to work, ordering her maids around, while Molly left to find and heat water.

“Elaena fell asleep,” Daemon wandered in from another hallway. “Come, Syrax will be cross with us if we don’t take you to her,” he picked up Aegon and offered her his arm. “You,” he pointed at a servant, “bring those blankets.”

Her uncle escorted her to visit her girl, Syrax. The dragon had missed her, and she had missed her. They brought Aegon and Viserys, best to get them used to dragons at a young age. They sat on soft wool blankets next to their dragons, Aegon recognized Stormcloud and wanted to go running after him, but she held her boy close. She sang an old Valyrian lullaby to Syrax, her mother had taught it to her and she’d in turn sung it to her own children. Syrax relaxed as soon as she’d seen her and soon fell asleep listening to her song, and her children were quick to follow in the dragon’s footsteps. Caraxes, fussy like Daemon, curled up around him, nipping at the smaller dragons, keeping them in line.

“I’ll be going to the Eyrie,” she always spoke in High Valyrian to her husband when they were alone, and when she didn’t want people to listen in on them. “Can you look after the boys? I want to take Jace to meet his aunt and future vassal,” Jeyne would one day be one of Jace’s greatest supporters, just as she was now one of hers. She’d not been able to visit with her in too long and it would do her good to meet the Lords of the Vale. These days she did not get many chances to travel the realm, like she had before marrying Laenor. The lords close to Dragonstone visited, but distant lords had few opportunities to see their future queen.

“When are you going? Will you wait for the birth?” Daemon spoke with a slight Pentoshi accent, from his stay in the city; she quite liked it. “I had a talk with the maester, to make sure he’s skilled enough for my daughter,” he smirked, “and he says the birth will be within the sennight.”

“I’ll go after it,” she beckoned one of her maidservants. They were always nervous around Syrax, but her girl would not attack anyone without her leave. “My arms are falling asleep, take the children to my rooms.”

“You look beautiful,” Daemon sat next to her, his hand exploring her body. “We’ve a few hours before dinner…” she bit her lip, looked up at him, and gave him a shy nod.

“Ser Steffon, would you please go look for my sons and stepdaughters? Daemon and Syrax will guard me,” her white shadow bowed and left, leaving her alone with her husband. “My love,” she exhaled into his mouth as he kissed her.

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“Princess,” Elaena, holding on to his arm, curtsied as best she could. “’Tis good to see you cousin.”

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Princess Rhaenyra liked to smile, or so it seemed to Olyvar, as the princess smiled at his wife.

Dinner was much louder than usual, the table being so full of children, between the Royal ones, Mya’s and Eldric. A lone harpist accompanied their meal, singing ballads from the Vale, both old and new, but was barely heard. Darryn of the Silver Fingers came from the Fingers and had apprenticed with Waltyr, one of the first musicians who had learnt from Olyvar. His voice was rough, but no other living man played the harp like Darryn. They were still looking for a musician to send off to Dragonstone, but even though Darryn was skilled, Olyvar was unsure he would be a good fit.

Any attempts at conversation were drowned by the laughter of the children, but Olyvar didn’t think there was a problem. The table at Ninestars was always quiet, his father didn’t care to listen to children being loud. He squeezed his wife’s hand. Elaena squeezed him back; she was listening to her sisters recount their journey from Dragonstone. Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra were whispering at each other’s ears while smiling. The Princess was blushing. The Targaryens had odd customs, but his father had always told them that it was because they were closer to gods than to men and their ways are the ways of the dragons they ride. Olyvar knew his father was still enamored with his time in King Jaehaerys’s court, but he when he saw his wife he could not help but think she truly was closer to a goddess than a regular woman. Sitting there, with her sisters, her father and her cousin, the princess, the family resemblance was undeniable. The dark-haired sons of the princess were all dragonriders, his wife could likely be one as well. Could their children?

“Elaena,” Rhaenyra stood and lifted her cup. “To a good birth, cousin, and a fast recovery,” Olyvar drank to that. Rhaenyra put her hand on top of Daemon’s. “If you have a daughter, she would make a great wife for Aegon. There would be no other lady of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror whose line has not been thinned by weakness,” his goodfather laughed. Even in Runestone they had heard how Aegon the Elder’s son had more fingers than normal and how his daughter never cried, and how men already whispered that she was simple. “We are the descendants of a culture six thousand years old, cousin. Keeping our blood strong, keeps our family strong,” the princess sat back. “I am certain my father would agree with me if I were to grant your daughter a dragon’s egg as a gift for her betrothal.”

Elaena gripped his hand under the table, her face tense. He knew what she thought about incestuous marriages. But Olyvar would say yes. A princely match and a dragon egg? He would always say yes. Elaena was very certain it would be a boy; she took the maidservant’s words as absolute. Olyvar had seen a witch once, in the mountains near Ninestars, seen her work her magic. But he did not believe they knew the future.

“Don’t tease my daughter,” Prince Daemon kissed his wife’s hand. “She was raised properly by her septa and thinks us all sinners and monsters,” Olyvar tensed, but the prince’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Ask her in sixteen years, then we’ll see if her tune’s changed. And the dowry will be quite bigger.”

“You are no monsters,” his wife spoke, tension leaving her hand. “I do not want to make matches for my children before they learn to walk, let alone before they are born,” Elaena’s hand searched for Rhaena’s, who was sitting next to her. Olyvar knew that Elaena’s sisters had been promised to the princes not long after their birth.

“As you say,” the princess did not seem pleased. “I had hoped you’d agree. I would have even flown to Dragonstone for an egg for your child. But so be it,” the princess began to speak with her husband in an old language, likely Valyrian.

“If something goes wrong,” his wife whispered. “Do not let our child marry family,” Olyvar vowed to do so. He had found love, his children should as well, no?

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Early in the morning, before dawn, his wife woke up grunting. The bed was wet; the babe was coming. He helped her up, screaming at a servant to fetch the maester, and led his wife to the birthing room. Both maesters arrived soon, but to Olyvar it felt like an eternity. The midwives were not far behind. Elaena was particular about cleanliness, and thankfully the maesters listened to his wife. Maester Rookwill bid every midwife to cleanse herself and even looked under their nails for dirt.

“Ser Olyvar,” Maester Qarlton spoke kindly. “Leave it to us, wait outside.”

He looked towards his wife, who was much more serene than him. She sat atop the bed, her back supported by one her maids, breathing calmly. She nodded and smiled. He left the room, knowing then and there his wife was as brave as any knight. He sat in a bench, his eyes fixed on the door. So focused was he that he did not notice Prince Daemon sit next to him, carrying one of his sleeping daughters, the other rubbing her eyes, trying to stay awake. Princess Rhaenyra sat next to Daemon.

“Ser Lorent heard you and woke us, he had orders,” Rhaenyra explained. “The girls did not wish to miss it.”

Olyvar nodded. He was unsure of what he was supposed to do. Septa Roelle and his sister were next to arrive. He’d never been particularly close to his eldest sister; she had married before he had been born. He didn’t hear whatever she ordered, but a servant arrived with sweetened wine. It was hot, and it banished some of his nerves away.

When Elaena’s sister woke up, Prince Daemon revealed his nerves. He began pacing through the hallway, biting his fingernails and jumping at the slightest sound from behind the door. It was quiet, though he did not know if it was because it hadn’t started or because the entire room was covered in cloth. The sun was beginning to rise and the other knight of the Kingsguard arrived with two princes in tow. The eldest two.

“Tell us about Ninestars,” the princess spoke, smiling kindly at her husband and grabbing his hand, inviting him to seat. “How are children raised in your halls, Ser Olyvar? I believe I met your father during my tour, years ago.”

“My father served as a squire at the court of King Jaehaerys,” Olyvar did not know where to begin. “He had the honor of squiring for Ser Ryam Redwyne. He wished for his sons to be knights, and we were raised to be knights,” the princes leaned on their mother, one on every side, eyes fixed on him.

“At what age did you see your first dead? At what age did you kill your first man?” Prince Daemon asked, likely judging him for the first time.

“I was seven, mayhaps six, when he took me to first execution,” Prince Daemon nodded, though the princess seemed scandalized. “A raider they’d caught,” he took a breath to gather his thoughts, hearing voices from behind the door. “Six-and-ten when I first killed a clansman, but it did not earn me my spurs, not yet. My father does not believe in coddling his sons, or grandsons. Silks are for women; steel is for men; knighthood is to be hard-earned. He’d send us away into the nearby forest, my nephews and I, to make camp and sleep under the stars,” he smiled, remembering fond memories. “We’d have to make fire, hunt and cook our own food and seek refuge when there was rain. My nephew Luceon,” who was more like a brother, “used to build traps to catch rabbits.”

“How old were you?” asked Prince Jacaerys, eyes open wide.

“I was ten, Luceon was nine, when father first sent us out. I was three-and-ten when he first sent me as a squire to follow the knights chasing after clansmen,” he thought it best not to mention the nights under the rain, the thrashings, the spars that lasted hours and the times he had tied himself to his horse because his father wished for them to learn how to sleep on their saddle. Jonothor Templeton was a hard man who wanted his heirs to be hard. “My sisters, however,” he coughed. “Father had them learn music and sewing.”

“Though it seems you took the best to the music lessons,” his eldest sister sighed, sitting by the door. “He raised you as he was raised, Grandfather was much the same, though even more indulgent with his daughters.”

“That is no way to raise children,” the Princess said. “You were not raised like that, and you are a great warrior,” she told her husband, who merely shrugged, his eyes always going for the door. The princess held her children close to her, kissing both on the top of their heads. Olyvar’s mother had died of a fever before he could know her, but the princess reminded him of his brother’s wife, who had been the closest thing to a mother that he ever knew. She had tried to stop his father from being so strict with them, but Jonothor Templeton would not have anyone questioning him in hall and threatened to send her away. Oft Olyvar had wished he’d known his mother. When a scream was heard through the door, he prayed his own children would.

“Have you chosen names already?” one of Elaena’s sisters asked, he thought it may be Baela.

“Aye, Rhea for a girl,” Prince Daemon scoffed. “Samwell for a son,” both of their families had had Samwells before, he’d had an uncle named Samwell, though he never met him. He liked the name, a warrior’s name. And Elaena had mumbled something about Sam sounding right to her tongue. A great shout came from the door. After a moment, Maester Qarlton came out, a tired smile on his face.

“Her Ladyship is well, tired, but well,” Prince Daemon sat, relieved. “You’ve a son, My Lord.”

"Oh," one of the twins stood. "Grandmother wanted to be here!"

Chapter Text

123 AC

Elaena was in love. After just a few days the maesters had cleared her to leave her room and go back to her usual routine, and she’d spent most of her time with her son. She’d gone back to her own rooms and he with her, his crib close to her bed as she’d have it no other way. One of her maidservants would take on the responsibilities of a nursemaid, but she’d not been willing to separate from her son just yet. They’d tried to bring in a wet nurse, but she’d refused, saying “if the Mother Above did not mean for me to nurse my own baby, then she wouldn’t have given me the parts needed.”

Samwell was looking all around him; she didn’t know at what age he’d finally be able to properly see. His eyes were a very light blue, but they’d be changing in just a few moons. Sticking out from under a wool cap, he had a few tufts of blonde hair, slightly lighter than Olyvar’s. Maester Rookwill, one of the oldest people in the castle, claimed it reminded him of her grandmother, Arya Belmore; while her father said the lighter blonde clearly came from the Good Queen, that it was the tone of honey. Samwell did not yet have enough hair to give a proper answer. He was a large baby, over ten pounds.

She sat on her couch, next to small table, bundled under a few blankets as late year mornings were quite chilly, and she knew the fireplace’s smoke would be no good for a babe. She was going through harvest yield reports, with a map of the region included. They had to decide which fields would be left fallow and turned into grazing ground and which would be worked come the new year. Gerold had papers on the price of onions, garlic and the few other cash crops they grew. They measured harvests by the cartload, and they’d had a good year with a slight increase in the number of carts. It was well known that grazing animals were good for fallow fields, and the increase in herds had begun to show improvement of their fields.

“Gerold is concerned about wolves,” Olyvar sat next to her. He’d been quite awkward around Samwell, not knowing how to carry him and nervous when trusted with him. “Too many sheep might attract wolves, particularly to the west, near the mountains.”

“What does Gerold think should be done?”

“Be ready for wolf hunts,” Olyvar shrugged, eyes fixed on their son. “Nothing else we can do, mayhaps have more dogs following the herds?”

“Will you lead the hunts if it comes to that?”

“Aye,” he stretched, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Would give the lads the chance to test their archery skills,” they had found a carpenter in Gulltown who had once apprenticed under a bowyer, he had agreed to move to the castle town to craft bows for them. They’d commissioned three hundred longbows for the garrison and several of their knights. She had tried pulling one of the bows and found she wasn’t strong enough to pull it all the way. “Calton is the best bowman in the garrison,” he’d once won one of her archery contests. “He’s been teaching the rest of us but we’ve not had the chance to shoot at something that’ll fight back.”

“He’s falling asleep,” she whispered as her Sam’s eyelids began to close. “Tansy, will you take him to his crib?” the maidservant carefully picked him up and carried him away. “How is the armory?” she laid her head on Olyvar’s shoulder; sleep threatened to take her.

“They’ve gone through nearly every tent,” they were turning every wedding tent into armor. “A few hundred brigandines with their riveted iron plates and the rest are gambesons. The castle’s smith has been hammering away, making arrow tips and spearpoints,” massed bowmen were her answer to dragons. She was well aware that no bow could do anything to a dragon but, if fortune smiled at them, they could hit the rider and hopefully deter them. She hoped dragons weren’t vengeful creatures who would burn the archers that felled their rider. “Master Hallyck,” the carpenter-turned-bowyer, “has agreed to take on the task of making arrow shafts when he’s finished with the bows.”

Olyvar had taken on most of the martial responsibilities of the castle. He’d begun to oversee the armory and the schedules of which knight was sent to which village for training. The next time the clansmen attempted anything in Royce lands, Olyvar would lead the knights in the chase after them.

“Ser Humfrey sent a request,” the landed knight who guarded Moondancer’s Port, “quite a few of the poor of Gulltown have made their way to the port and he does not believe he has enough men to keep crime at bay. He has just enough men for the gates and for the odd patrol.”

“Send twenty guardsmen, to bolster security, under the command of whichever man you think best.”

“As you say. He is concerned about pirates as well, the sea wall is not particularly large and the city walls facing the sea are only wood.”

“What can we do?” Moondancer’s Port was close enough that a group of horsemen could reach it quickly, but mayhaps not quickly enough to defend the town from pirates.

“He wants a scorpion. To shoot at any attacking ships from the top of his tower. And thinks a second tower on the other side of the harbor would be a grand idea.”

“See to it. The ship that Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys gave us for our wedding will guard the Port whenever it’s not at sea,” it was on the larger side, two hundred oars, boasting a ram and scorpions of its own, as well as a handsome hold to fill with cloth. “As for another tower… I’ll speak with Maester Qarlton. I’m afraid I know not where scorpions are made.”

“Gulltown, most like.”

“And,” she yawned, “the mines?”

“There are a few good caves, there’s one under a big hill. I think that one’s the best for a refuge,” she closed her eyes. “A few doors and mayhaps we dig out an additional exit and it’ll do.”

She fell asleep there in his arms. Once Olyvar noticed the change in her breathing, he carried her to the bed and left for the yard. A few minutes later, before a candle had the chance to melt, crying woke her up—Samwell was hungry.

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Her sisters were quite enamored with the idea of being aunts, despite technically already being aunts, to Rhaenyra’s children. They were used to babes, however, so they soon grew bored of watching Samwell sleep. Mya had taken her girls to their new keep, teaching them how to outfit a castle and run a household; so, Baela and Rhaena were kept without playmates. Her sisters had even brought half a dozen dolls (beautifully made, from Pentos) to play with Mya’s girls; so now they were playing a game about ancient Valyria, and their dolls were the Dragonlords. Sometimes they managed to rope Lucerys and Joffrey into their games. Eldric was quick, as usual, to take the princes under his wing, teaching them disarming techniques and helping them with their sparring.

With Rhaenyra away at the Eyrie with Jacaerys, her father had been tasked with looking after Elaena’s young brothers. He’d left it all to a wet nurse and Rhaenyra’s ladies, of course, but did spend time playing with the boys when they were in the mood. He’d taken a shine to Sam; he was often bringing little Viserys to her rooms on his visits to his first grandson. Aegon sometimes joined them on his visits, but the older toddler preferred chasing after Joffrey and Lucerys. Laying next to each other, her father swore that Samwell’s hair was the gold to Viserys’s silver. Under a certain light she could mayhaps see it, but she was uncertain if it was so—he really did have so little hair.

“Just you wait for that Hightower cunt to be out of the way,” Daemon told her one day. “And I’ll make a dragonrider out of this little one.”

“An egg would have to hatch for that to happen,” she sighed. Her own petrified egg remained on her mantlepiece.

“Pah,” he sneered. “The egg we gave Viserys has also not hatched, they’ll grow and claim grown dragons. Like I did. Vermithor and Silverwing have remained without riders for too long.”

That seemed to be Sam’s cue to begin fidgeting, hungry. She put on her shawl, picked him up and fed him. Her father turned away, picked up Aegon and began tickling him, provoking a laughing fit. Her brother was a happy child, all toothy smiles and easy laughs. He seemed to understand she was his sister, like Baela and Rhaena, but she was still not sure he fully comprehended it. He called her “Enna”. His hair was a very pale silver, and his eyes were a very dark purple.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she sat in front of her father, who managed to keep his eyes on hers, ignoring Samwell’s noise under her shawl. “I would like for Baela and Rhaena to ward at Runestone for a time.”

“Take Aegon too, why don’t you?” her father grimaced, Aegon bit him. “Damned little dragon, you don’t bite people,” her brother merely laughed. “How long do you want them for? I’ve things to teach them.”

“A year, two years, longer mayhaps,” she shifted Sam to the other side.

“Well… it would do them good to spend time with a lady, Rhaenyra is far too busy with her duties, and the boys, to teach them their more womanly duties,” despite telling Aegon not to bite, he began teasing him, poking his mouth with his finger. “It’d be best they learn such with family instead of servants. Rhaenys is like to ask the same of me.”

“Then?”

“You can have them for a year, but I’ll need them back. There are lessons they can only learn from me,” Aegon finally managed to bite him, though he didn’t bite down hard. “And Rhaenys will be quite cross if I don’t send them her way. When are you having the naming ceremony?”

“Six moons from now, when he’s strong enough to be presented to everyone.”

“I’ll prepare things, bring them to stay then. You have your hands full with my grandson now,” he managed to free his finger, and began throwing Aegon into the ceiling. “I’ll prepare what they’ll need and give you instructions then and there.”

“You’d think the naming ceremony would be another custom you’d hate,” Samwell finished eating, she got him out from under her shawl, put a small piece of cloth over her shoulder and began to pat him.

“It’s harmless enough,” he shrugged. “I had one, Rhaenyra had one, you had one, the girls had one, the boys had one. It’s just a septon saying some words and the lords clapping as if the babe was Aegon come again.”

“All right,” Samwell began nodding off.
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When Samwell turned a month old, Rhaenyra returned from the Eyrie. She had stayed for a fortnight or so at the Eyrie with Jeyne and had returned to Runestone to stay but a few days more. The captain of their ship would soon be on his way back to port to take them back. Every few days or so, Rhaenyra would fly back to Runestone, spend some time with her two youngest, then return to the Eyrie, all within the same day. Joffrey had gone to Daemon and Rhaenyra and demanded to be a squire in the Vale when Eldric became a knight. Her father then began spending his time in the yard again, watching Eldric spar with the other squires.

“When are you knighting the Arryn boy?” he’d asked Olyvar during dinner.

“We’ll take him to fight clansmen when he’s six-and-ten,” her father grunted and said no more about Joffrey’s squiring, though he kept watching the yard. Rhaenyra did not say anything, at least not to Elaena.

After she’d asked, Mya sent her three youngest to Runestone to play with her sisters, the eldest staying back for lessons. She’d make sure her nieces would be at Runestone when her sisters came and invite the daughters of her chief vassals. They could all take their lessons together, she’d tell the maester to expand their lessons—she’d have them all learn more than what women usually would.

If they were a tad older, she’d also offer to ward Aegon and Viserys, and she was already considering hiding them away at Runestone when bloodshed began. She remembered seeing them at the Eyrie in the show, with a Jeyne that looked little like the Jeyne she knew, so she was certain she could convince Daemon and Rhaenyra to send them her way instead. Samwell was the same age as Helaena’s children, judging by the tv series, she had around four years left to prepare. She had to try to get her hand on Helaena and her children; she knew what her father was capable of, and she had to try and rob him of the opportunity.

She was going out for a walk in the Godswood with Samwell when she came upon Rhaenyra, who was with her two youngest. They sat under the heart tree, on a wool blanket. Rhaenyra was reading a book on the history of the Vale while her children played with colored wooden blocks.

“Well met, cousin,” Elaena approached them. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra smiled at Sam. “Daemon is quite happy you know? I’d not seen him like that since Viserys was born.”

“You are reading our histories?” the book focused on the reigns of the last four kings of Mountain and Vale.

“Jeyne had quite a few guests,” she closed the book. “Young knights I’d not met before. I’ve invited a few to a ball in Dragonstone for my nameday, and lordlings are always proud when you know their histories,” she took out a block from Aegon’s mouth. “I’d invite you cousin, but you’ve a little one of your own to concern yourself with,” her nameday was on the second month of the year.

“I’ve always wanted to ask,” she sat next to Rhaenyra. “What does ruling Dragonstone entail?”

“I’m afraid it’s all quite dull. Uncle Aemon’s old records speak of docking fees, tariffs and the like; but ever since Corlys built up his Spice Town, trade rarely passes through Dragonstone. Most of our income comes from the Royal Fleet, they dock at Dragonstone, and we charge the crown for it. The lords of the Narrow Sea pay their taxes to me, and we’ve farmlands enough to make profit.”

“What do you use the gold for?”

“Maintaining the castle and fleet, paying my retainers and garrison,” Rhaenyra looked at her ring. “Everything else is for the Princess of Dragonstone’s expenses. Our grandfather, Baelon, and Queen Alysanne, set up some sort of fund for the island’s smallfolk; part of our coin goes for that as well. The steward handles all the copper counting. Daemon sends some of our gold to Corlys for trade, and Corlys sends us the profit.”

“Do you command the fleets that dock at Dragonstone?”

“The Master of Ships does,” Rhaenyra grinned. “Or at least he thinks he does, there is not a captain in the fleet who doesn’t look to Corlys for their orders. Poor Ser Tyland merely warms the council’s seat.”

“Do you hold court in Dragonstone?”

“Once a moon,” Aegon began digging with a stick. “My vassal lords live mostly on islands and the coasts of the Narrow Sea, so I hold court when the tides are calm, and they can make the trip. As for the peasantry?” she shrugged. “They rarely seek justice from me. They consider us gods, you know? Many of them do not dare to even look at me. There are local judges in place. You hold court very often, no?” Rhaenyra leaned forward, purple eyes shining bright under the sun. “I hear they come with the pettiest of complaints.”

“They like being heard. A good liege creates good vassals,” her book had a few stories with that lesson. A vassal could not be good, virtuous and lawful if the liege wasn’t good, virtuous and lawful. A bad or cruel king will see a once loyal vassal turn disloyal. Loyalty and vassalage went both ways.

“Mayhaps,” Rhaenyra gave her a half-smile. “I’ll have to try once I’m queen, the smallfolk of Dragonstone are stuck in their own ways.”

“Have you read my book of stories? The one I gave Baela and Rhaena. I’ve hidden away little kernels of wisdom in the tales.”

“I have not, but my boys have,” she picked Viserys up. “I’ll read it to these two.”

“When you are queen,” Viserys was trying to pull at his mother’s locks. “What will you do?”

“Do?”

“Aye. What will you change?”

“Well,” she had a serious look on her face. “Otto Hightower will be gone, of course. I’ll give him the honor of escorting the former queen back to Oldtown. As for my Hand…” when Rhaenyra was deep in thought she tended to put her index finger over the lips. “I don’t think Corlys would ever forgive me if I didn’t think of him first, but he is quite old. Hmm, Lord Axel Sunglass is clever and dutiful; he’d be my second choice.”

“Not Daemon?” Rhaenyra laughed, she had a very musical laugh.

“He has no patience for it, and no taste as well. I know him well, so I’ll have to do the whole dance and mummer’s act, so he won’t be cross, but he won’t be my Hand. He’ll support my rule and assist me, but not like that.”

“What else?”

“Master of Ships will be trouble. Aegon, stop that,” her brother had begun to drop fistfuls of dirt on their blanket. “Molly, take Aegon and clean him up. Clean under the nails,” the maid, who’d been sitting quietly in a nearby bench, picked the prince up despite his complaints and walked away with him. “As much as I’d want to, I cannot afford to send Lannister away and insult Casterly Rock. Tyland is not half as bad as Jason, but I still can’t stand the man. If the Gods are good and my father lives for many more years, Luke will be old enough to take his seat in my council. The Lannisters may grumble but will not be able to complain if it’s a prince who takes their place.”

“Jason Lannister does seem to be terribly prickly,” she’d met him at her wedding.

“I’d do away with Ironrod as well. The man’s a bore and his breath stinks,” she wrinkled her nose. “Again, with good Gods, Jace would be my Master of Laws. If not, then Forrest Frey or Petyr Piper, solid men,” that was the first time that Elaena heard of Petyr Piper, and she struggled to not laugh. “Lord Beesbury is old, did you know he’s been Master of Coin since my father was a child?” Elaena shook her head. “If he is still alive when I am queen, I would like to grant him leave to spend his last days back home, in his lands, surrounded by his family. As for his replacements, if anything tragic were to happen soon, I’d put Lord Celtigar forward to my father. He’d be my first choice for my Master of Coin,” Rhaenyra looked at her with a glint in her eye. “There is another choice, of course… if I were to convince Ser Olyvar to travel to court with his lady wife, he’d be quite the Master of Coin.”

Elaena herself is not sure she’d be willing to accept. She much preferred Runestone to King’s Landing. And her lands still needed work.

“I’d love to get rid of Criston Cole,” even Rhaenyra’s sneers were pretty, somehow. “Mayhaps we could fabricate a Ser Lucamore the Lusty situation. Gerardys, my maester at Dragonstone, is a master of the healing arts. He is my choice for Grand Maester.”

“Doesn’t the Citadel decide that?”

“They say they do,” she waved her arguments away. “But they will do as their king, or queen, commands. Anyhow, that leaves us with Lord Larys. He has always been courteous to me and he was brother to Ha-” she caught herself. “To my ladies. His father was father’s greatest friend. He is good at his job and has ever made me feel welcome at court. He would remain in my council.”

“I see,” she had never met Larys Strong, knew him only from the tv, and she did not think that Rhaenyra’s description fit him. “How would you rule?”

“You are full of questions,” she smiled as she playfully kicked her. “My father has strived to maintain peace in the Seven Kingdoms, to keep the good rule of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne alive. As their heir it is my duty to ensure that it continues. Not since the time of Old Valyria has our house boasted of so many dragons, the strength of House Targaryen will reach never before seen glories and fortunes. From the Wall to Dorne and the Sunset Sea to the Steptsones, people will sing of my reign.”

“I see,” Sam then came to her rescue, before she had to answer back. Her son began crying. “I pray you will forgive me cousin,” and she moved to feed him. She didn’t have her shawl with her, but Rhaenyra did not mind and turn away.

“When babes call,” Rhaenyra, with a flick of the hand, ordered her Kingsguard to turn around. She put her palm on her cheek. “When you get as serious as that, you look even more like Daemon,” she caressed Sam’s head. “Stop worrying so much, cousin. As I’ve answered your questions, you must now answer mine. Jeyne said she’d had troubles but would not tell with which lords. Who? I’d rather know so that if they ever come calling, I’ll know.”

“Well, Moore has never liked her,” Lord Moore was an easy one to name, most of the others were related by marriage to her. “You can never know with Lucas Grafton, if there is a benefit in it for Isembard Arryn, then Grafton will change like the wind,” from Gunthor she had heard of their betrayal of Arnold Arryn’s cause, not that she minded. But once a betrayer? “The Late Lord Melcolm was one of the few who attempted to usurp Jeyne when she was a child, but he’s been dead for years now,” the current lord was grandson to that one. “Waynwood as well, though he’s been quiet ever since,” she was surprised when she learnt, years after the fact, that her old girlhood companion, Alayne Waynwood, had been a hostage to ensure her father’s good behavior.

“Who else attempted to usurp Jeyne?”

“Most are dead now, the first time was before I was born, my grandfather Yorbert put down that revolt,” Jeyne’s uncle, Lord Waynwood, the Late Lords Melcolm, Grafton, Sunderland, Rutherford and Upcliff and her good-father Ser Jonothor Templeton had all attempted to skip Jeyne in the line of succession. “The second and third times ’twas mostly knights and punishments have been given.”

“I’ll keep an eye on those lords then,” Rhaenyra smiled. What followed was small talk. She had not spoken to Rhaenyra like that in years, since before the princess was married and she was a young girl. When Samwell fell asleep in her arms, Rhaenyra helped her up and, with a kiss on the corner of her mouth, bid her farewell.
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The day that Rhaenyra and her family set out for Gulltown, where their ship was waiting, her father left on Caraxes, leading the pack of dragons back to Dragonstone. Willam had one final chance to prove he could stand around waiting while her relatives lived their lives. Peace and quiet was returning to Runestone. Soon she’d begin holding court again and travelling around her lands.

She’d need to prepare things for when her sisters would arrive. She’d sent Ser Willam with a letter for Ser Andrik Shett, Willam’s mother had been a Shett, asking for him to send his daughter to Runestone. She’d be trained as a lady and become a companion to her sisters when they arrived. Coldwaters had several granddaughters, she’d send a letter to lord and ask for one or two. Mya might be busy teaching her older daughters, so she’d likely ask from one of the knightly branches to send in daughters of their own. With Mya away, she only had two ladies with her: Cella Tollett and Barbrey Roncey. And Barbrey would soon leave Runestone to marry a landed knight elsewhere in the Vale.

“Cella,” both ladies were her age, but while Barbrey had been looking for the best possible match a knight’s daughter could make, Cella had a true love: art. Her father, the younger brother of Lord Tollett, had granted her an unusual level of freedom and allowed her to remain without a betrothal. Her father thought it quite convenient to allow her to stay by her side. Cella was, all but officially, her chief lady-in-waiting with Mya gone. “Do you have any nieces or cousins who could come ward and become playmates to my sisters?”

“Aye, my cousin Jon has two daughters, nine and seven,” Jon Tollett was the heir to Grey Glen. “I’ll write to him.”

“If you would,” Elaena smiled. Cella had taken to sculpture like a fish to water and had lately made attempts at painting. “Would you make something to send to Grey Glen?”

“A statue?” her voice trembled with nerves, but her eyes showed excitement.

“Aye, a gift symbolizing the long friendship between our two houses.”

“It will be done, my Lady.”

The sound of Willam and his party returning took her from her thoughts. Olyvar joined them in her solar. Her cousin did not bother taking off his armor before presenting himself, with a massive grin on his face.

“My Lady,” Willam was struggling not to laugh. “I’ve brought something for you.”

He handed her a bag. Inside was a clay plate with a painting. She froze upon seeing it. Her face was on the plate, brown hair with silver streak, grey eyes, and all. She was wearing her wedding dress.

“They’re selling them in the markets,” Willam was boasting. “It truly is quite lifelike, whoever made it had a good look at your face,” he began to laugh.

“Should we do something about this?” Olyvar asked, with a big smile on his face; he was also containing his laughter.

“Let it be,” she sighed. “Do something and some other workshop will begin selling something else with my face… at least it’s well made,” at that, both Willam and Olyvar could not contain their laughter anymore.

“We should hang this in the Bronze Hall,” Olyvar took the plate, admiring the painting.

Chapter Text

124 AC

“Do you know why they are called namedays?” Septon Lomas was directing his assistants in decorating their sept. “Used to be births were only recorded and reported on after they were presented to the Seven. If a babe made it to his nameday, better odds he made it.”

“And then, a thousand years ago, came Archmaester Rodwylle,” Maester Qarlton walked towards them. “And forever changed the way that babes were taken care of.”

“Then we must give thanks for him,” the Archmaester had written one of the oldest manuals on the health of babes.

“The merchants you’ve called for have arrived, my Lady,” the maester announced. Elaena headed back for the Hall. Near the kitchens hung the body of an aurochs, the cook busy carving it. They’d be having meat at the feast after the ceremony.

They’d be having only a small ceremony. She’d be waiting a while to host a tourney again. There were expenses to go through and loans to repay. Her vassals would be there, as would her father and sisters, who’d come to stay. They would be arriving any day now, sailing into Moondancer’s Port on the Lady Rhea, the ship that Rhaenys and Corlys gifted her. She’d be going to pick them up, she hadn’t been to the Port since before Sam’s birth. Everyone assured her construction was going on as scheduled and the first of the buildings already had families living on it. A few of the neighbors were making the journey as well: her good-sister the Dowager Lady Melcolm, Lucas Grafton was sending his son and heir, and Lyonel Belmore would be travelling with his youngest daughter, largely in part to sign the betrothal contract for Eldric and Bethany Belmore.

Sam was six months old now. He was fussy and very active. Olyvar had gotten over his fear of carrying babies; he’d even taken him on a slow horse ride. Sam’s eyes seemed to have settled, he shared her grey. His hair had grown out, somewhere between honey and dirty blonde and quite thick. Gunthor, who had met both of her grandmothers, the Old Queen and Jonothor Templeton when his hair had color, said Sam took after all of them. Elaena did not think he was able to remember the hair of people who’d died before she was born, or who’d gone grey years ago.

Before she could enter the hall, Maester Rookwill approached with a letter, an upset-looking Gunthor at his side. Her uncle was leaning on the wall, eyes closed.

“Everything all right, Gunthor?” she asked, taking the letter in her hands. It was from Jeyne.

“When you get to my age, Lady Elaena,” a heavy sigh. “Most news you receive about old friends have naught but death in them.”

“Ser Arlan, Knight of the Bloody Gate, has died,” the maester began clapping Gunthor in his back. Jeyne’s letter announced she was naming Ser Joffrey Arryn as the new Knight of the Bloody Gate.

“Your grandsire, my brother, me, Arlan and a few others,” Gunthor began. “We all squired together, a lifetime ago. ‘Twas Yorbert who appointed him to the Bloody Gate. Now only I remain, and my brother in the Wall, I s’pose.”

“How did he die?” Olyvar joined them, with Sam in his arms.

“Some wildlings attacked a peddler’s caravan. Arlan followed, too deep into the mountains,” Gunthor smiled. “He always said he wanted to die with sword in hand.”

“My condolences, uncle,” she very rarely called Gunthor her uncle. He nodded, with a pained smile, and left, likely seeking liquid comfort. Elaena went into the hall, where Gerold was waiting. She took her seat in the high chair.

“My Lady,” he stood to bow. “As requested, the Company of Clothsellers,” she’d given them the name when she got them together to do business. They were five minor merchants and peddlers who worked on her land; once they bought surplus onions and garlic to sell at Gulltown, now, through her guidance, they were in the cloth business. She’d convinced them to pool their gold to build and own workshop in Moondancer’s Port, now she wished to offer them loans to buy a dyer’s workshop from her in Gulltown.

“Lady Royce,” Yoreck of Miller’s Bridge was the oldest of the merchants. “’Tis always an honor,” he gave an exaggerated bow. “Ser Gerold has shown us the accounts, and we would be honored, My Lady, to accept your offer.”

“I’m glad, Master Yoreck,” they’d be able to pay back the loan within the year, judging by the workshop’s profits. They al lived in her land, some even on Moondancer’s Port, which was one of the main reasons she’d chosen them for the sale.

She’d keep her word to Jeyne. Gulltown was still the largest port, the one that would see the most visiting ships, so she’d keep her warehouses. The bulk of all trade still went through the city. They’d eventually have all trade-related operations run from the Royce palace in Gulltown. But not now, she was selling workshops, moving workers and selling buildings. Now that Moondancer’s Port began to have stout apartments, made from brick, wood and stone, it became easier to attract workers.

“The workshop by the Street of the Sisters, wasn’t it?” Elaena asked to confirm.

“Aye, the one run by old master Tomm,” Yoreck nodded. “And the building behind it.”

She had read through the loan’s contract before, when Gerold wrote it, and the merchants had already gone through it, so they all signed it at that very moment. Each of the men was responsible for one fifth of the loan. She’d tried to model it like the companies of the place from before, with its partners and shares, though she was unsure how accurate the arrangement they worked out was. She hoped she could grow to trust them and would try to enter an arrangement where she was the silent sixth partner.

“And that is that,” Gerold handed the contract to Maester Qarlton. “And these, are the papers for the building,” the group of merchants went through it, looked at a map, and signed.

No coin changed hands, but the building did. In a year or so, they’d be repaying back the loan, and she was confident they could continue working together. The merchants, with big smiles on their faces, stood and bowed. They offered their blessings for Sam and Gerold escorted them out of the hall, before returning with another man.

Maltyn was the third son of a merchant. His father had assured him a spot in his shop but had died before his time, so Maltyn’s older brothers had squeezed him out of their business. He was fairly educated, knew how to read, count and keep records. And, quite importantly, had been courting the daughter of a rich farmer from her lands, tying him to them—if he managed to convince the farmer.

With him she wanted to try out one of the positions she hoped to create for the university’s graduates. A sort of proctor or alderman who would keep meticulous records about herds, harvests and wool production. He’d be the first record keeper; she probably needed to make up a good-sounding name. She wanted a more precise accounting and an easier way to keep an eye on her faraway villages and towns.

“My Lady, this is Maltyn,” the young would-have-been merchant bowed, shifting his feet.

“Lady Royce,” his voice was nearly a whisper. He had been working for Gerold for the past three months, alongside three other potential proctors, and had been the one to earn Gerold’s approval. He’d already been told what his duties would entail.

“I am certain that Ser Gerold has spoken to you of your duties,” Sam was doing his utmost to get her attention, fidgeting to the side in Olyvar’s arms. “To count how many heads of sheep and pounds of wool are sheared, the size of the harvests, how much of it is traded, to whom and at how much. And not just the price that merchants pay for crops, but at how much they buy wool, thread, cloth or anything else the town may offer. And,” she held out a hand, “how much do merchants sell their wares for.”

“He has.”

“Good,” she leaned back in her chair. “Gerold spoke to me about your match,” the town she wanted to send him to was near his potential good-father’s fields.

“A-aye,” his eyes were fixed on his shoes. “Lilly’s father wants a husband with good prospects.”

“I assume the dowry includes farmland,” he nodded, still looking down. “Let him know that with the incomes from your new position, you’ll be able to work the land and keep his daughter in comfort.”

“I will, my Lady,” Gerold took him away, he seemed too nervous to speak in front of her. Gerold would be responsible for him.

“Can’t a knight do that?” asked Maester Rookwill.

“Mayhaps,” she knew quite a bit of her own knights were illiterate and could count only up to ten if they had their boots on. “But they have other duties and responsibilities. When the clansmen appear, what will they say if I have my knights counting sheep?” she held out her arms towards Olyvar. “Now, give him here before he attempts to climb down on his own.”

“A rider, my lady,” Gerold rushed back into the hall, winded. “A rider has come from Brookstone,” a keep to the northeast. “They’ve sighted the sails of the Lady Rhea, ‘tis soon arriving at Moondancer’s Port.”

She hugged Sam close to her. It’d be his first visit to the port.
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“Will Elaena allow me to train with my sword?” Baela had begged her father for close to two turns of the moon before he allowed her to train with the pages. She wanted to be skilled with a sword like Queen Visenya and wield Dark Sister after her father.

The sun was high in the sky, the sea’s heat comfortable on her skin. The Vale wasn’t as wet, nor as hot as Dragonstone. Now that she was old enough to be allowed to ride all on her own on her filly, Foamchaser, she was excited to ride in the open plains and gentle hills, chasing after sheep. Mayhaps she could even convince Rhaena to join her; Rhaena liked riding just as much as she did, but galloping too fast scared her. She always squealed when her own filly started running as fast as she could to chase after Foamchaser.

“I’ll talk to her,” her father was showing the seabirds to little Aegon. Her little brother no longer bit people, she was now much more willing to play with him. “But you’ll listen to what she says, and pay attention in your lessons with Lady Marilya,” Baela groaned.

Lady Marilya was from Pentos. She was the bastard daughter of a prince, a friend of her father. And she was their language tutor. They were learning High Valyrian, the Pentoshi variant and the bastard tongue of Braavos. Rhaena had much more patience for languages than she did; Baela would even prefer sitting through the maester’s lessons on sums. Baela also didn’t like Lady Marilya, she had once seen her playing kissing games with her father and Rhaenyra.

“I’ll pay attention,” she bit her upper lip.

“You always do that when you lie,” her father laughed, a heavy hand on her head jostling her from side to side. “Go fetch your sister, we’re nearly at port.”

Rhaena was in their cabin, praying with her dragon’s egg. Rhaenyra had given it to her to get in good with them, Baela was certain—she likely wanted to replace their mother in their hearts, like she tried to do with father, she remembered whispering once to Rhaena. She was forgetting Laena Velaryon’s face and that made her very sad. Her sister’s egg was a deep green with yellow stripes, Syrax had laid it. Baela sometimes prayed with her, as did their father. The two sisters would light up candles to the Old Gods of Valyria; while their father muttered spells in High Valyrian.

Most times, Baela prayed for Rhaena’s egg to hatch, she couldn’t wait to take to the skies with her sister, even if Moondancer was taking her time to grow. But a few times, whenever she was sad after watching Jace and Luke start riding their dragons, she prayed for Moondancer to hurry up and grow faster. Even Aegon’s dragon was now threatening to outgrow Moondancer.

Both she and her twin were small, just like her dragon. Their father said it was because they were twins and had to share space in their mother’s belly. But the Cargyll twins were both tall and strong. Their elder sister was also tall. Rhaena once said it was because she was a Royce, and Runestone was full of big knights. But so was Driftmark. Their grandsire was large and strong, as were their many Velaryon cousins. She hoped both her and Moondancer would hit their growth spurt soon. Visenya must have been tall and strong to fight so bravely with a sword.

“Come,” she grabbed Rhaena by the hand. “We’re docking soon.”

Rhaena nodded, licked her fingers and began extinguishing her candles. Baela wished she wouldn’t do that; she’d probably burn herself one day. Their father had a glass candle that Baela knew would be just the thing for their prayers, but he’d only shown it to them once and, after she and Rhaena were unable to light it, never again showed it to them. They were using red candles to try and convince the gods. Their father always spoke of bargains, prices and sacrifices; but neither her nor Rhaena wanted to offer some poor animal for their sakes.

“Let us be off,” Rhaena locked arms with her. The crew were already grabbing their luggage and taking it to the deck. They could see the knight’s tower at her Moondancer’s Port and even some tall buildings behind it.

“There’s the carriage,” their father pointed somewhere, but she couldn’t make anything out. “Now, Baela, Rhaena,” he turned towards them with a serious look in his face. “Do you remember the rules?”

“Pay attention to Lady Marilya’s lessons,” Rhaena loved language lessons, she liked Valyrian poetry. “Listen to Elaena’s orders, she will be our foster mother as well as our elder sister, so we owe her respect,” their father smiled, but then turned towards her with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t go riding without adults,” she began counting with her fingers. “Only fight pages who are my size. Listen to the master-at-arms. Don’t let Elaena fill our heads with septa’s sermons,” not that she ever did. “Don’t try to ride on Moondancer, she’s not big enough yet.”

“And?”

“Ehm…” Baela was lost. “Eat all our vegetables?”

“Write home,” Rhaena beamed.

“Will Elaena join us for lessons?” Baela thought it was unfair that Lady Marilya went with them so Jace, Luke and Joff got to avoid language lessons for a while.

“She never took to High Valyrian,” their father sighed. “I tried teaching her once, when I was regent of Runestone,” both Baela and Rhaena shared the opinion that their father was the most impressive man in all the Seven Kingdoms. He was a dragonrider, he conquered the Stepstones, fought pirates and slavers, knew ancient Valyrian spells, he had been regent for their sister and he’d even helped put Uncle Viserys in the throne (or so he said). “She’s written of wanting to oversee your education herself.”

“I hope she takes us hawking,” Baela had brought her hawk and convinced Rhaena to get one of her own.

“Baela, Rhaena!” Aegon suddenly shouted, pointing to the open sea. “Look!” a massive behemoth, a leviathan, or a kraken mayhaps, broke the sea’s surface, looking at them with its gigantic eye.

“A whale,” their father lifted Aegon up, so he could see above the railing. They’d never seen a whale before, only the skeleton that their grandfather kept at High Tide, and that one was not even half the size of the giant before them. “If it gets too close to Dragonstone, Vermithor might hunt it.”

“Can he hunt something that big?” Rhaena’s eyes were wide as a full moon.

“He’s quite bigger, and certainly stronger,” Rhaena went pale at that, they had been talking about her trying to claim the Old King’s dragon. “He’s very well behaved, of course,” their father had noticed Rhaena’s worries.

“My prince,” the captain, a knight once in service of their grandfather, bowed. “We are about to enter port, might be easier for the little ones if they held on,” the captain had silver hair and light blue eyes, his last name was Waters, but she didn’t know whose son was he.

Baela leapt into the boardwalk, running to solid ground with Aegon copying her and jumping after her, laughing. Rhaena ran after them, after their father picked her up and gently threw her after them. They’d been long at sea and, even if the sea ran in their blood, being cooped up in a ship was tiresome. Baela wanted to run, and ride, and hawk, and play with Moondancer.

“Father,” Elaena nodded at their father, before kneeling to smile at them, arms wide for a hug. Both her and Rhaena barreled into her, Aegon joining them after their father pushed him forward. “I see you’ve brought Moondancer,” Baela’s dragon was flying in circles above them. “But ‘tis rare for you not to bring your own, father.”

“I’m sending Rhaenyra a raven, she’s arriving the day of the ceremony with the dragons, and we leave that night,” he picked up Aegon. “With this one.”

“Where is Sam?” Rhaena looked around them.

“He fell asleep on the way, he’s at the carriage,” Baela could see all the new buildings that hadn’t been there just half a year past. Their elder sister had called them apartment buildings, three windows tall each with stores at the bottom. The one closest to them had a man selling fruit to one side and another selling clay jars of something. It had balconies, with pale yellow walls and tiled roofs. It reminded her a little of Pentos, their father had taken them there to celebrate the Prince’s nameday.

“This place has grown,” their father looked around. There were plumes of smoke coming from behind the buildings. The open market was full of people. Baela could even see a Summer Islander; she loved seeing their swan ships at Driftmark with their beautiful sails and she loved their colorful feather cloaks. Her grandfather had a feathered cloak that a Prince from the Summer Islands gave him; one day she’d convince him to give it to her. There was also a man with beard colored bright purple, dressed in fluffy pink silks; she could only guess where he was from.

“Aye,” Elaena beamed, “and not only homes. There’s a public bath, a large bakery and a kiln. Our sewers are working now, soon we’ll be making an aqueduct like the one in Braavos.”

“Big plans for a little town,” Daemon smirked. “Where’s dear husband?”

“With the knights out of town. Those two over there,” Elaena pointed at two buildings in construction, “are Baela’s. Those in front, are Rhaena’s.”

“Ours?” Baela didn’t know what she’d do with a building.

“Yours. The incomes from it, the rent from the shops and houses, will go to you; so you’ll always have a source of coin,” their sister shrugged. “’Tis not much, aye, but it’ll always be there if you ever need it.”

“What about your brothers?” their father asked.

“Boys have more options than girls,” she had a glint in her eye. “But if you wish to pay for the construction of buildings in their name, I’m certain I can offer the best rates possible,” their father laughed.

“You’ll have to tell me how much one of those buildings pays in a year.”

“Thank you,” Baela hugged her. Rhaena did the same. Elaena had already assured them repeatedly that she’d take care of their dowries. Baela was old enough to understand what a large dowry meant for her, she’d never need to rely on her husband’s openness with coin, especially as Elaena told them she’d make sure they had ways of making gold with their dowry. Although she trusted Jace wouldn’t pinch his pennies. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but her father oft complained that Uncle Viserys was surrounded by penny pinchers.

Rhaena chose to ride in the carriage, with their sister and the babies. But Baela rode on Foamchaser with her father and the other horsemen. Baela loved horses. She loved riding on the beach by Dragonstone; it was the flattest land on the island and Foamchaser could ride as fast as she could. Runestone had plenty of hills and forests, but it had even more plains and farms where she could ride to her heart’s content.

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Just like her father, Rhaena was not terribly religious. But she enjoyed the hymns, the colored windows and the way the light shone through the crystals. The naming ceremony was awful long, and there was a lot of standing, but at least the song at the end was pretty. Rhaena was certain that her father nearly fell asleep at one time, but Rhaenyra squeezed his hand so hard it woke him up. Rhaena had to bite her cheek to keep herself from laughing.

Samwell was very well behaved, she thought. Much better than Viserys, who was always crawling everywhere and somehow managing to get himself into every room. He had such tiny legs for how fast he moved. And Aegon? At least he didn’t bite any more, Joffrey still carried a scar on one of his fingers. Rhaena was certain that both her and Baela were well-behaved as babes. Rhaenyra always said boys were more rambunctious and girls learnt how to behave when they were younger.

She tried not to look too relieved that the ceremony was over, the incense was making her eyes water, though Aegon rushed out squealing from the sept. The sept was inside the castle, they’d set up a bunch of tables in front of it, where massive chunks of meat were cooked over a spitfire. It smelt heavenly, Rhaena loved juicy meat. Her grandfather’s kitchens were full of spices that made the meat even more delicious, but the herb rubbed recipes of the Vale were also tasty.

Rhaenyra and their father were feeding each other, whispering to each other behind their cups of wine. Baela made a face at her, eyes crossed and tongue out, making her laugh so much that her belly hurt. Their sister was at another table, the one with all the Vale lords, talking with a serious face. Olyvar and Gunthor were there, they were in deep talks with a lord wearing a purple cloak with bells on it. If Rhaena was remembering her sigils correctly, that must be Lyonel Belmore, so they must be discussing Eldric’s betrothed. Rhaena was very proud she was the best at recognizing sigils, even including their step-siblings.

Baela thought Eldric was very handsome. He was tall, blonde and blue eyed, with long and pretty eyelashes, and with a cleft on his chin. As for Rhaena, she thought he had too big a nose and shifty eyes, the sort that reminded her of their grandfather. Eldric danced with his betrothed; she was older than him, but he was already taller. Alyssa and her older sisters were there somewhere, as were a great many other girls. As soon as they finished eating, they’d be playing monsters-and-maidens. Alyssa’s brothers were always willing to play the part of the monsters.

The feast was fun. Dragonstone was full of boys, and while Baela liked playing with the pages and climbing trees, Rhaena much preferred games with other girls. They made up a game about princesses and toads being kissed into princes. They got to know the girls who’d be their new companions. Maris Shett was chubby and shy, but once they got playing, she was fun and knew many japes; Millicent Tollett was lanky and handsome, she looked almost like a boy; and Alysanne Coldwater’s hair was so black it looked almost purple, she had a crooked smile that made Rhaena instantly like her. They played for so long that she didn’t even notice when Samwell went away to sleep and when Aegon fell asleep in Rhaenyra’s arms.

Rhaenyra and their father would be leaving that night, with Aegon, so, after the feast, only the family gathered for the late afternoon. The adults were having spiced honeywine, Baela and her were given cider. Summer was hot on the ground, but the skies on dragonback were always cold. They also wanted their father to listen to Elaena’s stories, he had never heard the stories their eldest sister came up with. Rhaena had asked both Maester Gerardys, the Dragonstone septon and Lady Marilya how people came up with stories. The maester had said that just like some people are born blessed by the sword, others are blessed by the pen. The septon had said that the Gods worked through artists, using them as others used a chisel or a paintbrush. Lady Marilya said the goddess of poets chose her favorites and blessed them with her gift.

Rhaena had been trying to make up her own stories. She loved scary stories. Lady Janna Crabb, an old widow in service to Rhaenyra, had the best scary stories. She was from Cracklaw Point and all the other ladies mocked her and called her a swamp witch, but Rhaena knew better. Lady Janna was just as noble as any of the other ladies, her uncle had been in the Kingsguard and her brother fought in the Stepstones with her father. She knew stories about the Others, the squishers, Ser Clarence Crabb and his castle of the Whispers with its talking heads, the Long Night, the light in the night, the weeping dog, the tales of the Nightfort and the white horse of Lady Jeyne Mooton. Rhaena loved them all. Baela, despite being brave enough to fight with the pages and train with a sword, was a big scaredy cat, or so Rhaena thought. Baela was scared of all of Lady Janna’s tales and always climbed into Rhaena’s bed at night, after a scary story.

They sat by the hearth in her sister’s solar. Above the fireplace was a petrified dragon egg, bronze busts of Elaena’s mother and grandfather and a Valyrian steel longsword. Baela was cuddling close to their father, she knew that Rhaena was about to ask for scary stories. Rhaena sat next to their sister, holding on to her arm. Her other arm was claimed by Ser Olyvar; just like father’s was by Rhaenyra. The babes had gone to sleep. It had taken some work to convince Elaena that they were old enough for scary stories.

The first story was not particularly scary, but it was horrible enough to count. Unlike most times, it was a sung story. Their elder sister had a lovely voice, though she mostly preferred listening to other singers than singing herself. A king, and all his banners, prepared to sail away to war; but the gods, angry with him, had calmed the winds and marooned them in the beach, where the soldiers had mutinous thoughts. A seer shared a prophecy with the king: if he sacrificed the thing he loved best, the winds would return and he’d sail away to glory and victory. It had all sounded quite exciting until they heard that the thing the king loved best was his daughter. The poor princess was dragged in front of the soldiers and offered to the king’s cruel gods, bringing back the wind and taking the army to war. When Elaena said that the queen avenged her daughter and killed the king when he returned from war, Baela cheered. So did Rhaena, but not as loudly. Their sister was looking straight at Daemon and Rhaenyra all throughout the story. The next tale was just what Rhaena wanted.

“This happened not so far from here,” their sister was whispering. “A lady was traveling from the Vale to Gulltown, preparing to set sail and marry a faraway king. She travelled with her cousin, who loved her but could not marry her, for he was but a poor household knight. On their way to Gulltown they travelled through a forested hill where long, long ago the Andals had won a hard-fought victory over the Clansmen. A hill where ‘tis said the ghosts of the fallen warriors woke at night to continue their endless war.”

Baela was clinging to their father, shaking, but Rhaena liked ghosts.

“Beloved cousin, said the knight, we must travel fast and light, else we remain in these accursed hills come nightfall and the men of the Warrior’s Sons come again, steel in hand to take these accursed hills. The lady, who was from a great and rich house, scorned her cousin, who had spent many days fighting alongside the smallfolk and hearing their legends and said, oh sweet and innocent cousin,” Elaena always changed her voice for different characters. “You’ve taken on the superstitions of your lessers and come to believe in snarks and grumkins. You only wish to scare me. I swear to you on that lovely silk sash, gift from my aunt, that I do not, he said back.”

“What house was the lady from?” Baela interrupted.

“It happened so long ago that no one remembers. It could have been an Arryn, a Corbray or a Redfort. ‘Tis not meant to merely scare, the young knight answered, in these accursed hills did the Warrior’s Sons fought seven days and seven nights to rid the land from the yoke of the clans. But their bones were left behind under the sun and their ghosts do not know their time to sleep has come, ‘tis best we leave these accursed hills behind and reach Gulltown before night overtakes us.”

“Will they get to Gulltown?” Baela was covering her eyes with their father’s arm.

“When they arrived at Gulltown, they went into their family’s home, where the young knight knew it was the last time he would be able to see his beautiful lady cousin. He said, oh beloved cousin, you are not long for these hills, and I am to remain alone and cold. Will you not leave me with your favor, so I may take it with me until the Stranger calls me? But his lady cousin was black of heart and mean of spirit, and said to him, dear cousin, if only I could, but I have lost my silken sash in those hills behind us. Aas my carriage went ahead; the winds took it from me. If you could only bring it back to me, then I could grant you my favor. ‘Tis almost nightfall, cousin, the young knight had gone pale. So it is, is this the extent of your love? I will do it, beloved cousin, the knight declared, and he left for the hills.”

Rhaena felt a shiver, she hugged her eldest sister tight. Across from her, Baela had climbed on their father’s lap and buried her face in his chest.

“And so, the young lady retired to her rooms, she counted one, two, three full candles, and her cousin did not return. He must have been afraid, she thought, for the journey to the hills on horseback should be but a candle away. But that night, as she slept, when the wind was howling and the streets were silent, she heard her name. Somewhere far away, beyond her window, she heard her name. It must be the wind, she thought. She tried to fall back asleep, but the heavy wooden door, downstairs in the manor, opened with a heavy screech. And then the door to the staircase. The door to the corridor. One by one, every door in the way to her rooms, opened.”

Baela screamed and covered her ears.

“Do you wish for me to stop?” Rhaena shook her head, and, after glaring at her twin, Baela also shook her head. Baela knew that Rhaena would protect her come the night. “She only heard her heartbeat, her breathing and the wind. She tried to calm down, tried to fall asleep, thinking, am I as fearful as these smallfolk, shivering in their hovels when they hear a ghost story? She closed her eyes, trying to fall asleep, but it was no good. She sat up straight. The door to her rooms was opening. She could hear the creaking wood, the slow footsteps approaching. She screamed, covering herself with her blankets. Hours passed under her blankets, she spent the entire night awake, waiting for dawn. With the first rays of sunlight, the lady opened her eyes, thinking her nightmare over. How beautiful are the rays of the sun! she exclaimed, however,” Rhaena was holding on to her chair, “a sudden chill went through her body. There, on the table by her bed, lay her silk sash, bloodied and torn. The sash she had sent her cousin after. When the retainers came into the house, with the news of the knight’s death, they found the young lady cold, cold and dead. With her eyes open wide with fear. She had died from fear,” Rhaena loved the story. Baela wanted to go riding, now Rhaena had a reason to go with her, to go looking for the hills from the ghost story.

Needless to say, after their father and Rhaenyra left, Baela crept into her bed. They slept holding on to each other, like they had since they were smaller than Samwell.

Chapter Text

124 AC

Runestone was not as large and grand as Dragonstone, but it was quite busier. Smallfolk, merchants and knights were always going in and out of the castle. Their sister liked holding court and always encouraged them to sit in and listen. Baela found it interesting enough. The stories of visiting knights and reports from their own keeps were quite exciting at times; they kept a lookout for savage clansmen and kept the piece around their keeps. Smallfolk came with the most curious of problems and notices. And merchants usually arrived carrying gifts and, after they learnt that both she and Rhaena were there, they sometimes even brought gifts for them.

One of them, an Ibbenese who spoke common with a rough accent, had given her a puppy, a cute and tiny thing that came from Ibben, all white with brown spots. She’d called her Cookie for the round spot over her left eye. Their sister bought four more dogs like Cookie for the castle, grown and trained, after she heard they were used by the Ibbenese to hunt for rats. They were handed over to the kennelmaster and the castle’s ratcatcher. She’d then given her blessing to the merchant to sell his dogs throughout her land. Every time that a merchant passed through Runestone, and meant to pass further east into the peninsula, Ser Gerold would take them aside to sign papers they’d take with them.

Being a castle’s steward involved a great deal of work, Baela was realizing. Ser Gerold, or one of his assistants, was always furiously scribbling whenever Elaena held court. The man that sold paper and ink was always visiting the castle. She never really saw Dragonstone’s steward, she and her sister were never invited when Rhaenyra held court, nor were their half-brothers, as they were deemed to be too young. She did see more of Driftmark’s steward, Qualio Quellan Quis, an Essossi her grandfather had brought to the island. He was always somewhere behind Lord Corlys, but she never did see what his work was.

By the end of their first month there, she and Rhaena knew Runestone like they never did Dragonstone. The ancestral home of their family was mazelike in the lower levels, its towers were scary when the wind blew hard and fast, making horrible noises that made her think of ghosts and the Others, and the monstrous gargoyles in the walls always scared Baela. Runestone was much easier to explore, with no snarling gargoyles following her with their eyes when she moved past them. It had no secret tunnels and locked doors that only Rhaenyra and their father could enter. The castle wasn’t as big as Dragonstone, but the stables and barracks were bigger, with enough room for hundreds of horses and their knights and squires. Baela did feel kind of bad for the stallions, as they each only had a small space; she wished the master of horse would take them out more often. At least the mares and their foals had a large space to share.

Runestone was a straightforward castle, with few hidden rooms and passageways. Their room was at the keep, right by their sister’s, it was large and spacious, with colorful cloth hangings all over the walls. Elaena had shown them her very large collection of wall hangings and asked them to choose their favorites for their room, so one half, Baela’s, was full of flowers and animals, while Rhaena’s half was full of colorful patterns and fish. Elaena had made quite a few of them with her ladies and asked them if they wanted to make one to take home. Rhaena spent almost an entire sennight drawing a design with a piece of charcoal and going through almost fifty different colors of thread until she found the ones she liked best for her swimming seahorses. Baela wanted to make one of Moondancer flying and Foamchaser running below her, but she asked Elaena to draw it.

Besides the keep, there were quite a few other buildings. Dragonstone was a behemoth with its rooms, cellars, barracks, kitchens and stables all carved from the same black stone, created with dragonfire and spells; Runestone, on the other hand, had multiple stone buildings within its walls, and even a Godswood inside of its walls. It had no weirwood tree, Baela had never seen one with a carved face, neither the Red Keep nor Dragonstone had one and her grandfather told her that Driftmark’s ancient weirwood had been cut by Andals before their family arrived at the island. Elaena told them that hundreds of years ago Lord Orson Royce cut down their weirwood tree after a wood’s witch convinced him that his dying son would heal if he slept on a bed made from its wood. The son was not healed, and Lord Orson soon died, of a broken heart, Ser Willam claimed, so his younger brother became the new lord. The brother tried to plant a weirwood, but its roots would not take. The weirwood bed was stored in an empty room, Ser Willam said the Old Gods whispered in your dreams if you slept in it and that the last Lord of Runestone to have slept on it was known as Yorwyck the Mad. Rhaena dared her to sleep in it one day, but Baela wasn’t mad enough to tempt the Old Gods.

There was a corridor running through the inside of the western wall, with a secret staircase that, according to their sister, led into old mines. Rhaena wanted to explore, but Baela was afraid there might be ghosts under there. The armory was underground as well, and, as it was all under a locked iron gate, they couldn’t go exploring in there. The rookery was a tall and thin round tower, the tallest in the castle, and was connected to the keep by a hanging bridge with a wooden roof, the library was in the lower levels of the rookery tower. Elaena oft took them into her solar for lessons with her. Their sister’s solar was close to the bridge and had a balcony overlooking the yard. It was full of treasures. The ancient Valyrian sword of the Royces hung above the fireplace, under it was a dragon egg and two bronze busts. There were fine tapestries and a Myrish carpet, as well as beautifully painted clay pots with flowers.

“What did you think about that last petitioner, Baela?” their sister always asked them what they thought about the petitions. If she didn’t like their answer, she then asked them about their answer and to come up with different solutions. Not even Maester Gerardys asked them that many questions when she and Rhaena had lessons with him.

A farmer had come to Runestone to complain that his neighbor had left his fields unattended and weeds had crossed over and destroyed part of his crops. Elaena had ordered the neighbor to pay part of his harvest to the farmer, equal to what was destroyed, and commanded him to take care of his entire fields or, if she heard complaints about him again, she would take them from him and give them to another, someone who could work them.

“Why didn’t the farmer just get rid of the weeds if they were going to destroy his crops?”

“There is a law, neighbors cannot interfere in each other’s fields, but unless they are destroying each other’s crops, nobody cares to enforce the law,” Elaena always explained things to them as if they were grown-ups. If they had a question, she always tried to answer.

Baela thought back to the court. She’d been bored already; it had been a long day of petitions. She wanted to run off with Cookie, visit Foamchaser and the other horses in the stables, play with the other girls and enjoy the sunny summer day. She wanted to watch Moondancer somersault in the air, watch her dragon cook her own meals and play with her. The farmer with the complaints was short, with strong arms and a crooked back. He was looking at the other farmer, just a tad taller and not as crooked, as if he could set him on fire with his eyes. The neighbor was sweating a lot and kept crushing his hay hat in his hands. When her sister gave her judgement, the neighbor was happier than the farmer.

“Did- did he want you to give him the fields?” she hesitated but gave a wide smile when she saw Elaena smile at her and nod.

“Whether a great lord or a humble farmer, men are men,” Rhaena always stood at attention when their sister tried to teach them a lesson. “They want what is good for their families, they covet what their neighbors have, they desire more and are all as capable of thinking of ways to get it. Just because he wasn’t taught by a maester or doesn’t know how to read it doesn’t mean the farmer is any less clever than a lord. In fact,” their sister grinned, the one she gave them when she found something funny, “you’ll meet many lords who are less clever than farmers,” Rhaena nodded, Baela giggled. “You will one day hold court-”

“Even if we aren’t heirs to a castle?” Baela interrupted.

“Even,” Elaena caressed her cheek with a smile. “Queen Alysanne held court, Queen Alicent also holds court from time to time,” Baela didn’t know that about the Hightower whore, she’d oft heard her father call her that when he was angry. She thought it was funny but the only time she’d said it out loud, Rhaenyra had been very angry and called for Corin, the whipping boy. Now she only thought it. “When you hold court, know that from the greatest of lords to the humblest of beggars, they are all the same, all people. They come to you seeking justice, seeking profit, seeking anything and just because they are much humbler it doesn’t mean they are incapable of arguing in their favor or hiding their intentions. They live their lives just like us, love their families like us and they get sad just like us. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Rhaena declared. Baela nodded. Thinking of poor Corin. She tried to never get in trouble, and she and Rhaena behaved as good as they could. But Jace and Luke did get into trouble sometimes, and Corin was always punished for it. The two brothers always felt bad and behaved, but in no time at all they would get up to some other mischief.

“When you hold court, you will have to listen to what the person in front of you tells you, and try to listen to what he is not telling you,” one of the maidservants handed Sam to their sister, she always liked to feed him herself, so she began mushing up vegetables and scooping them in a small wooden spoon. “The man today, for example, could have told his neighbor about the weeds days ago, or he could have tried to solve it himself. Instead, he waited until the damage was done and brought the other farmer here. But,” Elaena bit her lip, “he is not wrong. If his neighbor cannot look after his fields, they should be put to work under someone else’s care. I will give him a chance to change his ways, but another complaint.”

“And you’ll take his fields,” Rhaena breathed the words out.

“Just so,” Sam went to grab the spoon himself, their sister smiled and let him try to feed himself, though her hand was never far from the spoon. “I’ll be going through my letters this afternoon, why don’t you girls go out and play before you’re stuck with me and the letters?”

“I like reading the letters,” Rhaena said. But she was as quick as Baela at getting up and running outside.

They ran by the yard, where the knights and squires were sparring. In Dragonstone, Baela could always find a page to spar with and the attention of the Master-at-Arms, but in Runestone the yard was always full of knights. Squires were given a corner; pages were assigned days to train. Ser Robert, the Master-at-Arms, had grumbled when her father ordered him to allow her to train, though he stopped complaining after her sister spoke to him. She sparred with the younger pages, but the same thing happened as in Dragonstone and none took her seriously. And, even then, she barely managed to beat the pages.

Ser Robert tried to give her advice, but it never helped. Even the six-year-olds starting their training were as big as her, let alone those her age. Everything changed around a fortnight into her stay when grey-haired Ser Benfred saw her spar. She had been very angry when he told her that she would never defeat a man and, after she shot back that her father told her she was still growing and would be getting stronger, he told her that even if she got twice as tall and thrice as strong, she would still be weaker than any man. She was close to tears at that point when he said “if this is some noble lady’s pastime, I’ll leave you be. But if you truly desire to fight and beat those lads, you cannot fight like them. You have to take advantage of every dirty trick and dishonorable tactic. You are no knight and will never be able to fight like one.” It took her almost three days to forget her angry and accept Ser Benfred’s advice.

From that day on, Ser Benfred gave her fighting lessons. He taught her when and where to kick, scratch and bite. He knew where a person’s body was most sensitive, where armor had gaps and how to take advantage of her smaller size. He had her practice throwing sand at faces, tried to teach her to go after a horse’s legs (though she’d never harm a horse), learn where a man hurt most and recommended she use a thin sword that could go through the gaps in armor without much strength required. She was learning plenty and now pages hated sparring against her; which Ser Benfred told her meant she was getting better.

She tried looking to see if Ser Benfred was there that day, but she couldn’t make out his grey hair anywhere. Eldric was there, though. He was very handsome, Baela thought. He was tall, blonde and blue eyed and his arms showed the effort he put as a squire. He was knightly as well, like how grandmother always described her father, Prince Aemon. He had offered to take on Jace as a squire, and Baela would have liked that, but she overheard Daemon and Rhaenyra talking about his offer, and they spoke about sending Joffrey to the Vale instead. Before she could look at Eldric spar Ser Simon’s Connington squire, Rhaena pulled her by the arm, away from the yard.

“Come on, they are waiting. You can ogle Eldric all you want later,” Rhaena teased her. Baela blushed but said nothing. She hoped Jace would be as knightly as Eldric strived to be.

They found the other girls at the Godswood, playing come-into-my-castle. Barba and Willa were away at their new castle, where their mother was teaching them to be brides and run a household, so only the younger sisters, Rhea and Alyssa, were there. They were the closest in age to them and the ones they usually played with, so their absence wasn’t felt heavily. And besides, Baela liked their new companions. Maris was very funny and knew a lot of jokes; Alysanne was kind and nice; and Millicent was very pretty and had arrived at Runestone with the sweetest little kitten, Cheeks.

On her sister’s next day of rest, they would finally go hawking, something that Baela had been waiting for days. She’d even sent a raven to Driftmark, to invite her grandmother. She’d answered that she’d sadly not be able to make it, as their grandfather was away at sea and she needed to rule Driftmark in his stead. They would spend an entire day out of the castle, Baela was looking forwards to her hawk, Goldbeak, showing off as he had in Dragonstone’s forests. Her father had asked his friends in Pentos for him; it came from the Hills of Old Andalos and was called the King of the Rhoyne by the Pentoshi. Rhaena and the other girls didn’t have birds, but there were a few kept at Runestone for them to use. Baela hoped she would see Bronzewing, the massive eagle that Elaena’s mother had trained, in action.

“Baela!” Rhaena suddenly declared; she was their queen at that moment. “Under whose banner do you come?”

“I come bearing word from His Lordship of Massey,” she curtsied, Millicent, as her lady companion, curtsying behind her. “He sends gifts to Her Grace and hopes to receive good news.”

“You may enter into my castle!” Rhaena always put on a haughty voice when she played queen. “House Massey has ever been a friend of my house!” she turned towards their friend. “Alyssa! Under whose banner do you come?”

“I am sent by His Lordship of Lannister,” Alyssa curtsied, with Maris at her side. “He sends gifts to Her Grace and hopes to receive a good welcome in his next visit.”

“Stop! Only by swearing oaths of fealty may you enter!” Rhaena always knew who was a foe of the father or Rhaenyra’s and managed to stay as queen the longest. Baela usually forgot and allowed in even the Dothraki, who would soon take the castle from her. “And what banner is that you bear?”

“As you will, Your Grace,” Alyssa put a hand over her heart. “I promise everlasting friendship and allegiance, O My Queen! We come bearing the golden lion in a crimson field.”

“You may come into my castle, my Lady,” Rhaena smiled, grabbing the hands of Alyssa and Maris and bringing them to her side. They played for hours, laughing and tickling each other into the ground whenever the queen was usurped. Rhaena was the best at the game, Maris was a close second and, thankfully for Baela, Alyssa was even worse than her at heraldry and remembering who was a foe of her house.

After their evening meal, the two sisters made their way to Elaena’s solar. Their elder sister allowed them to read the letters she received from other lords and even asked for their help in writing them back. It made Baela feel like an adult. Septa Roelle was there, as usual. Their father, after a lot of wine, ranted that their sister was half a septa, joined at the hip with Septa Roelle and would rather join a motherhouse with her than ride a dragon. But Roelle did not behave like a septa around their sister. Septa Myranda was in charge of the education of Runestone’s girls and taught them how to embroider, sew and dance, as well as their courtesies and about the Seven. Septa Roelle seemed more like a steward than a septa. She wrote their sister’s letters, spent most of her time at her side helping her with work and had even helped her write her book of stories. She was also unlike every other septa she’d seen; she was younger and had no wrinkles. She had golden blonde hair and emerald green eyes, Rhaena had teased her for days when she finally realized the septa was born a Lannister; Rhaena had known from the first time they met her.

“I don’t know what this says,” Baela had been struggling with a letter, written in gibberish, and finally gave up.

“Let me see,” their sister smiled; she always smiled even when they made a mistake and helped them fix it. “Oh, this is from a friend in King’s Landing. He is a commoner, so he learnt quite late to write and still has trouble with it. Roelle, could you take care of it?” the Septa smiled at her, kindly, taking the letter. Baela grabbed another from the pile at the table. When the adults went back to reading through letters, Rhaena stuck her tongue at her. But she wasn’t quick enough to get it back into her mouth, so Baela pinched it between her fingers, causing them both to have a fit of laughter.

“Baela,” Elaena smiled at them. “When you are done laughing, could you write a thank you letter to Ser Jonothor Templeton? He’s sending coin for an armor for Eldric. I’ll look it over and tell you what you can change. Rhaena, the Dowager Lady Melcolm sent me this letter, what do you think we could write back?”
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This was good country. Rhaena had once heard Grandfather Corlys say that, though she didn’t quite understand what he meant at that time. They had passed through so many herds of sheep, each numbering in the hundreds, so noisy that they could hear them before they saw them. Shepherds would stand to greet Elaena, cheering “Royce!” as they rode by. The land was quite flat, with a few hills here and there rising in the distance, soft black dirt under the hooves of their mounts. Far away, in Gulltown’s direction, lay the Mountains of the Moon. Snow covered peaks reached the sky, some even lost beyond the clouds. Cool winds made it so the hot summer sun was never as hot as in the Crownlands, where Rhaena had lived her entire life.

They were riding for a nearby hilly forest where they could hawk so much that even Baela would get tired. Rhaena was riding on a pony, let Baela bring her crazy mare that loves running, she’d rather a mild pony that preferred a slow pace. It wasn’t that she was afraid, she just liked a calm and slow ride more. Only Baela was on a horse, every other girl rode a pony.

Foamchaser was behaving, for once. The last time she had gone riding with Baela on Dragonstone, Foamchaser had decided to run as fast as she could and Rhaena’s horse chased after her as fast as he could. She had nearly fallen when her horse jumped over a stone. Maris was an even worse rider than she was, having been raised in Gulltown her whole life, so they could ride side by side in the middle of their group, surrounded by others. She’d rather be at Runestone learning how to make clay sculptures with Lady Cella, but Baela had been begging to go hawking for days and Rhaena knew she had to be the mature one out of the two.

“Rhaena,” her eldest sister rode by her, with Baela on her Foamchaser next to her. “Do you know why the fields around us are empty?” there were no crops, despite it being summer. Far away she could make out a group of sheep. She shook her head. Baela’s smug smile told her that Elaena had already asked her the same question and received the answer. “To grow, plants take from the soil. If you plant far too much, then the ground will have nothing to give,” she pointed at the faraway herd. “We must give the land time to recover what it needs. The sheep help and so does planting something else. Around here, they plant onions, followed by peas, followed by grazing sheep, then we repeat. Sometimes the farmers will request to plan something other than peas, they knew best so we’ll usually agree and provide seeds.”

“They know best?” Rhaena knew very little about farming, most of Dragonstone’s farmland was away from the castle and as far as she knew, they grew only wheat.

“Farmers know the land in ways their lords never will,” Elaena was looking at the distant sheep with a smile. “They know what grows best in what soil, the movement of rivers, the birds and animals that make their home there, they know when the ground needs rest and,” her voice sounded impressed, “I once met an old man who could put a pinch of dirt in his mouth and tell you what the best thing to grow was. He somehow could tell if the dirt was missing something and knew what plants could give restore the dirt.”

“How do they learn that?” Maris Shett asked.

“They’ve worked the land for generations, just as our families have ruled their castles for generations. They have known bad harvests and good harvests and through the generations have learnt all that they can about farming. ‘Tis life or death for them,” she said with a serious tone. “And thanks to them we can eat and live as we do. They work the land, and our duty is to protect them and their livelihood, to care for the land and ensure the good lives of our subjects.”

“How do we do that?” Baela, who would one day be the queen, asked. Rhaena also wondered, Driftmark had few farm fields, but it had many fishermen.

“Provide justice, with kindness. Listen to sage advice; just like a knight knows about battle and a maester knows of medicine, a farmer knows of agriculture and caring for the land, a miller knows his mill like a knight knows his sword, a sailor knows the seas, a septon knows the faithful. Do not abuse your subjects with cruel taxes. A lord might think he’s only taking a few stags or coppers from a farmer, but to the farmer that might be enough for his family to live for an entire month. If a lord takes more of the farmer’s harvest, it might not even be enough to feed his garrison, but for the farmer? There are always other ways to make coins than taking from them.”

“Like trade?” Rhaena had heard all the stories of her grandfather’s trading ventures.

“Just so,” Elaena gave her a smile. “My people care for my sheep, they shear them, spin the wool and work the looms. My gold comes mainly from the cloth trade. But,” she turned to Baela. “What would happen, Baela, if I were to turn all of my land into fields for sheep to graze at?”

“You’d make more cloth?” she asked, hesitantly.

“What would the people eat?”

“Oh, I suppose you can’t do that,” Baela bit her lip. “If you only care about making more gold then people won’t have food to eat.”

“Aye,” Elaena gently pinched Baela’s cheeks with a smile. “And neither would we. You can make out the forest now,” Rhaena looked ahead. “We don’t have the impossibly large forests like elsewhere in the Vale, let alone the Kingswood and others further away,” Rhaena’s lessons spoke of the Wolfswood in the North, so large it dwarfed the Crownlands. “But there is plenty of game for hawking here.”

Behind them came a few carts full of birds, tents, food and sweets. They’d be spending an entire day in the forest and needed things to do while Baela hawked to her heart’s content. Lady Cella, the chief lady-in-waiting while Alyssa’s mother was away, had brought an easel to draw a scene of the forest to make a tapestry. Rhaena would hawk for a while, she’d promised Baela, but she’d also brought canvas and a charcoal pen to draw. Elaena had a book of old poems with her. She had wanted to bring Sam, but at the end he had stayed behind with Ser Olyvar.

The forest was neither too thick nor too tall. It was friendly and green, the songs of many different birds all around them. Their grandfather had told them stories about faraway forests and jungles where the trees grew so thick and so large that even under the midday sun, the forest was as dark as night. The Haunted forest beyond the Wall with its man-eating wildlings, Others and ice spiders fascinated Rhaena and, much to Baela’s chagrin, she always asked for stories about beyond the Wall. She also loved stories about the distant forests of Mossovy.

The servants set about making camp, while the huntsmaster gave them thick leather gloves for the birds. She was borrowing her sister’s favorite bird, a sweet and well-behaved gyrfalcon called Ironbeak, her own falcon was untrained. Elaena had brought a massive eagle with her called Bronzewing, mostly at Baela’s insistence, who wanted to see it hunt. It was around the same size as Moondancer; the green dragon was longer, but its wingspan was not as large as the eagle’s.

“I can’t wait to see it catch something in the air,” Baela squealed as the eagle was brought out of its cage.

“That’s a big one,” Ser Willam whistled. “Lady Rhea trained it, so it doesn’t hunt like a wild one.”

“How do they hunt?” Baela’s eyes were opened wide with excitement.

“Most of the time they’ll go after the falcons, close to the Eyrie it’s full of them, and steal their prey. They’re so big that the falcons won’t bother defending their food,” the giant eagle did have the look of a big bully, with it’s sharp talons and big beak. “But I’ve seen the things pick up mountain goats and throw them off the mountains, letting the fall do all the work. They’d likely be able to pick you up, my Lady,” the large knight teased with a smile. “You’re about the size of a small goat.”

“Moondancer would protect me! He can breathe fire and the eagles can’t!” Ser Willam laughed and nodded, helping Baela put on her glove and hold on to Goldbeak. The Pentoshi hawk looked at Bronzewing with suspicion, but the eagle did not seem to care about the presence of smaller birds.

Rhaena walked through the forest at a leisurely pace, her bird brought her a small bird it caught in the air and a squirrel that it took from a tree, and with that she was done. She enjoyed hawking well enough, Rhaenyra sometimes took them, but she wasn’t crazy about it like Baela. With a satisfied chirp and a full stomach, Ironbeak went back to his cage where it preened his feathers. Baela’s hawk had brought her a hare, while Elaena’s eagle had found a hairy piglet somewhere and a large duck. Baela was still hawking when Rhaena sat down outside one of the tents.

“Did you have fun?” Elaena walked over to her, the big eagle on her arm was eating bits of meat. “Do you want to try with Bronzewing? He’s old now, very patient with children.”

“I had fun,” the large bird scared her a bit, now that she knew he could probably lift her up. “Your mother trained Bronzewing?”

“Aye,” she caressed the eagle’s head with a sad smile. “He’s older than me, you know? He was a wedding gift from the late Lord Arryn. My mother trained him ever since he was a juvenile. I don’t go hawking as much as she did, so it’s been the huntsmaster who keeps the birds exercised. Mayhaps with you two here we’ll go more often and Bronzewing can spread his wings even more. What do you think?”

“I like hawking, just not as much as Baela…” she eyed the eagle’s talons. “Can it really pick me up and take me?”

“It can try,” Elaena nodded. “But it won’t lift you too high. They pick up goats, lift them a bit and drop them; they don’t take them far and I’ve never heard of them going after children,” Rhaena reached out to the eagle, it allowed her to touch him, barely reacting. His feathers were soft. “He’s very well trained, can even tell different whistles apart.”

“Maybe another day?” her arm was sore, birds were heavy. “I wanted to try drawing the birds.”

“Do you want any help?” her sister beckoned the huntsmaster, who took the eagle. “Do you want to make a design for a wall hanging or tapestry, or do you want to paint a picture?”

“Can I make one for a tapestry?” Rhaena would love to have one she had made.

“Of course, the workshop is always looking for new designs. They are still learning how to make them.”

“I like what Lady Cella is drawing,” she had drawn two women ahorse riding after their birds, chasing other animals.

“She’s been drawing for many years and has gotten very good, hasn’t she?” Elaena smiled, picking up an empty sheet of canvas and a charcoal pen. “It takes practice to get that good, want to help me draw Bronzewing?” Rhaena nodded and they spent close to an hour drawing eagles and talking. Elaena asked her about living in Dragonstone, the games they played, what they ate on the island and what she liked doing. Rhaena liked dancing and drawing. She wanted to learn music, so her father had brought a harp teacher from Pentos for her. “He likes Pentos a lot, doesn’t he?” her sister mentioned. “I’ve come to prefer artists from Braavos, but it might just be because they come to Gulltown very often. Would you like to see a painter’s workshop in Gulltown?” she nodded, excited.

Just then, Baela approached them. Goldbeak was back in his cage and her twin was stretching her arm, clearly sore after an afternoon of hawking. “What are you drawing? Is that Bronzewing? Did you see him lift that boar? I’m going to ask father for one just like him! He’d probably love one too!”

“They take a lot of training, my mother always said it took nearly a year for Bronzewing to even accept taking orders. They’re smart birds, but quite stubborn. It will take hard work to own one,” Baela pouted, but smiled when she sat down next to Rhaena, watching her draw.

“I like that one,” she pointed at one of Elaena’s drawn eagles. “It has very sharp looking talons.”

“Want to try drawing?” Elaena handed her a piece of charcoal. Baela tried to draw Goldbeak, Rhaena could tell it apart because it’s tail feathers were shaped like an arrow.

“Who do you think would win? Moondancer or Bronzewing?”

“Bronzewing can’t breathe fire, and I don’t think his talons are sharp enough for a dragon’s hard skin.”

“He’s very big though, and Moondancer is small.”

“He’s not going to get bigger though, and Moondancer will be as big as other dragons,” Rhaena was tired of hearing Baela complain that Moondancer was slow to grow, at least she had a dragon.

“I suppose,” Baela’s drawing was not as good as Rhaena’s, though the talons she had drawn were very good. The other girls were close by, playing monsters-and-maidens, and soon Baela stood up to play with them. Rhaena, satisfied with her drawing, stood to join them.

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Elaena watched her sisters play with a smile. They stopped for a while for lunch, cheese and smoked ham, before going back to play. Baela wanted to hawk some more, but the birds were tired and resting. Elaena taught them how to play hide-and-seek, unleashing a troop of giggling girls into the forest. They then competed in footraces before it was finally time to return home. She sent one of the knights galloping back to Runestone, to tell the servants to prepare baths for the girls.

Elaena spent a nice relaxing afternoon in the forest. It had been too long since she’d last taken a break from work. She sat on an empty box under the shade of tree with Septa Roelle. She’d brought a book written by one Alessander Swann seven hundred years before the Conquest. It was an epic poem, narrating a war between the Storm Kings and Dorne. She took turns with Roelle to read it out loud, they laughed as they made funny voices for the various characters and tried to sing the poem.

Right as the sun was beginning to set the girls finished playing. They were too tired to ride now, so they sat in the carriages, with the birds. Baela had fallen asleep, she had been the one to play the most and ran the most, so Elaena picked her up and carried her towards the horses. Both her and Rhaena were skinny and small, shorter than the other girls. She had no trouble carrying her sister, soon enough Sam might even outweigh them. She was well enough to ride home, but chose to ride the carriage with her sisters, Baela asleep in her lap and Rhaena leaning on her and struggling to stay awake.

Her sisters were so tiny. And Moondancer was also small. She was praying that the TV series had decided to give them bigger roles in the story, that they’d never see actual combat. Baela had flown on her dragon, far bigger in the show, and chased after a group of knights; but the girl in her arms was so small that she could not imagine her in a war. She had to try and keep them there, with her, away from war.

She hoped that soon she’d be able to divide her work with more people, those coming out from the university, so she could spend more time with her sisters, with Olyvar and Samwell, and with the little one currently growing inside of her.

Chapter Text

124 AC

Lord Grafton was hosting a citywide fair for his only daughter’s nameday. Lucas Grafton had been flooded with marriage offers for young Marianne Grafton, but the young girl was terribly pious and was dead set on taking her vows as a septa. Lucas Grafton was terribly indulgent with his children, his two eldest had both married for love and now his daughter was allowed to choose her future. The fair was Grafton’s way of saying goodbye to his daughter. Elaena had heard that Lord Grafton first wanted to host a tourney, but since his daughter didn’t care for them, he was instead hosting a fair. Besides the festivities, Elaena had some small business in the city, and she wanted to show her sisters around. Her cousin Gunthor, a student at the university, was advancing in his studies and had sent word about fellow students she could potentially take to Runestone; mainly those who weren’t taking septon’s vows. Gerold would be interviewing them before introducing them to her. She also wanted to see the progress on the Royce manor.

They were travelling with a large party, but many would stay behind in Gulltown, to leave for elsewhere. Isembard Arryn had finally agreed on a marriage contract with the Evenstar of Tarth, so her lady, Alysanne, would be leaving for the island after the fair; she would have liked to go to the wedding, but the maester argued that the turbulent Shipbreaker Bay was no place for a woman four months with child. Her Royal uncle was also hosting a tourney of his own, to celebrate the first namedays of Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, Aegon and Helaena’s twins; she would not be attending, but Willam and a few others were making the journey. Her nephews and Eldric would fight in squire’s matches, where they’d be gaining some fighting experience, but not knighthood. Samwell’s first nameday was also close, and Olyvar’s father had offered to host a tourney for him at Ninestars after the new year, mainly as an excuse to meet him.

The days had grown windier and colder, with constant rains, though no white raven had come to announce a change in seasons. She’d taken her sisters all over her land. They’d been guests at two separate shearing festivals, witnessing every step it took for wool to turn into cloth. She’d even have them participate in the skirting at one festival, though they’d given up after just one fleece, learning the effort it took for just one fleece. They’d seen a local harvest festival where the smallfolk played music and danced to honor the Seven. She’d taken them to a town fair, where merchants from Gulltown and Moondancer’s Port travelled to sell their wares, and to buy thread for less than usual. And, by sheer happenstance, they’d also witnessed a small wedding between farmers.

“I’m hungry,” Baela complained. She wanted to be outside the carriage, riding to Gulltown, but rain had forced her inside. She was a great rider and took every opportunity she could to ride on her Foamchaser. The rain had also forced their slow pace. Muddy roads and heavy carriages did not get along.

If there was anyone even more upset than Baela at being cooped up inside the carriage it was Samwell. Her son hated the carriage, he hated the slow pace, the tight walls and the shaking on the road; he’d laugh and smile whenever Olyvar took him on horse rides and fidget and whine inside the carriage. The knights joked that their little lord had a martial disposition and was born to the saddle and laughed about it, but after his third attempt to crawl out the window, Elaena was wishing he’d fall asleep.

“Here, my Lady,” Cella carried the basket with snacks. Savory pastries made with cheese and bacon, and apples. Baela took a pastry with a big smile on her face. Rhaena also took one. Maris Shett took an apple. There were also some mashed apples for Sam, though he wasn’t interested in eating at that time. She handed the basket to the other girls, who began to pilfer it.

Cella, Roelle and herself were the only adults in the carriage. It was large enough for all seven girls in her charge. Alysanne Coldwater and her niece Rhea were sleeping side to side, Alyssa and Millicent Tollett were trying to embroider a favor they’d be giving to Millicent’s father, who’d come to Gulltown for the tourney, but the shaking made it difficult. Maris and her sisters had been telling each other stories and jokes, but hunger and boredom had caught up to them and they were now staring listlessly out of the small gap in the window.

“What do you think Moondancer is doing? She doesn’t like the rain.”

“She’s probably asleep in the tower,” the dragon’s growth had begun to concern her, in just a few months it had reached the size of a pony. She’d sent a raven to Dragonstone asking her father for help and he’d sent a dragonkeeper, Mort. Moondancer now had lessons. Baela had also received a letter full of instructions and rules about her dragon.

“She might be out hunting,” Baela always boasted whenever Moondancer returned with a hare gripped tight in her talons. Elaena tried to make sure the dragon was always fed, so it wouldn’t go after her herds or, Gods forbid, a child. They’d managed to direct Moondancer to a nearby forest, where it could hunt to its heart’s content. Keeping the dragon well-fed had at least ensured it kept its prey on the smaller side. “One day we’ll hunt an aurochs together!”

They had given Moondancer one of the castle’s towers. She’d spend her days at the top, flying in circles and descending when tired or when called by Mort or Baela; and her nights locked in the room below. Elaena did not want to risk an untrained juvenile dragon flying around without supervision. And Moondancer didn’t seem to mind, most days she’d even descend the stairs on her own. Mort taught commands to both Baela and Moondancer. The old dragonkeeper had trained both Syrax and the dragons of Rhaenyra’s sons when they were juveniles. The beasts were terribly clever, the issue proved to be their stubbornness. Moondancer learnt commands easily enough but only wanted to obey Baela. Baela preferred to learn Valyrian from him than from their Pentoshi teacher.

She’d asked Baela why she didn’t like Lady Marilya and discovered that her father and Rhaenyra had a very… modern relationship. She was inclined to believe every tale involving her father, well aware that he did as he pleased, and had heard much more scandalous things than him and Rhaenyra kissing Lady Marilya. Some even swore he hosted orgies back in his City Watch days. Rhaena was the better of the sisters at her language lessons, Baela only listened when the words involved seemed useful for dragon riding. As for herself, she’d sat in on the lessons, in part to get to know the woman sent by her father but had not paid much attention; the lessons were tailored for children. Marilya was a voluptuous woman who spoke Common with an accent that only made her even more appealing. She was serious about her teaching duties, spending hours preparing lessons and writing down exercises for her sisters. She spent her free time either in the Godswood or watching the knights train. Several of her knights had attempted to court her, though as far as she knew none had succeeded.

“Are we there yet?” Baela tried looking out the window. From the small gap she could make out trees and heavy rain, but only that. “Will there be flute merchants?” Baela had seemed uninterested in learning to play music, content in watching Rhaena with her harp; Rhaenys had actually had lutes made for the girls, but Baela found the lessons boring, and Rhaena liked the harp more. But, during the harvest festival, a shepherd had gifted Baela a bone flute and she liked playing it. Wanting to encourage her, she promised to get her a proper flute in the city, one that could play more notes.

“Aye,” she shifted Sam’s weight from one leg to the other, he’d been trying to stand and jump. From time to time he’d join their conversations, babbling in agreement or sometimes even disagreeing. “If we’re in luck, there might be one whose come all the way from Braavos,” she’d actually sent a message to Lotho Reyaan, the Iron Bank’s representative, asking him to request one, but that was a surprise for Baela. She’d seen and heard Braavosi flutes from travelling musicians and, in her opinion, they sounded the best.

“I hope so,” Rhaena smiled. “Then we could play together,” she squeezed Maris’s hand, the Shett girl was learning to play the fiddle.

“Just like a musician’s troop!” Maris wiggled with excitement. Out of all the girls, she was the closest to Rhaena, sharing many of the same interests.

“Tah!” Samwell screamed suddenly, trying to reach for the window. “Tah!” he demanded. She spent the next few minutes trying to calm him down, singing about the Seven’s love for little children and a lullaby about a lost fawn. Septa Roelle joined her and thankfully Samwell decided to fall asleep. When she herself began to nod off, Roelle took Sam from her hands. She laid her head on the septa’s shoulder and drifted off to sleep, listening to the rain bounce off their wooden roof and Roelle continue humming lullabies.
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Once it finally stopped raining, Baela rushed out of the carriage asking for her horse. Upon seeing the open door, Sam woke up and began to fidget in Septa Roelle’s arms and reach for the open space. Her eldest sister was still asleep, so it fell upon Ser Olyvar to take care of Sam before his whining could wake her up. He picked up her nephew and took him with him, Sam was laughing as the horse trotted away. Rhea also climbed out, demanding to ride with her brother Allard. As for Rhaena, she didn’t want to ride at that point, but she still felt cooped up inside the carriage, so she, and Maris, sat in the front, next to Orry, the driver.

Behind them came a large group of smallfolk, on their way to the festival. Surprisingly, there were no herds of grazing sheep near them, to both of their sides were recently harvested fields. Their sister had taken them all over the peninsula to see all sorts of places and people, and they had never been far from sheep. The last few days they were gathering a group of them near Runestone to take to Barba’s future husband, as part of her dowry. She was marrying an important lord from an ancient house, a very good match for the daughter of a landed knight, even if her name was Royce. Rhaena had asked her sister if she wasn’t worried someone else would start selling her cloth, and she told her they’d be buying wool from House Melcolm’s lands, and all the spinners and weavers were in her own lands, anyways.

“Look, m’ladies, a rainbow,” the driver pointed, off in the distance the sun broke through the clouds.

Orry was one of the oldest people in Runestone, he had even met old Ser Gunthor’s father. He’d been driving the carriages of Lady Royces for close to sixty years. He’d known their sister since she was younger than them and would sometimes tell them funny stories about her, though their sister always claimed he was exaggerating. Elaena had apparently always been a serious and responsible child, always with a frown on her face and full of thoughts and always attached to her mother. Lady Rhea had to force her daughter to take breaks from her lessons and have fun. It was hard for Rhaena to imagine her big sister as a child following after her mother. It also didn’t help her imagination that everyone said Elaena was a tall child.

“Elaena named the horses, right?” Rhaena pointed at the two pulling the carriage.

“Aye, Sonny and Cher,” Orry nodded. “These two are old, born when Her Ladyship was a wee lass,” Rhaena giggled, many horses in Runestone had silly names, like Dreams of Cake and Born Lucky, Ser Willam’s jousting stallion. “Lady Rhea, Seven guard her, ask’d her to name them and Lady Elaena comes up with the strangest names.”

“How long until we get to Gulltown?”

“Not long, m’lady. See those there stones?” he pointed at a pair of large stones on the side of the road. “They’re boundary stones, once we cross them, we’re in Grafton land. Just a short ride to the city.”

Rhaena and Maris spent the rest of the ride playing games, singing songs and making up stories for the shapes in the clouds. The going was slow, due to the mud, but it was much faster than when the sky was pouring and they finally made out the city walls before it got too dark. They’d set up large fairgrounds in front of the gates, and already a small city of tents spread out in all directions. There was a line at the gates, with guardsmen looking over the smallfolk going in.

“Father!” Maris stood up with a smile upon seeing two horsemen ride towards them, one carrying the checkered banner of the Shetts of Gull Tower. Maris’s father waved his hand, picking up speed towards them.

“Stop the carriage,” from behind her, she heard the little window open and saw Elaena peeking through. “Where is Baela?”

“Riding somewhere behind us.”

“Could you ask one of the knights to fetch her?” Lady Cella began to brush her sister’s hair.

“Ser,” she called out to Ser Jorah, who was riding to their side. “Elaena asked if you could fetch my sister,” the knight sat up straight looking around. “Please,” she remembered her courtesies. Ser Jorah smiled at her and, after a nod, rode off.

When the carriage stopped, so did the smallfolk who were following them. Her sister told her they were with them for the safety of her knights. Clansmen had not struck so far from the mountains in ages, but a famous warlord had appeared, and people were afraid. A wildling named Goran Thunderfist had burnt down a village and stolen twenty women. Baela thought it was the most exciting thing, until they left the safety of Runestone’s walls for one of their weekly hawking trips with their sister and they both heard screaming clansmen behind every tree. The trip was cut short because they were all scared, their sister spent the entire trip home assuring them that Goran Thunderfist was far away from Runestone and Byron Redfort had gone into the mountains with three hundred men to chase him down. They stole Elaena from Ser Olyvar for a few days, sleeping in her same bed.

“Lady Royce,” Maris’s father dismounted and went on one knee when Elaena left the carriage. He was bald. “Allow me to escort you to the city.”

“Well met, Ser Andrik,” Elaena presented her hand to the knight, who kissed her ring. “Please do,” Baela trotted over, she’d picked up a stick somewhere. “What news from the city, Ser?” Elaena sat back on the carriage, talking through the window.

“Refugees keep coming in, scared people from the borderlands of Redfort,” Ser Andrik rode next to the carriage. “Most will likely return home when the wildlings are brought down, but Lord Grafton is already despairing a new slum growing outside the city.”

“We’d best let them know that Moondancer’s Port is ever open and looking for more people,” the knight nodded.

The crowd following them moved towards the tents once they were close to the walls; the line at the gates gave way to them and the guards nodded in greeting, not even bothering to check them like they did the smallfolk. The streets of the city were chock full of banners bearing the Grafton tower and the Seven-Pointed Star. The mud and rain that had escorted them most for most of the road didn’t seem to affect Gulltowners. They put up sheets of canvas to cover their wares and most people were wearing large hats for the rain. There were mummers going around in colorful dress juggling blunt knives, a dancing bear and even an alchemist creating creatures out of fire. On their way to their inn, they heard three separate singers.

“Who’s that?” she asked Maris when they passed through the city square on their way to the inn. There was a statue of a large king holding out a sword with a three-headed dragon on his shield. “Is that Prince Baelon?” he looked strong and noble, like how her father described her grandfather Baelon.

“’Tis King Maegor,” Baela, who was riding next to them, opened her eyes wide, staring at the statue. “Celebrating his victory over the usurper Jonos Arryn,” she remembered him from her lessons, a kinslayer and traitor to the realm who killed his own brother to take the Eyrie. “He scares the clansmen and keeps them away from Gulltown.”

She did not know if the statue was truly his likeness, but if it was… King Maegor had a scary scowl. Rhaena could understand why the clans were afraid of him.

“There was a statue of him in Dragonstone, but the Old King had it taken down,” Baela stated, triggering an old memory of an excursion with Jace and Luke into the castle’s bowels and finding parts of the statue.

“My father says nobles always ask for it to be taken down, but the people of Gulltown like the statue,” how people could like Maegor the Cruel, Rhaena didn’t know.

“He was a just and strong king,” Orry stated. “My old pa fought in the army to put down Jonos the Kinslayer and joined the king on his wars against the Faith Militant. A king needs strength he’d always say,” Orry nodded. “’Twas all Queen Tyanna’s fault, he always said.”

Baela and Rhaena looked at each other, mirroring the same uncertain smile, provoking a fit of laughter on the two. Behind the sept they found their inn, a large building with a first floor made of stone and the top floors of wood. Ser Olyvar dismounted next to the carriage, opening the door and lifting Elaena by the waist to help her into the street. Rhaena looked around for Sam and found him in Ser Willam’s uncertain arms, who quickly handed him over to Elaena. The innkeep was waiting for them by the door, they had bought out every room in the inn’s top floor.

“Let’s go exploring!” Rhaena grabbed Baela by the hand, rushing inside the inn. The rest of the girls were not far behind them. The common room was large and airy with carvings of gulls and other seabirds on all the walls. “Race you to the top!” Baela then rushed ahead of her, taking the staircases two steps at a time, but she tired herself with that strategy and Rhaena overtook her on the last floor, the fourth.

“Gah, you win,” Baela caught her breath. “Which one’s our room?”

“I don’t know,” the servants had only begun to take out their luggage. “I like this one,” an open door shoed a room with a view of the port. “It’s like our room in Dragonstone,” the window in their room opened out to the castle’s dock. Rhea and Alyssa and the other girls looked in from behind them.

“I like it too,” Baela went in. There were several beds in it, enough for all the girls. “What do you want to play?”

“Hide-and-seek?” both her and Millicent spoke at once.
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“Come one, come all to see the fantastical collection of Carys of Pentos!” the man was wearing a funny hat, six different colors and feathers coming out of it. Baela led the way into the man’s tent, the girls and Ser Willam behind her, who handed a few coins to the Penotshi. His tent was the largest outside the walls, with guards at the entrance. A pedestal in the center of the tent had a dragon’s egg, but at a single glance Baela could tell it was a fake. To the side was the stuffed body of a two-headed snake, “from the jungles of the Bassilisk Isles,” said the Pentoshi. Next to it stood a chipped Dothraki arakh and three bells, “taken from a khal’s bloodrider after they tried to attack Selhorys.” In the back of the tent a scary white mask, made from Weirwood, “it once belonged to a witch from the Lands of Always Winter!” bragged the man. “Now this is my magical stone,” the man took out a small black stone from within his sleeve and placed it against Ser Willam’s armor, where it did not move. “Try jumping or running Ser, and it shall stay there,” Willam gave a small jump, and the magic stone did not move. The Pentoshi then grabbed it with his hand, and, after a slight effort, it split from Ser Willam’s armor. He placed the stone against his own clothes and it fell to the ground. The girls all clapped.

“What is this?” Rhaena asked, standing by something in the corner. Baela approached her twin. A chunk of black stone stood alone, inside of an iron cage. The tent seemed darker in that corner.

“Touch it, my fair ladies,” the man winked at them. Baela put her finger on the stone, it was oily. “It comes from distant Asshai-by-the-Shadow! A gift for Carys from a shadowbinder!” the man looked around, they were the only people in the tent, the smallfolk had been kept out while they had a look. “You are Targaryen, yes?”

“We are,” Baela gave the man a proud smile.

“Allow me to show you a piece of your history,” from the pedestal underneath the fake dragon egg the man took out a metal lockbox. Baela was waiting for the man to open it, but it seemed it was the box what he wanted to show them.

“Is that Valyrian steel?” Ser Willem squinted.

“Just so, good knight,” Baela got closer, the box did indeed look a bit like Dark Sister, smoky grey and full of patterns in the steel. “This came into possession of Carys, Collector of Wonders, many years ago. And there is something inside of it, but alas!” the man gave a dramatic sigh. “It is unopenable without the key or the spells of the ancient dragonlords.”

“My father always said the smiths of Qohor learnt the secrets of reforging Valyrian steel,” Rhaena said.

“So they claim, but if by reforging my box they destroy whatever treasure it holds inside?” the man shrugged, putting back the box in its hidden compartment. “Why risk it when I may find a prince who would pay much for my box.”

“Will you stay here for long?” Baela should tell her father, mayhaps he would like the box.

“I am off to your King’s Landing, my Lady. The Fantastical Wonders of Carys seek the entertainment of people,” the tourney for the Green babes.

Baela resolved to send a message to her father, to look for the man and his box. The only other thing in the tent that caught her eye was a collection of coins from faraway places. She’d seen some of them in High Tide, in her grandfather’s gallery, but the large coin in the center was unknown to her. It was square and bronze with a lion with star eyes engraved in the center with incredible skill; she could even make out the strands of its mane. “That was found buried in the Plains of the Jhogos Nhai, it is old beyond reckoning.”

The sun was a welcome reprieve when they left the tent; towards the end of their visit, Baela swore the weirwood mask’s empty eyes were locked on her. The fair had been much more exciting than she had expected. It had drizzled in the morning, but the sun blew away the clouds come midday. There was tasty food, musicians everywhere, mummers and jugglers, and the stalls sold many interesting things. They’d found a pretty flute from Braavos, and she couldn’t wait to learn how to play it, Elaena had played a song with it, and it sounded very nice. She had seen a bravo’s slender sword and had tried to get her sister to buy it for her, but she remained unconvinced. Baela knew that if she kept asking, Elaena would eventually buy it for her. She liked to spoil them. She bought a set of paints for Rhaena, made from crushed stones, and brushes of soft horsehair.

One out of every three merchants seemed to be selling cloth. Simple cloth for commoners, nicer cloth for the better off Gulltowners and fine cloth for nobles and rich merchants, toys made from cloth, wall hangings, simple shirts and skirts, even shoes. It had surprised Baela to know how rich commoners could be. Around Runestone there were rich farmers whose wives could even have something made from silk, and there were even merchants wealthier than some lords. Before Runestone she had never spent much time with commoners, only those serving in Dragonstone and the fishermen who lived by the castle. Another thing that surprised her was how much they loved and missed Good Queen Alysanne; her father didn’t like her much, when he thought they weren’t listening he called her an old bat who forced him to marry beneath him.

“Look Baela!” Millicent pulled her to the side where a man was juggling with torches. There were mummers in every street, each doing whatever they could to beat the others. A group of them had put on a show in front of the sept, where they acted out a mock battle between the Warrior’s Sons and the clansmen to the cheers of everyone. Baela didn’t think too highly of the ancient Faith Militant, but the disguises the mummers had made them look very brave. Her favorite had been a troupe of acrobats out of Lorath who climbed on poles, held on to the ground only by their strength. Rhaena had liked a storyteller who used puppets.

“Do you think Sam will like this?” she heard her twin ask Ser Willam. Turning around, Rhaena had a colorful ball that rang out like a bell when she moved it.

“I’m certain he will,” the tall knight smiled at her, though his eyes kept scanning the crowd around them, just like a Kingsguard would. “Specially since it comes from his lady aunt.”

“I’ll take it,” Rhaena turned back to the merchant, handing her a coin. Elaena had given each of her wards ten silver stags to spend as they wished. Baela had not spent her coins yet. “Will you get anything for Jace?” her twin asked. “I got this for Luke,” she showed her a large seashell. “So he can blow it when he’s coming into port.”

“What did you get?” she looked at Maris, who as usual was following after Rhaena.

“A doll,” she showed her a cloth doll, red-haired and wearing a blue dress. Baela wanted one.

“Where did you get it?” Maris pointed to a stall in the next street, prompting Baela to run off before Ser Willam could react. He still had much to learn, Baela thought with a smile, Ser Lorent would have caught her.

She got two dolls, one for her and one for Rhaena. When the merchant saw her hair, he insisted she take the dolls with silver hair. Baela liked their dresses, so she didn’t mind; one of the dolls even reminded her of a painting of her mother, with a turquoise dress. She was about to turn back when, in the stall behind her, she found her elder sister. There must have been close to thirty paintings of her sister, drawn on plates. And there was even a line of people buying them, Baela thought with shock. Before she could recover from her shock the rest of their party arrived. Rhaena also gawked at the paintings, while Ser Willam laughed.

“Come along, little ladies,” the knight ushered them away. “Lady Elaena will tan my hide if I let you buy one of those,” he suddenly stopped, a big smile in his face. “Wait, I’ve a fun idea. Merchant,” the knight cut to the front of the line. “Give me those two large ones,” the ones he pointed at where painted on shields.

“What are they for, Ser?” Baela asked once they were away, the shields hidden under Ser Willam’s tunic. “Will you fight with them on the tourney?”

“One’s a gift for His Grace, the other for your princely father. But we must hide it until you leave for Dragonstone, can you keep the secret? Lady Elaena gets very embarrassed over them,” Baela nodded, she’d like to have a painting of her sister in Dragonstone; Rhaena also nodded. “Though using one for a tourney might make for a funny anecdote for Lady Elaena to hear…”

They walked back towards their inn. They’d be going with their sister to a mummer’s show put on by a troupe hired by Lord Grafton. She hoped it’d be fun. The other thing they did with their sister was rather dull. She took them to see the construction of the Royce manor and all that Baela could see was builders at work. The column was pretty enough, with flowers carved in the columns, but she’d found it boring to stand around looking at stone being cut. That morning, Elaena didn’t join them in the markets outside of the city because she was talking with septon students, or something like that.

Baela liked Gulltown. The streets were wide so people weren’t all crammed together, in her last visit to King’s Landing she remembered people squeezing through alleys and crowding their carriage. The streets were cobbled and even with the rains there was no mud. She’d been only a few times to King’s Landing and, what she managed to see through the carriage, scared her more than Gulltown. Mayhaps it was because the Vale’s largest city was much smaller than King’s Landing, so there weren’t as many dangerous people. Mayhaps it was because her father sometimes told them about the times he commanded the Gold Cloaks, and he made it sound as if Flea Bottom was the most dangerous place in the Seven Kingdoms. Gulltown’s only slum was outside the city walls, and the city guard kept a close eye on them. Inside the walls were plenty of pretty buildings, septs, manorhouses, inns, workshops and a bunch of little islands connected by bridges. Once she was Jace’s queen, Baela would try to make it so that King’s Landing was more like Gulltown. When she told Elaena about her plans, her sister told her to see even more cities, for they all had something to teach. Moondancer would make that easy.

On their way back to the inn, they passed through the street of taverns. In front of one, there was a very large crowd, gathered around a septon in ragged clothing. “Goran Thunderfist is dead!” the septon was shouting, people cheering around him. “Ser Adrian Redfort has taken his head and freed the women of Maiden’s Creek!”

The girls all cheered, Baela loudest of them. They’d heard of the awful Thunderfist and his band of raiders and no matter how much Elaena assured them that the clansman was far from Runestone, they still believed him coming for them, gathering his swords to attack Runestone. Their inn was at the end of the street of taverns. It was the last and largest of the inns, close to the Falcon’s Harbor where great ships with Arryn and Grafton sails docked.

“Cella,” their sister was waiting for them outside the inn, flanked by Ser Olyvar and Ser Benfred. “Could you help the girls into dresses and brush their hair? I’ll take care of my sisters.”

Elaena took them into her own room, where Septa Roelle looked after Sam, who was playing with a block of wood. She had them change into matching lilac dresses, “many of the Vale’s nobility will be there,” she told them. Baela liked having her arms bare, her own dress had been cut at the sleeves just for her. They talked about the market and the wonders they saw in the Pentoshi’s tent. Elaena brushed their hair with a careful hand. Baela much preferred her sister’s hand to the servants; they sometimes pulled too hard when they were disentangling the knots that always seemed to form in her hair.

“Did you see the dancing bear?” Elaena asked them. “Olyvar and I took Sam to see it, and he quite liked it.”

“We did,” Baela had expected a bigger bear, like the one stuffed in Driftmark’s trophy room. “He was dancing to a song about grandfather.”

“Lord Corlys is well liked for his adventures,” their sister smiled. “Have you heard the song about the Sea Snake and the Kraken?” they both shook their heads. Elaena then sang it to them while brushing her hair. It was a funny song about their grandfather feuding with a kraken who wished to charge him a toll to sail through his watery kingdom. Every time that the Sea Snake offered something to the kraken so he could pass, the sea monster argued he already had something much more valuable in his underwater palace, since he claimed the treasures of every sunken ship. It ended when the Sea Snake tricked him, giving him a flower and making the kraken believe it was the most valuable thing in dry land.

“I saw another bravo’s sword,” Baela announced, after the song’s end and Elaena moved on to Rhaena’s hair. Baela sat in the bed, next to her nephew, who’d been laughing along with them to the song.

“I see,” Elaena pursed her lips. “I don’t think Daemon will like it if you return home with live steel, ask me again when you are older.”

“Bey!” Sam crawled towards her. She was certain that Bey meant Baela. “Bey!” he climbed on her lap, where she began to tickle him.

“All done,” Rhaena stood beaming. “You both look like princesses out of a story,” Elaena picked up a laughing Sam, poking him in the belly. “And you… Will you behave if we take you to the show?”

“What will it be about?” Rhaena asked.

“Something pious mayhaps, I believe Marianne Grafton chose.”

“Do you want me to stay with Sam?” Septa Roelle smiled at Elaena; Baela could swear she gave her the same smile that Rhaenyra gave her father.

“Worry not, he’s told me he’s behaving,” their sister smiled back, a friendly smile. “So you’ll both be coming with us.”

“Did you know that they got Thunderfist?”

“Aye,” she grabbed a blanket, putting it over Sam. “See, I told you that Lord Byron would do it.”

“They said it was a Ser Adrian who did it.”

“Byron’s brother.”

“Will Eldric one day fight clansmen like that?”

“Aye,” Elaena sat down next to her. “’Tis his duty as a knight of the Vale, and as an Arryn.”

“Sam too?” she couldn’t imagine her little nephew, who liked going on horse rides and mashed apples, fighting wildlings.

“Aye,” her sister looked sad as she held Sam tight to her body. “I suppose he will too,” Baela saw tears forming in the corners of her sister’s eyes.

“I’ll help him!” she stood up. “Moondancer and I will protect him!”

“M-me too!” Rhaena joined her. “I don’t have a dragon yet, but father says I will. We’ll help Sam and the smallfolk,” Elaena smiled at them, giving them both a kiss in the top of the head and a tight hug.
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Chapter Text

125 AC

The Butterwell knight fell with a resounding crash. Willam knew he was no great jouster, like Oly was, but all he needed was a good placement. The melee would be his stage to show off his skill. ‘Twas a Reachman’s sort of joust, with the five champions upholding the crown and waiting for challengers. He’d claimed a few ransoms for himself, in his way to earning the right to challenge, more than enough to pay for his eventual defeat and he knew who he’d be falling against; if he fell, of course, Willam thought with a smile. The knights of the Kingsguard were honor bound to accept ransoms, he wouldn’t lose his horse to them, and what a horse it was. Lady Rhea’s best destrier was a beast without equal.

The five champions remained unbeaten. Three white swords—Cole, Fell and a Cargyll—one of the queen’s brothers and Ser Clement Florent. Fell was the oldest and likeliest to die first, opening up a spot in the order for him. He’d test himself against him, and Gods willing take his spot amongst the champions. The bravest, and most foolish, thing to do would be to try and test the Lord Commander, but Willam knew he was not the man’s equal with the lance; Criston Cole was a jousting champion. Come the melee, he’d seek out as many white swords as he could. With Lamentation in hand, bless Lady Elaena for allowing him to bear it in her name, he was confident he would prove his mettle. Let Cole and his brothers rule the lists, the melee was his.

“One more win and you’ll get to challenge a champion,” Allard had come second in the squire’s melee, so he’d been doing his duties as a squire with a large smile on his face. His younger brother had fallen earlier, to the eventual champion. Eldric had been defeated by an older squire in a previous round; but had had good placement running rings. A good showing for a future lord of the Vale.

“I still don’t understand how it works,” Robar was applying an ointment to a bruise on his shoulder. “They should just make a bracket and let the best knight win.”

“’Tis their way,” Allard shrugged. “We best learn it if we ever wish to ride in Highgarden or Brightwater Keep, there’re fat purses to be won for knights rich in skill,” after four wins, you earned the right to challenge a champion and take his spot.

“Who am I riding against?” Allard handed him a new shield, with the Royce sigil painted on. He’d been tempted to use the shield with Elaena painted on but thought it best to gift it to the king with its paint unspoiled. The other shield was safely hidden in Runestone, waiting for the day the little ladies would return to Dragonstone to give it to their father; a constant reminder of the Royce daughter he had. He’d not seen the king yet, only the queen and her children sat in the royal box. The eldest visibly drunk, the young mother with her twins in her lap, the one-eyed one looking intently at the tilts, and the youngest prince chattering away in his mother’s ear.

“Ser Tom Flowers, bastard of Bitterbridge.”

“Bastards make for tough foes,” Willam stretched his right arm. “They grow fast and hard and make their way in the world with their sword-arm.”

He led Born Lucky to the field. The horse was better dressed than most knights. He wore a bronze-colored caparison made from rich thick wool, with little silver studs shaped like runes of protection sewn into it and silver-colored tassels at the bottom. Underneath was the barding, and, under that, a second caparison made with soft wool, to protect Born Lucky’s sensible skin. His saddle was of fine make as well, an old family heirloom, inscribed with runes and with silver fittings. Born Lucky had head armor on as well, a bronze facemask with a pair of horns twisting downwards. He was as well protected as a horse could.

“Lance,” Allard handed him the tourney lance. The bastard was a good enough lance, but his riding was unsure. Willam was not the most gifted of jousters, but constant practice as Olyvar’s sparring partner had honed his skills. He had learnt the best ways to place his lance, and the best timing as well. He struck the bastard with enough strength to throw him off his horse and earned the right to challenge the champions. “Lance,” he asked for another, his nephew running up to him, and rode to the champions’ shields.

“Ser Willam Royce,” the herald announced as he struck one of the three white shields, “has challenged Ser Willis Fell of the Kingsguard!”

The White cloak was in his fifties, an old man by Willam’s reckoning. He’d been previously challenged by three others, who had also thought the oldest of the Kingsguard to be the easiest of the three white knights, and had dispatched them all. If anyone else was serious about going for the champion’s podium, Willam thought, they should have gone for the queen’s brother. Age had not dulled the white knight. Willam managed five passes, the most out of anyone else, before his back was to the ground. The knight was gracious, accepting his offer for ransom. He’d likely donate it to an orphanage, having sworn off all riches.

“And that’s that for the joust,” he told his nephews as he returned to their tent. “Now for the melee,” they watched the rest of the joust, resting in their seats. Ser Willis Fell kept his position as one of the five champions, alongside Criston Cole, until the end of the day. “Mayhaps I should have gone after Cargyll, then I wouldn’t have gotten a mouthful of dirt,” Willam joked. The champions accorded to crown Queen Alicent as the Queen of Love and Beauty. Had Willam been in the champion’s podium, he would have proposed they crown the little princess; even if she was a babe, ‘twas her nameday.

“I’ve brought the singer,” Eldric announced when the sun went down, Lady Elaena’s trained singer in tow.

“Ser,” the singer bowed.

“I’ve brought a letter from your sister,” he handed him the paper. Normally he wouldn’t act as carrier for a commoner, but his lady had asked. “There’s also a song there that the lady would like played in the king’s halls,” it was the song of that one vile king who sacrificed his daughter to his cruel gods, so they’d grant him good winds to sail to war. “It was made by her,” the man nodded. “She also has a request. She would like you to compose a song about Maegor’s tunnels and sing it in the hearing of the queen and princess.”

“I’ll do so, the princess oft calls for me,” he handed a bag with coins to the singer and winked.

“This is from me, I’ll be winning tomorrow’s melee and would like a song of my own,” he gave a hearty laugh when the singer snorted in amusement.

Come the next day, Born Lucky was as ready as he was. He could feel the destrier beneath him itching to run and fight; he at times bit other horses when he was in a bad mood. But this was no bad mood, he was sure that they both wanted to show off. The few Valemen at the tourney had made common cause with the Westermen, both sides having the least numbers attending. He’d been given leadership of the Valemen, the only knights of any consequence were Ser Tristan Waynwood and Ser Androw Stone. The king had graced them with his presence, again he’d remind Lady Elaena’s royal uncle of his talent for battle.

The first fight was always the most exciting, the big melee always managed to get his blood pumping. They struck hard and fast, barreling over the green knights of the southern kingdoms, unused as they were to real battle. Men were now wary of him. He’d made a name for himself when he won the grand melee at Elaena and Olyvar’s wedding. He threw a Tarly and a Florent from their horses, thinking they were more squire than knights, green lads those two. He crossed swords with a Costayne, disarming him with a flick of his wrist and forcing him to yield. At his side, Waynwood was brought down by a Hightower, so he set out to avenge his fellow Valeman. Crossing swords with the man, he recognized the queen’s brother, Ser Gwayne. Hightower was wearing shiny new armor, a fine sword and a brightly colored shield; but he was no swordsman. A few weapon trades were all it took for Willam to learn the knight would be better served with a mace. The man had never fought to kill, so he had never learnt where his true talents lay.

The dance went on and on. Every time a new foe rode up to him, he found himself on the ground. Willam was born to fight. He could feel it in his blood. He might as well have come out of the womb with a sword in hand. Reachmen, Stormlanders, Rivermen, even Westermen after their alliance ran through, they all fell to Lamentation. He broke Elmo Tully’s nose, threw Ser Jack Massey off his horse with a well-placed bash of his shield, broke a Darry knight’s sword in half and forced Ser Rickard Thorne of the Kingsguard to yield.

When just around a dozen knights were left, the time came to dismount; in the last few duels he would show off his skill with a sword. He looked around at the last men standing, smiling to himself with the thought that most of those men had never swung their swords in anger. He’d been shedding clansmen blood since he was five-and-ten; the men he was facing knew only tourneys and spars. Ser Mandon Lynderly always taught him that a great knight should always go after the strongest threat, so he went after Criston Cole first.

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard fought with a morningstar. His white plate was remarkably unadorned; the other knights of the order bore some sort of heraldic engraving in their tourney armor, but Ser Criston bore no marking naming him a Cole. Willam didn’t even know where Coles came from. They paced around each other, waiting for the first to strike. Cole’s eyes showed the wariness he had for his sword, but the way he moved screamed confidence. He ran through every piece of advice that Ser Mandon had given him about fighting clubs and mornigstars. Willam’s eyes flicked between Cole and his other foes, none would interrupt their fight.

Then he rushed forward with a burst of speed. He put his entire weight behind his shield, hoping to catch Cole off-balance. The white sword was pushed back but managed to regain his footing. Ser Criston put his own shield between them and began to test his defenses. He matched him blow by blow, confident in the knowledge that Lamentation could take every swing. Cole was fast. Willam had to spend more time on the defense than on the attack. He tried to catch the morningstar with the rim of his shield, but Ser Criston was careful with his strikes; fast and compact, using the weapon’s weight in his favor.

He angled his shield to deflect Cole’s attacks, and he used Lamentation to parry and try to acquire room to move. But his attempts to attack were defended with mastery, Ser Criston was not allowing him to control the rhythm. He tried technique after technique, to varying success. Using his shield as a weapon proved the best tool against the white knight, but it wasn’t enough. In the span of seconds, he went through every technique he’d learnt; from Ser Mandon, from his grandsire, from Ser Simon Storm, and every other knight he'd learnt something from. He swung wide, making room as Ser Criston leaned back with practiced ease. He flicked his eyes around, a quick look at the few remaining duels.

Benfred had the right to it, he grimaced; fighting dirty was the best way to fight a stronger foe, dishonorable as it was. He rushed forwards, barreling into Ser Criston. He was larger than the white knight, taller and heavier. He didn’t let Cole move back. When Ser Criston finally swung downwards, he parried up and tripped the knight, dropping on top of him with his entire weight. He used Lamentation to keep the Kingsguard’s weapon locked on the ground and before he could think of doing something, Willam took out his dagger with his shield arm and put it against his neck.

“I yield, ser,” Ser Criston snorted, amused. He helped the knight up, who nodded and walked away from the yard.

Willam looked back. Three knights remained. The Cargyll twins were locked in a duel while Jon Roxton watched. He whistled to get Roxton’s attention and, once the knight turned towards him, rushed at him with a savage yelp that would have made a clansman proud. His previous duel with Orphan-Maker’s wielder had been a thing worthy of stories. This time around, Roxton proved little challenge, winded as he was from a previous battle. He’d not had a chance to rest when the two Cargyll’s fell upon him.

He’d have been doomed, if Ser Mandon did not have him train against multiple foes from time to time. Clansmen never fight one-on-one, so you should train to fight against many foes at once, he used to tell all his squires. He used the reach of his longsword and the fear of Valyrian steel against them. Swinging with all his strength and speed he forced the twins back, and then, before they could plan between the two, he moved to the side, keeping one of them between the other. He focused on his feet, doing his best to always keep a brother in the middle. When the other tried to pull back, he swung hard, putting his entire weight behind him, to push the other twin back. For a moment, he forgot everything. He was only a sword. He doesn’t remember when he lost his shield, but at one point he was swinging with both hands on his sword. He disarmed one of the brothers and, before he could yield, he pushed him into the one at the back. The last Cargyll was subjected to all his sword skill. It all seemed, to him, to move slower than it really was. Their duel ended with the Kingsguard on his back and the crowds cheering his name, Ser Willam Hammersword.

“That was well fought, Ser,” Criston Cole approached him after the melee. “Last time I saw someone go down that way, I was still in service to Lord Dondarrion.”

“Lord Commander,” he stood.

“The twins both wanted for the victor to be named Cargyll, but you sure trounced them,” Ser Criston snorted. “You serve at Runestone?”

“Aye, Ser. But I hope to be worthy of a white cloak.”

“I see. If the need ever comes, I’ll think of you,” the Lord Commander nodded. “His Grace bid me extend you an invitation to his table for the feast tonight.”

“Ser,” Willam bowed slightly, the knight leaving. This was his chance, not just to make an impression on the king, but to give him the shield. “Eldric, you’ll carry the shield,” both his father and grandsire thought that Lady Elaena ordering a painting was but womanly vanity, but it had provoked the most amusing consequences for her ladyship. The painter’s assistants had flooded Gulltown with paintings of hers, the one on the shield was particularly well made. Lady Elaena always huffed and puffed whenever she saw the little paintings but did nothing about them. Ser Mandon had let him know that there were even a few hanging in the Eyrie. Hopefully, the king would like it.
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“Undress,” Aemond commanded, cursing himself for his weakness. Aegon had dragged him to the Street of Silk, and he’d been too weak to stop himself from coming back. Every time he walked to the Serpent’s Kiss, he heard his mother’s voice telling him about chastity and virtue, and every time he laid eyes on Reya, he forgot his mother. He wanted to think himself better than Aegon, he was more attentive to his studies, he took to the sword more seriously, he obeyed his mother and grandsire and he kept off the wine; but he shared this one weakness with his brother.

Aegon preferred young maidens, always looking for someone new and moving from brothel to brothel, but Aemond only ever sought the same woman. Reya was one of the older whores at the Serpent’s, close to thirty. She was a silver-haired Lysene with eyes like amethysts. She was tall, coming up to his forehead, and full-bodied. He had given the brothel’s mistress, a Tyroshi with ridiculous green hair, a big bag of gold to ensure Reya was only his.

“My Prince,”, she purred, with that intoxicating accent that plagued his dreams.

She was always quick to obey his orders. If only she was a lady, he would marry one just like her. That had long been in his mind: who could he marry? If only they had not gone to war with the Triarchy he could marry a great lady of Lys; the Grand Maester had told him of the few families who could boast of dragon riding ancestors.

“You are brooding again,” she teased. “I heard the king will feast that big knight tonight, is it true his arms are as thick as trees?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Your brother came to visit.”

“I don’t like you talking about him. Never do it again,” she pouted, but he was serious. “You know what I want.”

He returned to the Red Keep. Red with shame. He vowed he would never return, praying all the way that he would be strong enough to resist temptation. This was the last time, he swore like he always had before. Normally he would sneak in through a secret tunnel, but due to the tourney there was a constant stream of nobles going in and out of the Red Keep. Nobody bothered him on the way to his rooms, nobody ever wished to speak to the one-eyed prince. He was in a foul mood when he got to his rooms. A noble lady’s stare, and her whispers, had soured his mood. At least a hot bath was waiting for him.

He closed his eye, trying to vanish the noble lady’s judging eyes from his mind. Remembering Reya’s smile and her kisses usually managed to make him forget about his troubles, but the long tourney had grated on him. Too many strangers walking around his home, looking at him with disgust and pity. He was a prince, he rode the greatest dragon alive, and they dared to look at him like that? He would one day be the brother of a king! Even if his grandfather and mother failed and the Whore of Dragonstone managed to claim a crown for herself, he would still be brother to a queen. Aegon closed his eyes to their grandfather’s plotting, but Aemond watched him very closely.

“Aemond,” his mother walked in while he was changing into his dark green doublet. “Have you seen your brother?”

“No, mother,” his brother would eventually appear, he always did. “Did you- “

“Forgive me, son. I have to find your brother,” his mother left, always after Aegon. He grabbed a candlestick and threw it out the window, regretting it at that very moment. He looked out the window, thanking the Seven he didn’t hit anyone.

The Great Hall was full. Hundreds of knights and ladies graced their halls. He took his seat, only his grandfather, Helaena and Daeron were there. The big Royce knight was already there. The knight was one of the largest men that Aemond had seen, a hand over six and a half feet. He’d like to spar with the knight; he’d beaten Ser Criston and the twins. Aemond had to become a better swordsman. One day he would challenge his uncle and earn his respect and take Dark Sister from him. Aegon would bear Blackfyre and he would wield Dark Sister.

Everyone stood, his father walking into the Great Hall. He’d been using a cane ever since he returned from the Vale, but only in private. Whenever he held court or hosted feasts he tried to walk on his own. Both the maesters and his mother tried to convince him not to, but his father did not want to appear weak. Aemond had noticed, however, that he spent less and less time without his cane, hiding it before going through doors. Two knights of the Kingsguard flanked him, careful so he’d not trip.

“Seat, seat,” he waved them down as he waddled to his seat. “Let us feast! To Jaehaerys and Jaehaera!” the guests cheered, calling out his little nephew’s name; mayhaps a few called out for his niece, but they were drowned by the rest. “Where is Aegon?” always Aegon, he bit his cheek. “Where is your mother?”

“I saw Aegon with Ser Arryk,” Daeron was already piling up food in his plate.

“I saw him with Ser Erryk,” Helaena giggled.

“Look, there he comes,” Daeron pointed. He was escorting their mother, whose calm look hid angry eyes. Aemond had seen them often whenever his brother stepped out of line.

“Everyone’s here? Then let us eat,” the king commanded. Aegon sat next to him, stinking of wine and the pungent incense they used in cheap brothels to hide the smells.

“Ser Willam,” the queen smiled, a graceful smile, as a queen should. “Congratulations on your victory, it was a remarkable show of skill.”

“You are too kind, Your Grace,” Royce bowed his head. Aemond took a close look at him. He had his cousin’s grey eyes, though his seemed livelier and more prone to smiles, with laugh smiles. The hair was a dull brown instead of the shining bronze he sometimes dreamt of. His face was common, an Andal sort face instead of his cousin’s beauty that proved her better blood. He was of the lower blood that mixed with Daemon to make his cousin. The Royces were an ancient family, but even the most ancient lines of Andal and First Man paled before the blood of Old Valyria. And now his cousin had further diluted her blood.

“You grew up with my niece, did you not?” the king spoke between bites.

“Nay, Your Grace. We are of an age, but she was sent away to the Eyrie to Lady Arryn; and upon her return to Runestone I went away to squire.”

“Have you ever killed someone?”.

“Daeron!” their mother seemed appalled, moving to cover Helaena’s ears. “What are you asking with your gentle sister here?”

“It’s all right mother,” Helaena smiled, shaking their mother off.

“I,” the knight, unsure, cleared his throat. “I have, aye. Fought the clansmen.”

“How is my niece?” their father changed the subject. “She is with child again, is she not?”

“Aye, Your Grace. She doesn’t act with child, however,” the knight gave a grave nod. “Take your eyes off her and she’ll call for court, get back to reading papers and even travel through Runestone on her carriage,” their father had given her that carriage. “Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s taken Samwell to meet every single shepherd. She likes to work too much when she should be resting. At least with her little sisters there she takes more free time but expect her to run off to her duties a few moons after the new babe is born.”

His father laughed, even his mother and his grandfather smiled. The two of them had said that Elaena Royce behaved as a lady should, unlike his half-sister with her wanton ways. Samwell, the name tasted like bile in his mouth. It was such a common name it made him feel sick. His cousin had been ruined. Again, he thought: who could he marry? Both of his sisters were already wed, and, even if she wasn’t, he’d never marry Rhaenyra. His half-sister was a beautiful woman, but full of spite, trying to steal Aegon’s rightful inheritance. His cousin had children now, and how could he marry a soiled woman? He was not Daemon, willing to call the children of another his own. His mother believed that Daemon would put his nephews to death, so maybe his uncle wasn’t that sort of man.

“You are unwed, are you not, ser?” his mother asked.

“Aye, I-“

“I know of many a young lady, heirs to fathers without sons, who would much appreciate a strong knight,” she had tried to start that same conversation with him, but he didn’t want to dilute his blood for a castle. Aemond barely heard the knight’s excuses to avoid a match arranged by his mother. Aemond had no sisters available to him, and his cousin was now lost to him. The only Valyrian brides he could hope for were Daemon’s twins, promised to the bastards, and little Jaehaera. Jaehaera would marry Jaehaerys, and where would that leave him? He’d rather not marry than be forced to have trueborn children that would further dilute his blood.

“I’ve brought a gift for you, Your Grace, if you’ll allow me,” after a nod from his father, the knight beckoned his Arryn squire, who walked towards them with a wrapped-up shield. “So that you’ll remember Lady Elaena.”

“Ah, what a handsome gift!” Arryn uncovered a shield painted with his cousin’s face. Whoever the painter was, he was very skilled. His cousin’s face was just as he remembered: the high cheekbones, the piercing grey eyes, the single streak of silver hair framing her face, the shapely lips made for kissing. If he closed his eyes, he could picture his cousin, tall, shapely in all the right places and chaste and dutiful as a woman should be. And she’d been ruined, turned into a broodmare for a lesser man, like Princess Daella once was. If only he were stronger, he could have done something.

“Aems,” his drunken brother slurred into his ear. “I’m leaving with Toyne and Parren for the Street of Silk, give an excuse to mother, won’t you?”

“Show some respect to our sister!” he whispered back, with anger. Helaena was looking at the shield, tracing the paintbrushes with a finger. His sister had been far too withdrawn ever since the birth of her children, preferring to hide herself away in her rooms when she once followed their mother everywhere.

“You’re worse than mother,” Aegon clicked his tongue. “I’m off to the privy,” he stood. Their mother’s eyes narrowed, following Aegon as he left the Great Hall and, with an exasperated look and a flick of the wrist, she sent Ser Erryk after him. Their father did not seem to notice that Aegon had left.

“I’m becoming a squire soon,” Daeron boasted to the Royce knight. “Mother is sending me away to squire for my uncle.”

Aemond tried to focus on his food as the conversation continued around him, but he felt eyes on him. Looking up, a group of young ladies was looking at him and whispering. His grandfather had tried to convince him that ladies instead whispered about the unwed prince, but he knew better. He knew they were looking at his scar, whispering about the bastard Lucerys taking his eye. One day he would have justice.

“Aemond,” his mother sat next to him. “Your brother isn’t back; won’t you go find him? You know his haunts better than Ser Erryk.”

“Yes, mother,” he stood to leave, cursing under his breath. Once more, he was put in charge of his brother. Halfway to the stables, he knew he wasn’t strong enough; he would end up back in Reya’s arms. When he closed his eyes, Reya’s face turned into Rhaenyra’s and Elaena’s.
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“Grandmother, look!” Rhaena gave her a toothy smile, showing off the cat that she was embroidering.

Corlys had returned to Driftmark from his latest voyage just in time for Rhaenys to accept Elaena’s invitation to Ninestars. She had made sure her husband would not leave once more, leaving her again in charge of their island. She’d flown to Runestone to join her granddaughters and Elaena. Meleys was staying behind in Runestone, much to Elaena’s amusing worries. With a dragonkeeper of Mort’s skill, her girl would behave; and keep Moondancer behaving.

“Grandmother stop!” Baela giggled. Her eldest grandchild was sitting on her lap, where she was subjected to kisses and tickling. “You’re making me laugh!” she gave Baela a tight hug. She laughed just like Laena did at her age.

They were sailing on the Andal’s Way to Ninestars. Corlys would call their ship seaworthy, and that’d be as far as he’d be willing to compliment the slow-moving barge they moved on. The Templetons ruled over a fertile valley, surrounded by the tall peaks of the Mountains of the Moon and bordered to the south by a large lake, with rivers flowing into the Narrow Sea. They were sailing there on some of the fat-bellied barges the Templetons used to move their sizeable harvests. A longship, the sort used by lords to protect their costs, followed behind them.

She liked the river, wide and dark green and calm. The Andals had used it in ancient times to drive deep into the Vale. She knew that at its widest, further ahead, it became so wide that if they sailed at in the middle, they would see neither of the shores, only the mountains far in the back. They’d not sail all the way there, the lake of Ninestars laying at a lesser river that joined the Andal’s Way. The land they sailed in was some of the most beautiful she’d seen. Before they had crossed into the mountains, the riverbanks were full of villages, with their small docks and fishing boats laying on the sand. So many people lived around the river that their trip was never out of sight of a village, on both sides of the river. They didn’t see many of them, however, as they were away at the sowing. The black soil near the river was some of the best in the Vale, watered directly by the great river and its many tributaries.

“Whose lands are these?” she’d asked after the sixth village, full of tall buildings and boasting of a wooden palisade, a timber keep and docks with longboats.

“They pay their dues directly to the Eyrie,” Septa Myranda, the eldest of Elaena’s good-sisters, answered her question. “The wealth of House Arryn comes from these lands.”

“Dutton, Lynderly and a few others own lands in the northern riverbanks,” Janna Sunderland, another of the Templeton good-sisters, dressed all in black with yellow stars embroidered in her dress, added. The longship escorting them bore Sunderland sails.

Rhaena, and the rest of the multitude of girls that called Runestone home, sat around her in the deck, practicing their stitches. With them were also the many daughters of Elaena’s good-sisters. Baela had not left her side ever since she’d arrived, though Rhaenys suspected she was using her to avoid embroidery. She closed her eyes, feeling the gentle river wind on her skin.

“I like sailing,” Baela stretched. “But I like grandfather’s ship more, it’s faster.”

“That it is,” she smiled. “How are your stitches?” she knew her granddaughter didn’t care much for embroidery, but it was an important skill to have. Especially for sailors. Rhaenys would never tell anyone that Corlys was better than her with a needle.

“They’re fine,” her granddaughter mumbled, one of her tells whenever she was lying.

“Why don’t you join the other girls? I’d like to speak to the other grown-ups,” Baela sighed, dramatically, a habit she had likely picked up from her elder sister and nodded. She jumped off her lap and ran to the side of one of Elaena’s nieces, the eldest.

“I thought Baela had claimed you for the entire trip,” Elaena smiled when she approached her and the other adults. She was quite round, Sam was a big toddler, and it seemed the incoming babe would be large as well. The ladies were sitting under a cloth canopy, set up on poles to give them shade. The two septas, Roelle and Myranda, Janna Sunderland, Alysanne Melcolm and Cella Tollett sat with her niece. She quite enjoyed the company of the Tollett girl, her niece’s chief lady-in-waiting; her granddaughters had nothing but good things to say about their arts teacher. She sat between Elaena and Septa Myranda.

“Where is your boy?” the Tollett girl handed her a cup of honeyed wine as soon as she sat with them.

“Olyvar tired him out,” the boy’s father had been chasing him through the deck, to the babe’s squealing laughter. “He’s napping in the hold.”

“Don’t you just love the weather, Princess?” Janna Sunderland asked with a smile. It seemed as if she were wearing mourning clothes but was all smiles. “I had thought autumn was upon us, it even snowed in Sisterton, but summer is still going strong.”

“It does snow in summer, in the northern parts of the Vale,” Septa Myranda explained. “Not as often as in the North, but from time to time, it will,” the day was sunny, the river was cool and the winds gentle.

“It is quite lovely,” she looked at the Sunderland sails in the longship. “You said your eldest captains the ship?”

“He’s second,” Janna nodded. “The boy’s father thinks himself a great sailor, but he’s not even half the sailor his father was. So even if the boy begs to captain the ship, he’ll be learning under an experienced captain. I’ll not have him become his father.”

“Orrel’s a good lad,” Alysanne Melcolm squeezed her sister’s hand. “I’m certain he’ll not be like his father.”

“Thoron Sunderland is not a good man,” Elaena whispered in her ear. “He’s gone away on a trade voyage, thinking to copy Lord Corlys,” she said in a normal volume.

“Pah,” Janna scrunched her nose. “He wanted to take Orrel with him, but I wouldn’t have it. He can go die at sea all he wants, but my son is not dying with him.”

“Has he died at sea?” that would explain the mourning clothes, Rhaenys thought.

“Not yet,” the lady smiled. “Or I haven’t heard it yet, at least. But it’ll happen, he’s not returning to the Sisters.”

“Janna,” the eldest sister warned her.

“I’ve done nothing,” Janna shot back. “I even told him he was no sailor and ‘twas all foolishness. But he never listens.”

Looking at Janna Sunderland’s fading bruises, Rhaenys was certain she had actually done something to make sure her husband would not return. Rhaenys did not judge her, she would have done much the same if Corlys had ever dared doing something like that to her; but he was a good man, and a good father, even if blinded by his ambitions.

“Orrel will be acting lord once we return,” Janna shrugged. “Olyvar’s taking my second as his squire, the boy wants to be a knight and there aren’t many of quality in the Sisters.”

“How old is your eldest? Is he married?”

“He’ll be eight-and-ten this year,” she grimaced. “I wanted the Comyn girl for him, even if we had to wait over a decade for her to be old enough for marriage; it would give our family some holdings in the mainland, but Thoron arranged a match with my sister Lysa’s daughter.”

“Lord Dutton’s last daughter?”

“Aye, the slow one,” Janna sighed. “’Tis a good enough match, but it stinks of father’s meddling.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Alysanne Melcolm nodded. “He’s mentioned wanting to arrange matches for my girls.”

“Father always knows best, he’s not ever led us stray,” Septa Myranda silenced her sisters before they could start complaining.

“Dutton is wealthy, aye,” Janna sighed again. “Comyn came with lands however, and I’d prefer a match not as closely related,” she looked at her, biting her lips. “No offense meant, princess, our blood is not as exceptional as yours.”

“None taken,” she smiled at the lady.

“Your niece is a fine and pretty young lady,” Alysanne smiled at her niece. “My boy is fortunate to marry a clever girl like her,” young Barba Royce had spent quite a lot of time with the Lady Melcolm during their trip. “Have you thought about my offer?”

“I’m keen on it, but we’ll have to wait for Mya’s answer,” Elaena leaned to whisper in her ear. “She’s asked to take Barba to Old Anchor, to teach her about her future duties.”

“We’re coming into the mountains, look,” Septa Myranda smiled. “I’ve always loved this part of the river,” to both of their sides, the mountains rose impossibly tall. Snowcapped peaks reached for the clouds, some even lost above them, evergreens, thick as hair, dotting the mountainside. “If you squint, you’ll see the small watchtowers.”

Rhaenys rarely looked up at mountains, used as she was to look down on them. But she had never flown through the Mountains of the Moon. She remembered flying to Casterly Rock; the Rock was massive, but the hills of the Westerlands were like children when compared to the Mountains of the Moon. She could see little creeks and waterfalls coming from the mountains, armies of birds and falcons and eagles flying above them. There were even a few small villages, the villagers waving at them.

“Logging villages,” Myranda explained. “They look to the Templeton’s for protection from the clans. Our longships patrol these waters. We should be coming up on a few patrols soon.”

“Are there clansmen in these mountains?” Elaena asked, looking up at the peaks with a pale face.

“Not so close to the river,” Janna stretched, without a care in the world. “Sometimes they’ll make little boats and try to sail into the Vale from some hidden valley, but too many longships and too many people make it certain death for them.”

“Our grandfather,” Alysanne said, “once told us that if you follow the Andal’s Way all the way to the heart of the mountains, you’ll find the hidden valleys and villages of the clans. But the river becomes dangerous, full of hidden caves, teeming with wildlings.”

“King Maegor followed the river atop Balerion,” Myranda nodded. “After putting down the kinslayer, he went deep into the mountains and burned down their villages. But, just like rats, they always return.”

They sailed with pleasant small talk. They saw no clans, but did come upon Templeton longships, who joined their escort. When a smaller river flowed into the Andal’s Way, they turned and sailed through it. They came upon the lake when Sam woke up, running towards her niece with arms outstretched crying “Mama!” Elaena smiled, lifting him up.

“We’re coming close to your father’s home,” rocking him. “Do you want to come with me on the carriage or with your father on the horse?”

“Horse!” he squealed.

“He’s a little knight, isn’t he,” Rhaenys smiled.

“Just like Olyvar at that age,” Alysanne nodded. “My Galbart was much the same, he’s a squire now; very excited for his first tourney.”

“Ser Willam sent word from King’s Landing,” Septa Myranda beamed. “My little Eldric had a good showing; he’ll be knocking down men soon.”

“We’re coming into shore soon,” Ser Olyvar approached them.

“Time to wrangle my girls,” Alysanne stood up, giving her a small bow. Her sisters behind her.

“Cella, can you get my sisters and the girls ready?” the Tollett girl nodded, leaving her alone with her niece.

“You have many new nieces and nephews,” she looked at Elaena, who was making faces, much to Sam’s amusement.

“Aye, Olyvar’s family is big. Could you help me stand up?” she lent her an arm. “And they’re all in line to inherit their father’s, or uncle’s holdings.”

“Have you received offers for Samwell’s hand yet?”

“I have, but I’m not arranging anything for him until he’s much older.”

“There might be unexpected opportunities that could be lost if you wait too much,” before Corlys had offered their granddaughters to Rhaenyra’s sons, Lord Rickon Stark had asked for Baela’s hand for Cregan Stark. She would prefer to see her granddaughter as Lady of Winterfell before risking her for ambition. Rhaena could have married the Arryn boy, or even the Tyrell, lowly as the Steward’s blood was, they owed everything to House Targaryen and would cherish her granddaughter. Instead, they were risked for ambition.

“Rhaenyra is hoping I have a daughter,” Elaena rubbed her belly with her free hand. “But I will not marry one of my children to hers. ‘Tis dangerous, and I do not desire such a close match. I wrote the same thing in my letter to the queen.”

“There was an offer from King’s Landing?”

“Aye,” she looked into her son’s eyes, grey just like her own. “Jaehaera for Sam, a future sister for Jaehaerys, or Daeron.”

“Handsome matches.”

“He’s just a baby,” she gave her a sad smile. “They peddle the hands of their babies as if they were coins to trade. I want Sam to grow up, to fall in love, to choose for himself.”

“Things don’t work that way,” Rhaenys hugged her.

“I know,” a sigh. “Baratheon’s offer was the best, I think.”

“Cousin Borros has many daughters,” every one of them as tempestuous as the storms of their homeland. “Floris is, I believe, six or seven.”

“But I don’t want to make a choice, look at him, he’s so small,” she shook one of his little feet, covered with a thick wool sock.

“You may have to, before a choice is forced on you,” she saw Baela and Rhaena jump off the barge, into the lakeside docks. “You don’t want your brother to marry your daughter? She’d be a princess,” she teased. “Could even be a queen.”

“Rhaenyra’s court does not sound like a place I’d like to be and I won’t send my children there; and neither does Aegon’s court,” she had a complex look on her face. “You also don’t believe that Rhaenyra will have a happy ascension.”

“Things never work out to be that simple,” if Rhaenyra wished to be queen, it would take Fire and Blood; and from what she knew of Queen Alicent and Otto Hightower, they would stand in the way.

“Mayhaps if Rhaenyra was a different person, but she listens too much to my father and acts as if the throne is her right and birthright, and not her duty and responsibility,” she shook her head in anger. “Do any of them think of it as their responsibility and not just of the power it gives them?”

“My father did,” and he had taught her to see it that way as well. “I think my uncle Baelon, your grandsire, did as well,” she had hated Baelon for a long time, but he had died long ago. “Let us go,” Elaena nodded, shaking her head to clear it.

“I pray I’m wrong and Rhaenyra is more serious than I think her to be.”

“And Queen Alicent’s children?”

“They are children. And ambition would be what takes them to the throne, not duty and responsibility,” she shook her head. “If they knew duty and sacrifice, they would stand aside for the good of the realm, help Rhaenyra guide the realm forwards. But they’ll likely choose power and ambition.”

“Elaena?” her niece seemed to tear up.

“What can I do? I see war in the future, and I don’t do a thing…” she buried her face in her son’s body. “Would they even listen if I tried doing anything? My father won’t, and he’s a cruel man capable of horrible things.”

“Elaena,” she hugged her.

“They’ll go after each other, and it will be the innocent who suffer,” she took a deep breath. “I’m like a leaf on the river, flowing in a direction I can do nothing to change. No matter how much I paddle, all rivers lead to the sea.”

“In the game of thrones, the mighty fight and weak pay for it,” she used her handkerchief to dry her niece’s eyes, an old thing embroidered by her daughter, it had lost almost all its color. “Let us go to Ninestars, we’ll be here a few days, and you can talk to me.”

“I just wish they were selfless, that they heard what the Seven-Pointed-Star tells them, instead of just listening to the hymns, thinking of violence and ambition. The queen speaks of piety, temperance and duty, and then plots.”

Rhaenys rode next to Baela, with Rhaena in front of her. Her niece was in the carriage behind them, calming herself down. Ninestars was a hub of activity. It was full of smallfolk, hard at work. These were well-off peasants, every group leading an ox-pulled plow, a group behind them spreading seeds. Their homes were large, built in solid wood to house many families. Little rivers, dug-out canals with wooden hatches, spread out from the lake. The soil was black and good; the first stalks of wheat and vegetables were already growing. In the distant mountains, little creeks ran into the valley, watchtowers built by them.

Castle Ninestars was stout and solid, built on a hill. Not as large as most castles, but boasting two separate sets of stone walls, but, with its two gates built far apart and the inner wall built on a slight hill, it made attacks difficult, the second gate was around a man’s height above the first. It also had a ditch and a wooden palisade; the stables and other castle buildings lay in the open space between the wooden palisade and stone walls. The keep was made out from the same white stone as the Eyrie. She claimed a room to share with her granddaughters.

Tourney grounds had been built outside the castle, and, from what she heard, the commoners were quite excited for the tourney, looking at it as a reward from their hard labor in the sowing. She’d not seen the old knight Templeton; his poor health had him bedridden. Ser Olyvar’s nephew, Ser Luceon, had already taken on all the duties of the Knight of Ninestars. Rhaenys saw many of the same faces as in Elaena’s wedding, the tourney had attracted quite a few of the lords of the Vale.

They sat in the main box, Ser Jonothor still missing. The joust was skillfully ridden. Ser Olyvar took down one of the Redforts in the final tilt, crowning his lady wife the Queen of Love and Beauty. The melee was as chaotic as she had come to learn. The very same Redfort, Ser Adrian, that had come second in the joust won the melee.
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“Luceon should have sent word, he is my father,” Olyvar was upset. His father was very ill. He could not see Sam when they brought it to him, his eyesight fully gone. After introducing her son to him, old Ser Jonothor had smiled, saying how happy he was to have met the boy in which his line and that of the Old King were joined. He had then asked Olyvar to stay behind. Elaena thought it was to say goodbye, soon they were joined by Olyvar’s sisters and their eldest sons. She moved to squeeze his hand, only then seeing the cut in his palm.

“What happened? Were you injured in the joust?” the cut was new.

“My father’s last request,” Olyvar sighed, steel in his eyes. “We’ve made a blood oath. My sisters, my nephews, even Ser Armistead; we’ve all swore that we would see Arnold’s blood on the weirwood throne.”

“Arnold and Eldric are Jeyne’s heirs; I’m sure no oath was needed. I’ve told you before that Jeyne will not marry.”

“As you say,” he kissed her in the cheek. “The oath is taken, however. My father had another request. His last request.”

“What is it?”

“Names for the child,” he put his hand on her belly. “He would go meet the Stranger with a smile if he knew that a one of our children were named Luceon, for the founder of our house, or Alysanne.”

“Like the Good Queen?”

“Aye, even when I told him Runestone is already full of them.”

“Well, it his last request…” she wanted a Rhea, but the look on Olyvar’s face told her this mattered to him. “We can do so,” she smiled at him. “Now, the feast awaits,” she held out her arm, he helped her up. In the table by their bed lay her crown of red and white flowers.

Luceon was hosting the feast, though his wife had been the one to organize everything. Lanna Belmore, now Templeton, ruled Ninestars in her husband’s place. Luceon Templeton was much like Olyvar had described him: a good and strong knight with nothing much between his ears. Lanna was in her element, always one of the cleverer girls in the Eyrie, she thrived in her new castle. Ninestars was a castle full of Stones. She had met four half-uncles and three half-brothers of Olyvar’s. Ser Jonothor had looked after all his natural children, and half-brothers, seeing them trained and knighted; he’d even paid for one of his son’s education in the Citadel. Olyvar told him his half-brother, Maester Orville, served at the Banefort.

Olyvar escorted her into the hall. She searched for her sisters, Rhaenys had taken them riding before the feast to show them the plows at work. She saw their silver heads off to the side, sitting with her nieces and the rest of their playmates. They were laughing about something which made her smile. She wanted to keep them with her forever, where they could laugh and play and never get involved in the affairs of the throne. She’d try to convince her father when he came to pick them up. Mayhaps they could stay with Rhaenys for a time, return to Runestone then once more leave for Driftmark.

She took a seat at the high table, Olyvar to her right and Jeyne Arryn to her left. With Joffrey Arryn at the Bloody Gate, Jeyne had a new commander of the guard, Ser Emery Stone. That had apparently driven a wedge between her and the Corbrays, who sat far from her, when once they used to stick as close as possible to her.

“Is Corwyn no longer trying to butter up to you?” she smiled at Jeyne, who was going through her third cup of wine.

“Gah,” Jeyne grimaced. “Don’t speak to me about Corbrays, I don’t want to hear about them.”

“What’s happened?”

“You want to know?” Jeyne gave a deep sigh before answering. “They went behind my back, arranging a match between Leowyn’s son and little Janei Comyn.”

“Was she not under your protection?”

“She is,” she shook her head. “But her mother arranged the match, and I shouldn’t go against her. She is the mother, after all,” she stood. “I’m looking for Jess.”

“Lady Royce,” Lyonel Belmore scooted over, taking Jeyne’s empty seat. “I had hoped to see young Eldric, as did my daughter.”

“Cousin Lyonel,” she smiled at the man, having learnt it was good to remind him of their family relations. “He has gone to the tourney at King’s Landing with my cousin Willam, to gain some experience in the squire’s melee.”

“Good,” he leaned to grab a pitcher of wine. “I’d prefer my daughter to marry a proper knight, not just a grand name.”

“You must be proud, my Lord, seeing your daughter take to her duties with aplomb.”

“Aye,” Belmore smiled. “She’s been raised well.”

“Lord Lyonel,” Olyvar handed him his cup with a smile. The lord poured him wine, looking towards the Corbrays.

“I’m sure Lady Arryn has told you about her rift with the Corbrays? Even in Strongsong we hear about their absence from the Eyrie, where once they were oft seen in her court.”

“They arranged a match without her permission.”

“Bah,” Belmore replied. “Who is she to say who your own children can marry. It goes deeper than that, as well,” the lord leaned in to whisper to the two of them. “Just remember Leowyn is more cunning than he appears.”

“How did the match come about?” Olyvar asked.

“Comyn is poor, their lands, while respectable, are sparse. Not two moons past, a band of wildmen descended into poor Lady Comyn’s lands. Men sworn to the Corbrays went after them, saving the Comyn lands. Lady Arryn is shamed, as Moore will tell any who listens,” he scoffed. “She couldn’t protect Comyn when Corbray could, and now they’ve arranged a match, the old Comyn name dying with the lady, her lands taken by the Corbrays,” he stood. “If you’ll allow me, I promised my daughters a dance.”

“I can see how Lady Arryn is upset,” Olyvar shrugged, a piece of pie halfway to his mouth.

“Could you call Lord Coldwater’s son? I saw him earlier today,” Olyvar stood. “Their lands are close to Comyn’s, it’s best to be prepared if the clans threaten Coldwater Burn.”

Olyvar soon returned with Ser Leyton Coldwater. A man in his fifties, grandfather to one of her newest ladies, Ser Leyton was tall and balding. The knight gave her a deep bow, before taking a seat in front of her.

“My Lady, how may I be of assistance.”

“I’ve heard that Comyn’s lands were attacked by clansmen. Have you seen an increase in clan activity near your home? Should we send over knights?”

“There were some,” the knight nodded, a soldier’s kind of nod, compact and quick. “A group of sellswords were following them, chasing after a stolen merchant’s daughter. They were heading towards Comyn lands,” his eyes went to the ceiling. “Might have been the same group, now that I think about it. I don’t know if they recovered the merchant’s daughter.”

“Be certain to send word,” she told the knight. “If the clans ever appear.”

“Aye, My Lady,” the knight left. She was getting tired, having been on her feet the entire day. This pregnancy was much more tiring than Sam’s.

“’Tis good that the Corbrays were there, no?” Olyvar offered her his shoulder to lean on.

“Oh, they were,” she smirked. Never would she have thought of using the clans in that way. “Tell me about growing old here.”

“Luceon and Lyonel and me, we always got into trouble,” he rubbed her arm. “Lomas was always following after us, but we never let him play with us,” Olyvar’s nephews could not be more different from her husband. Luceon had his same blue eyes, but he was dark-haired, shorter and bulkier; Lyonel took after Luceon, while Lomas was a red-haired and green-eyed, like his mother. “We woke up with the sun, to train and ride. We used to, uh, we used to,” he laughed, “we used to steal wine from father’s cellar, hide in the wheat farms and drink. In just a few weeks the stalks of wheat will be taller than us, you know?”

“Sounds fun,” she said with sarcasm; she couldn’t imagine a young Olyvar, sneaking away to drink; but she could imagine Luceon. “What about your sister Sara?” She was only three years older than Olyvar.

“Well, when I was very small, she tried dressing me up like on of her dolls. When she started to learn to sew, she tried making clothes for all of us,” he laughed. “She once made me a shirt with two holes for the neck. That was better than what Luceon got, he had to wear tight pants that ended just below his knee, or else Sara would cry.”

“I think you’ll need to carry me back,” she smiled. “Before Jeyne and Jessamyn get back. They have the look of wanting to start complaining about the Corbrays.”

Olyvar laughed but did as bid. He took her in his arms, strong enough to carry a pregnant lady as tall as she was and carried her to their rooms. That night, Ser Jonothor Templeton passed away.

Chapter Text

125 AC

“Cut it like this, along the bone,” Luceon was teaching Galbart, the young lord Melcolm and Olyvar’s nephew, how to butcher deer. “Cut downwards, edge towards the bone,” he handed Galbart the knife.

They’d gone into the forest by the mountains, to the small hunting shack they’d always used. His father had had it built many years ago. Olyvar sat by the fire, watching his nephew Orrel Sunderland struggle with the smoker. The sons of his many sisters weren’t hunters. Orrel and Clifford, his younger brother, had no opportunity to hunt in the Three Sisters and Galbart and Patrek Dutton, his sister Lysa’s eight-year-old son, were too young to be taken hunting. They’d taken the two young ones with them but had left them at the shack whilst they tracked down their prey.

They’d taken the boys hunting up the mountain, to teach them about being men, as his elder brother and father had once for them. Lomas had brought down the deer, a large buck with impressive antlers. He watched his youngest Templeton nephew with a smile, remembering the days when the youngest of his brother’s sons used to beg to go hunting with them and cried when he was left behind. He’d fostered away at Wickenden and learnt to hunt from Lord Waxley, famous all over the Vale for spending more time hunting in the mountains than ruling in his castle. Orrel had been given the chance to take down a mountain goat, and his brother took down a fox that was sniffing around their camp.

“Oly, here,” Lyonel had been preparing one of their father’s favorites: lean cuts of venison, hammered thin and rubbed with salt, oil and lemon juice. “Before you go back to Runestone, you should try the venison sausages one of the new cooks makes.”

“It’s cold,” Patrek observed after trying the meat.

“We cool down the meat in the nearby river,” Olyvar told him. “Keeps the meat fresh and washes away the blood.”

Olyvar closed his eyes, hearing the crackling of the fire, the songs of the mountain birds and Galbart’s slow and careful butchering. His father had rarely gone hunting with them. It usually was his eldest brother who took them to the mountains. For as long as he could remember, Ser Jonothor Templeton had only ever cared about getting his sister Myranda’s husband, and then Arnold, into the Weirwood throne. He had been the loudest voice speaking against Jeyne Arryn’s rule when her entire family had been killed by clansmen. He had little time for his youngest children. His late brother Donnel, and Donnel’s wife Sallei, had been as parents to him and Sara, raising them alongside Luceon and Lyonel, who were closest in age to them.

He was as good a horseman as he was thanks to his father, and both him and his nephews were the knights they were due to him. Jonothor Templeton had seen to their martial training and left everything else of their education to others. Growing up he had seen old Maester Garreth much more than his father. Days could pass without the Knight of Ninestars making time for his youngest. And as soon as his nephews and he were old enough, they were sent out into the valleys and mountains to toughen up, seeing his father even less. But still he missed him. He’d taught him how to ride; he’d taught him how to hunt, butcher and cook his kill in the mountains; he’d showed him how to fight the clans and knighted him once he had earnt his spurs. He was a man because of his father.

“Uncle Olyvar,” Galbart called out to him, Luceon having gone elsewhere. “I think I’ve finished.”

“Let’s see,” he took out his own knife. “You’ve done well. These cuts are to make it easier to cook,” he began slicing the meat into smaller pieces. “There are some iron pans inside the shack, go get them and wash them off in the river. Take the dogs with you,” you never knew what was drawn by the scent of blood in the mountains. “Go with him,” he told his other young nephews.

“Say, Oly,” Lyonel approached him after the lads had run off with the pans. “I’ve a favor to ask, and please do no tell Luceon for he will laugh at me.”

“Aye?” his second nephew, the strongest between them, was blushing furiously.

“How do you court a lady?” he shuffled between his feet. “I mean, how do you make it so a lady will come to love you? Grandfather always boasted of you winning over the Good Queen’s great-granddaughter.”

“Who’s the lucky lass?” he smiled, elbowing his nephew in the ribs.

“A daughter of Lord Shawney’s,” Lyonel was staring at his feet, beet red. “I met her at your wedding, and I’ve gone to tourneys in the Riverlands, hoping to meet her, but every time I speak with her, I’ve nothing to say and she seems so bored and soon leaves to talk to another.”

“What’s she like? What does she like?”

“She’s very comely. Big hazel eyes you can get lost in and a bosom so large it befuddles the mind. And well,” he frowned, deep in thought. “I think she has a pet cat.”

“So, you don’t really know her much?”

“I don’t, aye,” he sighed. “How do I get to know her better? What can I do?”

“Learn about her, listen to what she says,” he leaned in to whisper, hearing the laughing boys returning. “Next time you see her, ask her if you could exchange letters. They all tell of how I won over Elaena with songs of love, but ‘twas all because I got to know her and learn what she loved. She likes music, but she loves poetry even more,” Lomas had sat next to them, listening. “I saw that the musicians she patronized were more often than not those who composed verses of their own or sang songs from further away.”

“So, I should learn how to sing?” Lyonel was nodding.

“No, you big dunce,” Luceon walked out of the shack, hitting his brother in the back of the head. “He’s telling you to learn what your lass enjoys and talk about it. She’s from the Riverlands, those people like rivers and Shawneys have some fish on their sigil, so talk to her about that. Hand me that, Patrek,” he took one of the clean pans. “I’ll teach you the best way to cook venison in the wild. Clifford, that sack has the salt, bring it.”

“Fish, huh…”

“Don’t listen to Luceon,” Olyvar laughed. “Women have always thought him a bore. If talking about sigils made ladies swoon, our sisters would only talk about stars and Elaena about ancient runes.”

“I’ve seen you writing,” he’d not written poetry in a while, but even since his father’s passing, he’d been scribbling away in the blank book that Elaena had given him for his last nameday. “Couldn’t you write something to advise me? That book your lady wife wrote about lordlings had good advice, couldn’t you make something like that?”

“You could even write love poems to help us out,” Lomas smiled. “I tried writing a song, but I’m no good at it.”

“I don’t think the septons will appreciate a guide on how to despoil maidens,” Olyvar reached out for one of the casks of ale they’d brought with them. “I’ll think on it.”

“What have you been writing?” Lyonel returned, having left the cooking to the younger family members. “More love songs for your wife?” he teased with a smile.

“Just some thoughts,” he shrugged. He’d written about everything and nothing; about the hunt, about the mountains, about Elaena, about the farmers at work, and about his father. “If any of it is good, I’ll let you know,” he took a large drink of ale. “If I write you brutes a book on romance, you better not misuse it, your father would hate having so many bastard grandchildren,” they all laughed. “Now let’s go make sure we aren’t eating charred meat.”

They ate and drank the rest of the day away. They sent the children off to sleep with the usual warnings: “if you hear a woman screaming, worry not, it’s just a mountain cat; if you need to go make water, take the dogs; if you hear a stranger calling your name at night, do not leave the shack.” Mountain cats and red wolves were the only dangerous predators around, as shadowcats lived further into the mountain and the last direwolves of the Vale were hunted down before the Targaryens conquered the Vale. Orrel, being the oldest of his sisters’ sons, stayed with them drinking and talking that night.

Olyvar loved the stars in the mountains. Nowhere else in the entire world were they so close to the stars. Luceon was noisily chewing mint, a habit he’d picked up from Ninestars’s master of the hunt, while he regaled Orrel with stories of past hunts. Olyvar chuckled when Luceon skipped over the more embarrassing parts of their moose encounter. Olyvar had a few stories of his own to share about hunts in Runestone, but he was waiting for Lomas to get his chance to speak and share stories from Wickenden. He had heard a few of the more outlandish tales of Robert Waxley’s adventures in the mountains. He still did not fully believe, even if multiple people swore to it, the time that Waxley fought and killed a cave bear with only a skinning knife.

Looking at the stars, a song came unbidden to his head. He ran inside for his book, startling his nephews, and furiously wrote down the verses. He sat back with a satisfied smile and set out to polish his few verses while Luceon shared his tale of a hairy ox, big as an aurochs, that he found in a deep hidden valley. Come dawn they’d climb up the mountain with the young ones, where they’d have a breathtaking view of the entire valley, and return home. One day, he’d be bringing his own son on a hunt up the mountain and showing him the valley that he grew up in from above.

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Olyvar, with his many male relatives, had gone on a hunt. They’d left for the nearby mountains nearly a sennight past to grieve for old Ser Jonothor in the way the Templetons knew best: hunting. As Elaena would expect from the family she married, they didn’t go for big shows of emotion. The funeral had been quiet and, had most lords not been already there for the tourney, it was likely that Luceon would not have invited that many people. Ser Jonothor had arranged his funeral himself and had wished for a small and quiet ceremony, with only his family present.

“Myranda, I’ve brought you some calming tea,” Olyvar’s good-sister Sallei, Luceon’s mother and the woman who had been the closest thing to a mother that Olyvar had had, sat next to the septa. The eldest of Ser Jonothor’s daughters had taken his passing the hardest. She had spent entire nights in vigil, praying for her father. Out of all of her sisters, she had lived the longest at Ninestars.

“Thank you, dear,” Myranda gave her a tired smile.

They were sitting by a nearby creek, where the children were swimming and playing. Both of her sisters were able swimmers, so they’d claimed the duty of teaching the children who couldn’t on the shallow waters. Janna Sunderland’s eldest daughter took on lifeguard duties. Her aunt sat near the creek, watching Baela and Rhaena with a smile. They’d put up carps to keep the hot summer sun away and brought sweets and snacks to enjoy the mountain air. Ninestars was a beautiful valley; gentle greens and dark earthy browns, surrounded by mountains full of tall old trees, with little rivers and creeks all flowing from the mountains into the large lake that connected the valley to the great river of the Vale. Come the harvest, the land would boast of stalks of wheat taller than any man and some of the biggest vegetables in the Vale.

It felt odd to sit around and rest, whilst surrounded by hard working farmers. Olyvar had told her how densely populated Ninestars was, and she now had firsthand evidence of it. Farmlands went almost all the way from the lake to the castle’s walls and beyond, to the mountains. Local farmers boasted that everyone in the Vale had eaten bread made from wheat out of Ninestars. There were people leading ox-pulled plows, farmers tossing seeds in their wake, farmers digging new irrigation canals and closing off unused ones. She’d visited the Septry of the First Mountain, where Olyvar had told her the brothers lived in wealthy abundance, and found them hard at work planting the season’s vegetables.

While the men were out hunting, they ate richly and luxuriously. Lamprey, goose, duck, elk and various river fish were constantly on the dinner table. She’d asked Sallei, who had been acting lady of Ninestars ever since Olyvar’s mother passed away, if their fare was due to the guests, but she’d told her that was the usual in Ser Jonothor’s table; and Luceon shared his grandsire’s tastes. The forested mountains that surrounded the valley were full of game, the rivers and lakes teemed with fish, cranes, geese and many other birds, and their harvests were large and bountiful.

That afternoon they’d brought out many sweets with them; tarts made with pomegranates or cherries; cakes made with lemon or peaches. Elaena’s favorite were the small cakes made with honeyed walnuts. Her sisters, little princesses that they were—they told her about the sweets that the cooks in Driftmark and Dragonstone made with the exotic fruits and ample sugar that Lord Corlys brought from all over the world, and oft told her how they missed their favorite sweets made from something they called “scaly red pear” which were brought from somewhere near the Basilisk Isles—loved the sweet cherry tarts and lemon cakes.

She’d brought a book with her. The Templeton maester, Garreth, had spent the better part of the last three decades composing a Bestiary of the Vale, and, due in large part to the taste for hunting that Ser Jonothor and his descendants had, the maester had been able to make very lifelike drawings of many of the mountain’s animals. He’d sent a copy to Oldtown and received hundreds of letters of congratulations from the Citadel. Maester Garreth had even been able to identify and classify different species of the same animals, describing the slight differences he’d found to justify his classification.

What had drawn Elaena to the book had been the drawings. He’d masterfully drawn, in vivid colors, various kinds of deer, moose, elks, mountain goats, boars, bears, large cats, wolves, and some sort of antelope with an elephant trunk. According to the maester, there was even some kind of monkey deep in the Mountains of the Moon, no bigger than a babe. The bestiary also included creatures that she prayed were only superstitions, for she wouldn’t have been able to sleep knowing that somewhere in the mountains lived some sort of catdog that could imitate human voices and would learn the names of people to call them in the night. That the maester had never seen one, only claimed to have heard it one night, and tried to draw it based on hearsay did not help.

“Oh, my Arnold hunted one of those on his first hunt,” Septa Myranda was looking over her shoulder, page open on a goat with long curly horns. “He was very happy that day.”

“How are you doing?” the septa seemed about to fall asleep.

“Better, my Lady, I will be glad to return to Runestone and see Eldric again,” she nodded, halfway to sleep, and shuffled away to the cart that had brought them.

“Elaena,” Rhaenys was next to approach her, after the children were done playing in the water and began to attack the sweets. Her aunt sat down next to her. “Did you think on what we’ve spoken?”

“Aye,” they’d been trying to come up with a way to keep her sisters away from the incoming violence. Her aunt doubted a full-blown war would come, no matter how much Elaena tried to convince her; she instead believed knives in the dark and family bloodshed, like in the times of Maegor, was likelier. Rhaenys didn’t want to believe their relatives would resort to kinslaying, no matter how little she thought of Daemon. They both feared Baela would be the one to insist on joining any possible fighting and had tried to come up with ways to keep her away. “Runestone will always be her home, but with a dragon at hand, she could just fly away.”

“She’s very brave,” Rhaenys smiled, looking at Baela, currently devouring a tart and laughing at something her sister said. “But also very small, and too naïve to the dangers of the world.”

“Mayhaps we could talk my father to send them both, and the other young children, to me and I could hide them somewhere in the Vale,” she doubted her father might do that; but she had looked into where to hide her sisters, and little brothers and nephews, from war. Ninestars was a good option, isolated enough to hide the dragons and it was impossible for an army to get there while the Eyrie stood.

“You may try. Rhaena the Black Bride tried to hide her daughters from Maegor the Cruel, and they were betrayed and given to him,” Rhaenys grimaced. “And Baela would not be the only one at risk of running off to war. Rhaenyra’s, and Laenor’s, sons are all Dragonriders. Even if Aegon does nothing, there will be lords who will rise up oppose a woman’s right to inherit, Rhaenyra will need to march to war to put them down, and her children will follow her. And we both know just how poor the health of Viserys is; they will still be children when the time comes.”

“I’ve been trying to think of any excuses to keep them here,” she shook her head, knowing that soon her sisters would return to Dragonstone. “Do you think Rhaenyra would allow Lord Corlys to take her sons to the Free Cities, to learn to sail and whatnot?”

“He’d love that,” her aunt laughed. “But she would not.”

“Mayhaps I can come up with some excuse to get them to visit, and then to get them to stay.”

“Mayhaps, but it might be best to give it more thought. You also want Aegon’s children with you, kept safe?”

“They are innocents. As are Aegon and his siblings, they’re all still children,” nothing from the show had happened yet, and both Helaena and Daeron had never done anything to anyone.

“I’ll try to think of some excuse for you to use,” Rhaenys squeezed her. “I’ve sent a letter to Corlys with your proposal, I’m expecting an answer may already wait for us in Runestone,” she’d proposed to her aunt to set aside gold and treasure for her sisters’ dowry; to have it ready so the coming conflict wouldn’t threaten their prospects.

She had tried to warn her aunt about dragon-on-dragon battles, but Rhaenys had assured her that she was one of the most experienced riders and would bet on herself to defeat any other dragon rider. When she proposed Rhaenys should stay away from battle, she told her that the daughter of Aemon and Jocelyn does not run. Elaena tried to remember just where it was that she had died on the show, to warn her, but she could not remember the castle’s name.

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It was almost night when Olyvar returned from his hunting trip. They’d all be leaving next morning. He’d been even quieter than usual before they left for the mountains and had returned his usual self. He even seemed happier, Elaena felt. They’d brought some meat for the goodbye feast, having been successful in their hunt. She’d been resting in bed ever since they returned from their outing, tired of moving around during the day.

“You have to try the smoked venison,” he was sitting at the end of the bed, with her legs on his lap. Her feet were swollen and hurt; so, he’d offered to give her a massage. “Comes out very savory.”

“I spoke with Rhaenys today. Do you think dragons, the size of Moondancer, could hide in the forests in Ninestars? My sisters as well.”

“They’re big mountains. Folk would see them, but the lake is the only safe way out of the valley. It’d take a while to hear of dragons in the Vale outside the valley.”

“And armies couldn’t come here, could they?”

“Unless they want to brave uncharted mountain passes and clansmen territory?” he shook his head. “The river is the only way in, and there are longships from every house around patrolling it. Strangers would be seen sailing through, and the lords of the Vale would respond.”

“And then there’s your army.”

“Aye,” he said, proud. “Ravens travel faster than ships on the river, word would reach us from another lord, or one of the watchtowers, and we’d march for the lake,” he chuckled. “It’d be certain death to attempt to land on the lake with men waiting on the shore.”

“So, we might be able to send the children here then? To keep them safe?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “Barring dragons, we are as safe as can be here. An army would have to brave the High Road, storm the Bloody Gate, fight their way to the Eyrie and then towards the lake. Or they could attempt to take Gulltown and march through there, facing the knights of Runestone in the way.”

“And ships coming in from the Narrow Sea?” she knew of Runestone’s defenses, but knew very little of the defenses of her fellow lords.

“Storms in the Fingers and around the Sisters make the north dangerous. If they manage to land, Dutton, Ruthermont and Hersy guard the northern coasts. On the east? You’ve got the longships of Old Anchor and Upcliff, the Grafton fleet, and Hunter’s knights ready on the coast. Lynderly guards the river’s entrance, they can close off the river if needed. It really is quite difficult to strike at the Vale. Even Aegon Targaryen had a hard time of it,” the Conqueror had met his only defeat, outside of Dorne, in the Vale, when his invasion force was repelled off the coast of Gulltown and his fleet destroyed. The Vale had only fallen once Visenya atop Vhagar visited the Eyrie.

“Good, now I only need to get them here then,” she snorted.

“Shouldn’t be hard,” he smiled. “The five sons of the crown princess, your sisters, your Green cousins and the two babes? Quite easy to get them all here, and their dragons as well.”

“Har, har,” she swatted the air. “Don’t make light of it. Where else in the Vale would you consider safest?” best not to keep all her eggs in one basket.

“Well,” he scratched his nose. “Runestone is a formidable castle, well manned and able to call on many swords. The Eyrie is, of course, impregnable. Redfort is hidden away between the mountains, so an army would be having many difficulties. And well, nobody would expect a prince to be hiding in the Sisters, dreary as they are.”

“What’s Galbart like?” she changed the subject, a little more confident in getting the children hidden away from war. The young lord Melcolm was marrying her niece, and she hadn’t had the chance to see much of him.

“Dutiful,” he shrugged. “He listened to us properly, so he’s no brat. You know how many child lords end up as the most awful brats? My father said that old Lord Ruthermont, the current one’s grandfather, came into his title at age four and was an unbearable man.”

“That’s good.”

“He and Clifford got along,” the younger Sunderland boy would be leaving with them, to become Olyvar’s squire. “Might be a good idea to visit Old Anchor, give them the chance to grow up close. Patrek too, but Dutton lands are far from Runestone.”

“Does Patrek have a betrothal in place?” he was heir to a keep, and she had nieces who could marry.

“Not that I’m aware. Do you want me to speak with my sister?” Lord Dutton had left not long after the funeral, leaving his family behind.

“Please do, don’t forget to tell her that-“

“That’s she’s well dowered,” he finished, with a laugh. “Which of the girls are you thinking of?”

“I had been thinking of a Waynwood match for Willa, but Lord Waynwood has not given any signs he might be open to a match,” her nieces were all older than Patrek. “Let’s just see if she is interested, then I’ll ask Mya what she thinks,” he began to tickle her. “Stop that!” she laughed, trying to push him away with her feet.

“As my Lady wife commands,” he solemnly grabbed her feet and planted a kiss on top of it. He then began to move upwards, planting kisses. He stopped at her belly for a while, before moving up, all the way to her lips.

“They’re waiting for us for the feast,” she could feel the heat in her cheeks.

“Let them wait.”

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She’d slept for nearly the entire trip home. The gentle sway of the river rocked their barge like a cradle. Samwell had been as rowdy as ever, so Olyvar had taken charge of keeping him from trying to jump into the river. They made good time back to Moondancer’s Port, where her carriage awaited. But no sooner had she stepped on dry land did her water break.

Chapter Text

125 AC

“And then, and then, we jumped into the lake and swam all the way to the bottom,” Baela pulled at her father’s left arm, showing off a big toothy smile. “It wasn’t dark at all, like back home, we could see the fish swimming and even a turtle!”

“He let me pet his head,” Rhaena added, at his right side. Daemon was carrying Sam with his right arm. Baela’s little nephew had taken to his grandfather, especially after he’d taken him atop Caraxes.

“I was worried he was going to bite her,” Baela was jumping in place, “but the turtle was friendly and curious!”

“That’s good,” he smiled, freeing his hand from Baela’s grasp and shaking her head around, which made her giggle.

“I wish I could have gone,” Jace complained. After her new niece, Alysanne, was born, their father had come to visit atop Caraxes and a very smug Jace had joined him, riding on Vermax. He’d begged Rhaenyra to allow him to finally make a long flight on Vermax and had been boasting about it to Baela and Rhaena for the past two days. Though her father did tell them that they stopped on Claw Isle to let the smaller dragon rest, it wasn’t as if Jace had flown far away; Baela could still be the first to make a long-distance flight. “You make it sound much more fun than Dragonstone.”

“There were so many things to do!” Baela had enjoyed their time at Ninestars. The food was tasty, the tourney fun, there were many children to play with, and they even went hawking. That there was a funeral did not dampen their spirits. “We swam, we climbed trees, we saw two bulls fighting over a cow and a dog race!”

“That’s good,” her father sat down, putting Sam on the ground. “I was half thinking you’d already be bored senseless of the Vale and planned to abscond with you two,” he stretched and smiled. “I’m off to talk to Marilya about your lessons, I better not hear you’ve been running from her again,” he warned her. “Take care of my grandson,” he commanded one of her sister’s maidservants.

“I can take care of him!” Baela boasted. She’d made sure he had fun and stayed peaceful on the boat ride back to Runestone. “I to speak Valyrian do good now,” she told her father in her perfect Valyrian, or so she assumed before he laughed and lifted her up with a smile.

“It’s speak, dear elder sister,” Rhaena shook her head.

“Even I knows that,” Jace laughed, but Baela was certain he’d also made a mistake, judging by her father’s amused look.

“Maybe Rhaena should be the one to teach you instead,” her father put her down, kissed the two sisters in the top of the head and walked away.

“Come,” she grabbed Jace by the hand. “Let’s go play Monsters-and-maidens! You can be one of the monsters, Rhaena and me, we heard of many new monsters!”

She led her betrothed towards the Godswood, Rhaena and little Samwell following behind them. Sam played with them or tried at least. He was still a baby and didn’t know the rules, only running behind them and laughing. Baela didn’t mind though, and besides, he always gets tired halfway through their games and goes looking for his mother. Sam loved being outside and riding on horses with Ser Olyvar, and always seemed bored when sitting with Elaena, but, after just a short time away from her, he always ran back with a cry of “mama!” and climbed on her lap. Baela was certain she’d never been so clingy.

Their playmates were in the Godswood. Allard, Robar and Eldric were already back from King’s Landing, and Rhea and Alyssa had talked their older brothers into playing as the monsters. When they arrived, the boys were boasting of their successes at the Green’s tourney and telling them all about Ser Willam’s fighting in the melee. Baela would have preferred for Eldric and the others to have gone with them to Ninestars but hearing that Ser Willam had trounced Criston Cole had put a smile on her face. Both her father and Rhaenyra thought that Cole was unworthy of the white cloak, and he had killed Joffrey’s namesake, her Uncle Laenor’s friend. They’d not seen the boys yet, occupied as they were catching up with their father and Jace.

“My prince,” Eldric bowed his head. “My ladies,” he bowed even deeper. “Did you enjoy Ninestars? I miss my grandmother’s home; I lived there before I became a ward of Lady Elaena’s.”

“It was very beautiful,” Rhaena smiled, she was holding Sam’s hand. Baela was trying to hide the blush that Eldric’s smile gave her. Thankfully, Jace did not notice, else he would likely tease her. He was listening intently to Allard’s telling of the squire’s melee.

“Quite so, and you’ve yet to see it in winter.”

Just as Baela had predicted, it took no time for Sam to start wanting his mother. He left their game, and the maidservant took her grumpy nephew away, seeking their sister. And Alysanne. Baela’s little niece was quite adorable, chubby-cheeked and fond of smiling, even if she preferred eating and sleeping to everything else. When Alysanne grabbed on to her finger with all her strength, Baela swore she’d look after her just like their sister looked after them. She waved at Sam as he was carried away, her nephew gave her a toothy smile and answered her wave.

“Let’s play something else,” Baela said after Allard, in the role of an ice spider, caught them. “What about Capture-the-castle?”

“I don’t like that one,” Jace puffed his cheeks out. “I like Hide-the-treasure.”

“Here,” Millicent untied a pink ribbon she was wearing in her hair. “We can use this for the treasure.”

Allard and Robar didn’t continue playing with them, having squire duties to attend to, but Eldric stayed behind. They divided into teams and took turns hiding Millicent’s ribbon. Baela’s team was Jace and Alyssa. When it was their turn to hide it, Jace had the idea of tying it to one of the guardsmen’s spears, so they recruited Pate, one of the nicer guardsmen in the castle, and decorated his spear with the pink ribbon. Rhaena’s team soon found their hiding spot, however, and claimed the treasure for what must have been an entire hour. When they finally spotted the ribbon, a worried Millicent had been close to tears; Rhaena had put it inside an empty armor on a hallway.

Her father had let them know that a ship would be arriving in a month or so for their things and he’d come for them on Caraxes. When he and Jace left, her father would be taking Moondancer with him. When she’d asked how, he promised to teach her the song he used to coax dragons to follow him. She’d had fun playing with Jace; and she missed Luke and Joffrey and her little brothers. So, it might not be so sad to have to return to Dragonstone. She’d miss all her friends, and her sister, but soon she’d be able to fly to Runestone whenever she wanted, just like her father; she could even take Rhaena with her.

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Alysanne Royce babbled happily, eyes open wide and little feet kicking the air. Rhaenys sat by the window, looking at her niece playing with her daughter’s feet. Alysanne was a large babe, she remembered visiting Laena when Baela and Rhaena were born and Alysanne was nearly double the size the two girls had been. She shared the same hair than Sam which, coupled with her name, made her think of her grandmother. Mayhaps Daemon was correct in insisting their hair was the same color as the Good Queen’s blonde.

Amused, she thought that this new Alysanne would very likely dwarf her grandmother. The Good Queen was a small woman; Rhaenys’s own mother, Jocelyn Baratheon, stood around a foot taller than her royal half-sister. Elaena was a tad shorter than Jocelyn Baratheon had been but was still a tall woman. She’d have to wait for the girl’s eyes to settle before making further comparisons with her grandmother.

“I think she’s hungry,” her niece fed her children by herself, choosing to not use a wet nurse. “Aunt, do you mind if I go through my correspondence while you are here? It’d make me a terribly host, but I’ve taken too long a break from my responsibilities,” she’d had a slight fever after Alysanne’s birth and the maester insisted she rest. Now, with a fortnight passed, her niece had fully recovered.

“What will the maester say?” Septa Roelle, her niece’s ever-present companion, pursed her lips.

“’Tis just reading,” Elaena grumbled. “I’m not going outside the room, not leaving the bed and not carrying heavy objects,” she held out her hand to the septa, who kept her letters.

“Have it your way,” the septa sighed, though she put her hand over her niece’s forehead before handing her a stack of letters. “These are congratulations and well-wishes for the birth of your daughter, several of them mention they have sons.”

“She’s just a few days old, and already they descend on her like carrion birds,” Rhaenys laughed at her niece’s grimace. “Any that demand a speedy answer?”

“This one is from His Grace, though not by his hand,” Rhaenys opened her eyes wide, surprised that the septa could tell her cousin’s handwriting from others. “Lady Jeyne sent you this one, and both Redfort, Corbray and Grafton mention the young boys of their houses.”

“Could you figure out a nice way of saying that I’m not looking for matches just yet?”

“Yes, my Lady,” the septa shuffled her papers around. “Tyrell and Tully both also mention young unwed heirs.”

“You are a wealthy lady,” Rhaenys explained, looking at her exasperated niece as she read through the letters; Rhaenys read some herself, some lords were much more obvious in their intentions than others. “Your niece’s dowry for her match with the Melcolm boy has likely turned some heads. And, most importantly, your girl is the only unbetrothed maid of Targaryen blood,” Aegon the Elder’s daughter would likely marry her twin. “Odds are that many a lord is salivating at the thought of a dowry and an eventual marriage into the Iron Throne.”

“Gah,” her niece shook her head. “Look at her, she’s just been born and already you speak of her children,” she bit her lip. “She’s not getting married, or betrothed, for many years. Let her grow happy and free. You married for love, no?”

“I did,” Rhaenys squeezed her hand. “Let us pray your children will have the same opportunity,” it went unsaid that Rhaenys had been a dragonrider, the heir of Prince Aemon.

“This is putting me in a foul mood, what else do you have?” she asked the septa.

“Ser Gerold sent the details for the new silo’s cost, and a map for where to put it.”

“Let’s see,” her niece bit her lip as the septa showed her the map, her hands occupied with holding her daughter. “Looks good,” she nodded. “I’ll tell him to proceed next I see him. Moondancer’s Port is growing,” she turned to her. “And Gerold is concerned that come winter they won’t have enough storage for food. Anything else?”

“A landed knight, Ser Bryce Molter, accuses his wife of giving him horns and wants her sent to the Silent Sisters, the lady’s family seeks justice from you before it happens.”

“Write letters summoning them all, I’ll look at the evidence,” she bit her lip. “I wish there was another solution than just sending her to the Silent Sisters.”

“Were it not for the laws of Queen Alysanne,” Rhaenys shared. “This Ser Bryce would be in his rights to kill her.”

“’Tis horrid,” her niece grimaced. “I’ll send a letter to Oldtown, asking the High Septon if there ever were different laws regarding this matter. Could you write it, Roelle?” Elaena’s smile made the septa blush, not that her niece seemed to notice, focused as she was on the next letter—another boast of a young unwed son, veiled as a letter of congratulations.

“Lady Elaena?” there was a knock on the door. “Prince Daemon requests entry and asks if you are decent.”

“Let him in,” her niece sighed, handing the letters back to the septa. “Put these away, wouldn’t want my father to think that Aegon had competition,” she turned to face him. “I just know he wants my daughter to marry Aegon, and I can’t say I’m keen.”

“Too close a match?” Rhaenys had learnt enough about her niece to know she was not particularly fond of Targaryen marriage customs. If she was being honest with herself, Rhaenys had never thought about marrying Laenor to Laena, not even when she was close to becoming heir.

“Where is my granddaughter?” Daemon entered with his usual smugness. Though when Elaena gestured to her shawl, under which Alysanne was eating, and Daemon heard her, he looked away. “What’s this then?” he pointed at her.

“We were talking,” her niece took out her daughter from underneath he clothes. Daemon approached but Elaena held out her hand and began to gently pat Alysanne’s back. “Are your hands clean?” at Daemon’s annoyed sigh, Elaena nodded towards septa Roelle, who brought him a bowl of water, soap and a white cloth to dry his hands.

“I’m certain my mother and father did not demand everyone who held me to clean their hands,” Daemon complained. “I’m certain she looks like me,” he said once Alysanne was in his arms. “Don’t you think so, dear cousin?”

“If you say so.”

“If she marries Aegon she’ll be a princess, you know?”

“She’s only a few days old, too young for a betrothal.”

“What about Sam?” Daemon turned towards her. “Corlys ought to have a few nieces running around.”

“He can also wait,” her niece wrinkled her nose. “There is no need to accept an offer from anyone.”

“If you say so,” he smiled, handing Alysanne back. Septa Roelle took her, placing her on her crib. “My boys are both unmatched, so I’ll not press you yet, but we’ll pick this conversation back up. Did you enjoy Ninestars? The girls liked the valley,” he sat at the edge of the bed.

“Aye, the food was very good, wasn’t it?” Rhaenys nodded. Driftmark’s table was full of exotic spices and juicy meats cooked by the most skilled cooks that Corlys could find, but Ninestars boasted of some of the best vegetables she’d ever eaten and a surprising abundance of lamprey and duck, some of her favorites. Hawking was also very enjoyable, seeing her falcon soaring over the trees.

“Jace wants to go hunting, says that Laenor wanted to take them hunting in your lands,” Rhaenys pursed her lips, she never liked it when Rhaenyra and Daemon talked about her son. When Elaena had confided in her that she feared her father had something to do with it but, no matter how much she tried, couldn’t prove it, Rhaenys shared the same concerns.

Corlys had offered a small fortune to find Qarl Correy, the man who murdered her son, and she had reviewed every single captain’s log thrice, to no avail. Elaena shared with her that she’d sent letters to every septon and septa in the islands, asking for any knowledge they might have. But yet again, to no avail. She’d been surprised that septons were her niece’s source of information, not thinking of them as potential sources, but her niece assured her that they heard more than people thought and, with the right incentives, could be convinced to share what they knew. Neither of them could find any proof of Daemon and Rhaenyra’s involvement, but both still suspected them.

“I’ll mention it to Olyvar,” she stretched, looking sleepy. “Do you also want to go hunting?”

“I don’t find it enjoyable,” Daemon had joined the king on many hunts and grown tired of the more courtly affair that most nobles made of it.

“I see. I’m sure Olyvar will be more than happy to go hunting, he can take Jace and a few of the squires.”

“Like the Arryn boy?” her niece nodded. “Then I might as well go. Rhaenyra is thinking of sending Joffrey to squire for him, once the lad earns his spurs, and asked me to get a measure of the boy.”

“He’s a good lad, and a good squire. He’s been raised right in Runestone. He’ll make a fine enough lord of the Vale.”

“Are you going somewhere, cousin?” Rhaenys asked after Daemon stood up.

“I’m itching to hit something; will you lend Ser Willam your sword so I can test the man who beat Cole?”

“Aye, Roelle, could you tell Willam? He knows where I keep it,” the septa nodded and left, Daemon hot on her heels.

“Eldric will become lord of the Vale, then?” Rhaenys asked, once they were left alone. She’d not kept up much with the politics of the other kingdoms, after Laenor had died.

“Jeyne will not marry. Arnold is next in line, though he’s at present in a sky cell,” Elaena gave a tired breath. “I’ve heard that he’s grown mad, due to the long imprisonment. Jeyne will most probably outlive him, but if not? Eldric would be his father’s regent.”

“I see…” she thought of Laenor, and of the comely young septa that worshipped the ground that her niece walked on. If only she’d had another son, then her Laenor would not have been forced to marry for advantage; he could have stayed unwed and happy. Unwed and alive. Maybe the septa had the right of it, and staying unwed in the Faith was the right of it.

“Mama,” Sam suddenly entered the room, a maidservant behind him. “Mama! Up!”

“Here,” Rhaenys helped bring him up into the bed, where he quickly crawled to hug Elaena. The servant bowed and left the room.

“Were you playing with Baela and Rhaena?”

“Bey and Rhay,” Sam agreed. He was a big lad, for his age. Oft seen chasing after either of his parents, and oft wanting to ride on horses.

Her niece began to rock her son, softly singing. She had a pretty voice, though her choice of songs to put her children to sleep left much to be desired, in Rhaenys’s opinion. She sang strange songs about truth being found to be a lie and joy dying, unlikely things to sing to babes. She’d never heard those songs before, so she assumed that Olyvar was not the only poet in Runestone. Cuddling next to his mother, Sam soon fell asleep, and, judging by the slow breathing coming from the crib, so did Alysanne.

“I’ll leave you be,” she stood, her niece was already nodding off. She kissed her on the cheek and left her rooms. Outside, Septa Roelle was patiently waiting. “She’s falling asleep, but you ought to go in, in case one of the children cries.”

She walked through the halls of Runestone. The walls were full of tapestries and flowers on colorful clay pots. She’d been present when Ser Gerold told her niece they’d had a good year, having sold all of their wool meant for tapestries—she told her something about a specific breed bred just for that—and orders already coming in for more. Her niece was well on her way to competing with Corlys for displays of wealth, her servants wore soft and richly colored wools, nearly every room was covered in wool hangings or tapestries and carpets. The more that Elaena spent, the more she seemed to earn. She’d caught on to the fact that every tourney, wedding and feast that her niece hosted was done so with the intent of showing off her wool to other lords.

If Viserys had even half the cunning that her own father, let alone her grandsire, had, he would have been quick to offer marriages to Elaena. So far, it seemed it was only the queen who asked. Her niece was well on her way to turning the Royces into one of the wealthiest families in the Vale. Samwell and Alysanne would very likely become very attractive matches a few years from now.

“Grandmother!” Baela waved at her through a window. The girls, and Jace, were playing in the Godswood. She walked outside to sit on one of the benches and looked at her grandchildren playing. She’d be leaving Runestone soon, she had to talk to Daemon about fostering the girls at Driftmark afterwards. “Look at this!” Baela cartwheeled.

“I can do it too!” Rhaena declared, doing a cartwheel of her own. Rhaenys smiled.

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“Elaena?” she opened her eyes, Roelle was gently shaking her shoulder. “You asked me to wake you for dinner.”

“Aye,” she sat up. Sam was sleeping next to her. “What time is it?”

“The sun is setting,” Roelle whispered. “Tansy and the others are outside, ready to brush and dress you. I’ll stay with the children.”

“Thank you,” she smiled. She’d been stuck in bed for far too long, having caught a slight fever on the way to Runestone. Alysanne had been born in Moondancer’s Port and she would have rather stayed there for a while, waiting for her daughter to be strong enough to travel, but while she slept after the birth they moved to Runestone, reaching the castle before she woke up. It had given her a fever, but it hadn’t affected Alysanne.

Her daughter was a very chatty baby. She liked to babble. They dressed her in a soft lilac dress. Her dress felt tighter around the chest; she reasoned it was likely from her two pregnancies. ‘Twas the last dinner with her aunt before she left. Her father was staying for a while longer, mostly so Jace could learn hunting from her husband. As soon as she left her rooms, Olyvar appeared to offer her his arm.

“How have you been?” concern showed in his eyes.

“As strong as an aurochs,” she smiled. The fever had left her two days after returning, but Maester Qarlton had insisted she rest. “What did you do today?”

“We, Gerold and me, talked about the mines,” he dropped his voice to a whisper. “We’re close to finishing the refuge for people to run to in case of an emergency.”

“That’s good,” the war was coming soon, she knew. The show had some ages wrong, her brothers were older than the babies in the series, but Aegon’s children were around the same age as Sam. They had maybe two years before the war started. “Jace would like to learn hunting, could you take him?” she remembered to ask.

“Aye,” he led her into her seat. Everyone was already there. “I’ll ask the huntsmaster if he has news of anything.”

“Elaena, look!” Rhaena had brought a drawing with her. “I made it with Cella,” her sister had drawn the barge on the river, surrounded by the tall peaks of the Mountains of the Moon.

“’Tis very pretty,” she smiled. “I quite like the colors of the water,” her sister wiggled in her seat as she smiled.

“I used four different colors,” she informed her. Rhaena then turned towards her father. “I’m having a tapestry made, for our room in Dragonstone. Baela too.”

“Are you?” her father placed a heavy hand on Rhaena’s head.

“I shaw them working on it in Moondansher’s Port,” Baela, with a mouth full of porridge, spoke.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Rhaenys chided her.

“Shorry,” she apologized, with her mouth full.

“Honestly child,” Daemon laughed. “We can’t have the future queen speaking like that.”

“Aunt Elaena?” Jacaerys asked, biting his lip. “What was father’s favorite at your table?”

“Laenor? He liked buried mutton. Did you eat it during my wedding?” he nodded. “Do we have any?” she turned to a servant, who shook his head. “Then, bring me pork with applesauce,” she smiled at Jace. “He liked that as well, from apples brought from the banks of the Coldwater.”

“Thank you,” Jace smiled once the servant brought him the plate. “Father always said he wanted to teach us many things and take us many places,” she could hear the sadness in his voice.

“He oft spoke of wanting to bring you here,” she smiled at her nephew. She’d not spent much time with the boys who called Laenor Velaryon father, Rhaenyra kept them close to her in Dragonstone. Her sisters oft spoke of the games they played with Rhaenyra’s sons, the mischief they got up to. “Laenor once told me he wanted to teach you how to sail and how to hunt.”

“Grandfather wanted to take us sailing once, but mother thought it unwise.”

“Is there hunting in Dragonstone?” she asked her father, who shook his head.

“The forest and hills belong to the dragons.”

“Mother sometimes takes us hawking, but it’s not the same as hunting,” Jacaerys shook his head. “Father always told us stories about his hunts in Runestone, whenever he visited Dragonstone,” Elaena remembered that Laenor had never lived with Rhaenyra, preferring to spend his time in Driftmark.

“Ser Simon,” she turned towards her captain of the guard. He had a keep of his own now, but he had chosen to remain at her service. His castle was close, so he could even travel back home every night; it amused her to think of it as his commute. “You remember where Laenor liked to hunt, no?”

“And his favorite forest to ride through, my Lady,” the knight nodded.

“Ser Laenor was a fine knight,” Gunthor, sitting near the edge of the table, spoke. “Worry not, lad,” he told Jacaerys. “I’ve many a story of his bravery and skill.”

“You do?” Rhaenys asked to her side.

“Aye, princess. I was with him in many a hunt, many a spar and many a feast.”

“He told us about hunting a shadowcat,” Jace looked at her old uncle with hope in his eyes.

“A good hunt,” Gunthor nodded. “We spent, mayhaps three days?” he shrugged, “trudging through a forest near the western hills. We’d spend our nights sleeping under the stars, our days following tracks in the ground. Shadowcats are lightfooted, you don’t hear them coming, and they barely leave a clue in the ground, but Ser Laenor had good eyes about him, and we were able to follow the beast,” Jacaerys was listening intently, smile on his face. “On the last day we finally came upon the shadowcat. If you ever hunt one, my prince, you must know one thing,” Gunthor held out a finger. “Once you see it, you can be certain it saw you long before. Before we could get in position, it pounced. It meant to bring down one of the lads we’d brought with us, but Ser Laenor was there.”

“What happened?” Baela asked, eyes wide.

“Why, my Lady, he took his spear,” he put his hands in front of him, showing how big the tip was, around a foot. “And, without a thought to his own safety, charged the shadowcat just as it tried to tear the lad’s throat. He brought the beast down and brought the pelt to gift to Lady Elaena,” her sisters and Jacaerys turned to look at her.

“I’ll show you the cloak later,” she smiled. She kept the cloak in storage, summer being too hot for a shadowskin cloak.

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Rhaena was sad. Nearly a moon had passed since her father had last left and their time to leave Runestone had come. Servants had carried their things to Gulltown, where a ship would be taking them all the way to Dragonstone, and soon their father would come to bring them back to the island. Come morning, their father would return on Caraxes to carry them away, back home.

She had had so much fun in Runestone. Her sister knew just how to make lessons fun, even convincing Baela that learning was enjoyable. She had learnt so much about painting and pottery and wished to still continue her arts lessons. Her father had spoken about hiring a teacher for her once she returned, but she liked Cella Tollet and the way she drew. And then there was Sam and Aly. She feared her nephew would not understand them leaving and would cry and, after just a moon, her niece had grown so much, and she would now miss it.

But she knew her father missed her. And she missed him. And Rhaenyra and Jace and Luke. She’d oft thought about Luke for the past few days. He would be Lord of Driftmark and she his lady wife, but from what she remembered, Luke knew far too little about what it entailed. Their lessons in Dragonstone mostly involved histories, sums and sigils, but her own lessons in Runestone had gone deeper and further. Their sister had ensured she mastered her sums, her multiplications and even her divisions. And she’d invited them to her solar where they learnt about ruling and ladyship. All of it made her wonder: did Rhaenyra teach her sons about ruling and lordship?

Luke was their grandfather’s heir, and he rarely visited Driftmark, Rhaenyra would not allow him. Would he be prepared to take on his responsibilities? Would she have to take on all of them and rule by herself while he played? She hoped not. Ser Olyvar did not rule Runestone, but he still helped. She’d seen her sister ask him for his opinion and his advice. She wanted a marriage just like that. Where both, the man and the woman, saw each other in the eye and spoke like equals. Where they both worked together for the good of the smallfolk.

“Baela? Rhaena?” their sister called out to them. The two of them were bundled up, ready to for their father to take them away on a cold flight with Caraxes. Elaena squeezed them with a tight hug. “Runestone will always be your home, if you ever wish to come, I will always welcome you.”

“Always?” Rhaena was sniffling.

“Aye,” Elaena kissed her in the forehead. “Whenever and wherever you may be, I will be thinking of you. I will keep your room as you have left it,” Baela began to cry as well. “If you are ever in trouble, if you ever need to speak to someone? I will be here. I will send you letters and pray for your answers.”

“I’ll return,” Baela talked through her tears. “Moondancer will grow and we’ll fly back here, Rhaena will come with me, right?” Rhaena furiously nodded, she then tried to dry her tears in her sister’s dress.

“I’ll have to make sure Moondancer has a place to sleep then,” their sister smiled. “When you go to sleep, and you look up at the stars, I want you to know I’ll be looking at the same stars and thinking of you,” Rhaena couldn’t hold back, she cried in earnest.

She missed home in Dragonstone, but she didn’t want to leave Runestone. Somewhere along the way, their eldest sister had taken on a mother’s role, much more than Rhaenyra ever had. She knew their father also missed them, and she wanted to be with him as well, but it pained her to leave their sister behind. Her sister’s warm tears fell on her and Baela as they embraced. Come morning, their father arrived and took them away. In the distance, Runestone looked small.

Chapter Text

Appendix (as of the New Year of 125 AC)

House Arryn

Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East. (30 years old)
-Her Lady Companion, Jessamyn Redfort. (30 years old)

Her cousin, Ser Arnold Arryn, a captive in a Sky Cell. (43 years old)
-Arnold's late wife, Betha Royce.
---Their son, Eldric Arryn, a squire in Runestone. (14 years old)

Her distant cousin, Ser Joffrey Arryn, Knight of the Bloody Gate. (32 years old)
-His wife, Catelyn Hunter. (18 years old)

Her distant cousin, Isembard Arryn, the Gilded Falcon. (60 years old)
-Isembard's sons, Ser Benedict, Ser Archibald, Maladon
-Isembard's daughter, Alysanne

House Royce

Elaena Royce, Lady of Runestone. (23 years old)
-Her husband, Ser Olyvar Templeton. (28 years old)
---Their son, Samwell Royce. (1 year old)
-Her sisters, Baela and Rhaena Targaryen. (8 years old)

Her closest related cousin, Mya Royce. (Age 34)

Her great-uncle, Ser Gunthor Royce, the Bronze Giant. (63 years old)
-His eldest son, Ser Gerold Royce, steward of Runestone. (45 years old)
----Gerold's eldest son, Ser Jon Royce. (31 years old)
----Ser Jon's wife, Mya
-------Their sons, Allard and Robar, squires. (16 and 15 years old)
-------Their daughters, Barba, Willa, Rhea and Alyssa. (14, 13, 12, 10 years old)
----Gerold's younger son, Ser Willam Royce. (22 years old)

--Gunthor's late daughter, Betha, Arnold's wife and Eldric's mother.

--Gunthor's younger son, Ser Jorah Royce. (37 years old)
----Jorah's son, Gunthor, an acolyte of the Faith and University student. (18 years old)

House Royce's vassals

Septa Roelle. (24 years old)
Septa Myranda, Arnold Arryn's mother and Eldric's grandmother. (58 years old)

Ser Simon Storm, the Griffin's bastard. (33 years old)
-His wife, Ginger, a merchant's daughter. (27 years old)
---His brother and squire, Alyn Connington. (12 years old)

Ser Robert Stone, Master-at-Arms of Runestone. (59 years old)

Maester Rookwill. (70 years old)
Maester Qarlton. (48 years old)

Ser Benfred the Grim, Ser Bryce Coldwater, Ser Pate of Gulltown, Ser Yohn Royce, knights of Runestone.
Tansy, Head Maidservant.
Pate, the Cook.
Septon Lomas.

House Tollett

Lord Edwyle Tollett, Lord of Grey Glen.
---Edwyle's son, Ser Jon Tollett, Yorbert Royce's former squire.
---Ser Jon's wife, Carolei Coldwater
-----Their son, Roland, a squire.
-----Their daughters, Millicent, lady-in-waiting in Runestone, Lysa. (9 and 7 years old)

-His younger brother, Ser Rymund.
---His eldest daughter, Lianne and her husband Ser Humfrey Tollett, Knight of Moondancer's Port.
---His middle daughter, Dalla, a septa.
---His younger daughter, Cella, head lady-in-waiting of Runestone. (22 years old)

House Coldwater

Lord Amos Coldwater, Lord of Coldwater Burn.
---His eldest son, Ser Leyton.
------Leyton's eldest son, Ser Amos.
----------Ser Amos's daughter, Alysanne, a lady-in-waiting in Runestone. (10 years old)
---His middle son, Ser Bryce.
---His younger son, Ser Androw.
---His daughter, Carolei

House Shett

Ser Andrik Shett, Knight of the Gull Tower.
---His daughter, Maris Shett, a lady-in-waiting in Runestone. (9 years old)
---His son, Yorbert, a page. (6 years old)

House Redfort

Lord Byron Redfort, Lord of Redfort.
---His wife, Marla Manderly.
-----Two sons and a daughter.

---His younger sister, Jessamyn Redfort.

---His younger brother, Ser Adrian Redfort.

House Grafton

Lord Lucas Grafton, Lord of Gulltown.
---His sons, Ser Jon, Ser Marq and Matthis, a squire.
---His daughter, Marianne.

House Templeton

Ser Jonothor Templeton, Knight of Ninestars. (78 years old)
---His grandson and heir, Ser Luceon Templeton. (27 years old)
-----Ser Luceon's wife, Lanna Belmore. (23 years old)
---His second grandson, Ser Lyonel. (25 years old)
---His third grandson, Ser Lomas. (20 years old)

---His eldest daughter, Septa Myranda.
---His second daughter, Alysanne, dowager Lady Melcolm.
------Her daughters, Myranda, Rowena, Perra
------Her son, Galbart Melcolm, Lord of Old Anchor. (10 years old)
---His third daughter, Janna, Lady Sunderland.
------Her eldest son, Orrel Sunderland, heir to Sweetsister and the Three Sisters. (17 years old)
------Her second son, Clifford Sunderland. (11 years old)
---His fourth daughter, Lysa, Lady Dutton.
------Her son, Patrek Dutton, heir to Dutton Keep. (8 years old)
---His fifth daughter, Sara, married to Ser Armistead Egen.

---His youngest son, Ser Olyvar.

House Corbray

Lord Leowyn Corbray, Lord of Heart's Home.
---His wife, Lollys Dutton.
------Their son, Martyn. (3 years old)

-His brother, Ser Corwyn, wielder of Lady Forlorn.
---His wife, Amerei Hayford.
------Their daughter, Olena. (1 year old)

House Waynwood

Lord Martyn Waynwood, Lord of Ironoaks Castle (50 years old)
--Martyn’s eldest daughter, Alayne. (27 years old)
----Alayne’s husband, Ser Aaron Waynwood, a distant cousin. (29 years old)
------Their son, Roger. (3 years old)
--Martyn’s son and heir, Karyl, a sickly boy. (12 years old)

-Martyn’s first brother, Ser Waymar (48 years old)
----Waymar’s wife, Ninette Upcliff
-------Their children, Ser Martyn, Ser Ryam, Tristan, a septon and university student

-Martyn’s second brother, Ser Tristan (45 years old)
----Tristan’s first wife, Perra Dutton
-------Their daughter, Sara, a septa
----Tristan’s second wife, Lollys Ruthermont

-Martyn’s third brother, Ser Wallace (42 years old)
----Wallace’s wife, Carolei Elesham
-------Their children, Davos, a maester, Ser Moros, Alayne

-Martyn’s fourth brother, Ser Jaremy (38 years old)
----Jaremy’s wife, Jeyne Borrell
-------Their daughter, Lysa

-Martyn’s fifth brother, Ser Harrold (33 years old)
---Harrold’s wife, Pegga Wydman
-------Their son, Horton

House Belmore

Lord Lyonel Belmore, Lord of Strongsong
---His eldest daughter, Lanna Belmore.
---His younger daughter, Bethany Belmore. (18 years old)
---His son and heir, Robert, a squire.

House Hunter

Lord Baldrick Hunter, Lord of Longbow Hall.
---His eldest son, Ser Patrek
---His middle son, Ser Aron
---His youngest son, Eon, a squire at 24
---Bethany Hunter, married to Ser Mandon Lynderly

-His younger brother, Ser Lyn
---His daughter, Catelyn

Other lords and knights of note

Ser Mandon Lynderly, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon
His nephew, Loras Lynderly, Lord of the Snakewood

Lord Karyl Egen and his nephew and heir, Ser Armistead.

Lord Orson Moore and his son Ser Tom

Lady Janei Comyn, Lady of Comyn Keep. (5 years old)
Her mother and regent, Lady Mya
Her uncle, Ser Rogar

Chapter Text

125 AC

“We’ve carved out runes along the tunnels,” Gerold, leading her through the old abandoned mine, brought his torch close to the wall, where she could see a rune, one of the most often seen in the ancient bronze armor of her house. “This one, we think it means shield, we’ve carved all the way to the hidden room. Whenever you come upon a fork in the road, one of the roads will have the rune carved, follow that one.”

Olyvar walked by her side, he was carrying an oil lantern. They’d gone down into the mines through the hidden door beneath the walls. Closest to the castle were a few rooms that had been hollowed out in ages past and turned into cold rooms: secondary winter storage for when the kitchen’s basement was full. They’d been walking for almost an hour in the abandoned mines, the only thing to break the monotone cave was a sealed bronze door, which led to a hill in front of the castle and was used to sally forth and attack sieging armies in the back. Gerold brought the carved runes to their attention at the first fork of the road.

“There’s runes carved on the other tunnels as well,” Olyvar put his lantern close to the other tunnels, to show her.

“Aye,” Gerold explained. “Decoy runes. This one, might mean tree, leads, after an hour’s walk or so, into one of the abandoned mining tunnels, dangerous and at risk of collapse. And,” he stood next to the far-left tunnel. “This rune, which the maester is certain means metal, leads into a tunnel angled downwards, not man-made, that gets narrower the more you advance, then you’ll have to bend down, then crawl, then try to fit through a tiny little crevice that we are certain opens up to a large room. Afterwards? None of the lads were brave enough to try the crevice,” the movement of the torch was the only sign that Gerold had shrugged.

“And you, Gerold?” she smiled at her steward, who slapped his belly with a laugh that echoed around them. The years of work behind a desk, counting coppers and measuring yards of cloth, had taken their toll on the knight.

They went on, into the dark tunnels with just a few torches and a lantern to light their way. There were support beams and empty sconces, and even a few remnants of rails, meant for mule-pulled carts: all the remaining evidence of a once thriving tin mine. She could see that some of the support beams were new. After two more forks in the road, they finally came upon the hideaway. An iron gate led into a tunnel to their right, their current tunnel continuing forward. A short tunnel led to yet another iron gate, which led them into a large cave. There were chairs, tables, beds and wooden boxes.

“We can store around a fortnight or so of food down here, more in the passages,” Gerold opened one of the boxes, showing her the blankets and clothes inside. “There’re clothes, a few weapons and some silver. Lanterns too, but we haven’t brought down any oil. We are, according to the maester, some eighty feet under the hill above. A small group could hide here for days.”

“And then?” Elaena had also asked for other ways to leave the mines, beyond returning to Runestone.

“If you continue on the tunnel we were at,” Gerold took out a large iron key, putting it in one of the tables. “You’ll come upon an iron gate, that’s the key,” he gestured to it. “Around two hours of walking, you’ll reach an active mine. Outside, there’s a small village, where you could hide, find horses or send word to your banners.”

Elaena knew that village, the only one that lived on the tin trade. Some twenty families made a living by mining tin, and any other metal they might find. In the times before Aegon’s Conquest there were apparently ten times that number living from the mines. The village was not as far from Runestone as it seemed to be from the distance it’d take them to walk underground; so they might have gone through twists and turns and she hadn’t noticed it.

“We’ll keep a couple of mules in the stables,” Olyvar talked at her side. “Ready to descend into the cave, carrying food, water and whatever else. Enough to feed the children, ladies and guards that’ll travel with you.”

“With me?” she’d assumed that Olyvar would be joining him. Under the light of torches and lanterns she could tell that neither Gerold nor Olyvar had ever intended to flee to the tunnels: their jaws were set with resolve.

“Aye,” he squeezed her hand. “I’m a knight of house Templeton and we do not flee. If it ever comes to it, I’ll hold the keep for as long as I can so you and the children can get to safety.”

“’Tis the same with the knights of house Royce,” Gerold nodded. “We’ll die before we let our home be taken.”

“But,” Olyvar interrupted her, just as she’d opened her mouth to mention dragons. “We’ll not let Runestone become a second Harrenhal. If a dragon comes, I’ll buy you just enough time to hide, then surrender.”

“But only for a dragon,” Gerold grumbled.

“Are you certain?” she’d rather there be no fighting at all in her lands, no armies pillaging their way through the villages and towns that looked to Runestone for protection. She’d heard plenty about lengthy sieges, and a sieging army would eat her land bare. “I’d much prefer no blood being shed.”

“You have a woman’s heart,” Olyvar brought her hand up to his face, to kiss it. “’Tis our duty as knights of Runestone to defend your keep and fight your enemies, and fear of death is no excuse to shirk our duties,” all she could do was bite her lip and sigh, in the face of their resolve.

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“Lady Elaena!” Tansy, her chief maidservant, rushed towards her as soon as they’d left the caves, her crying daughter in her hands. “Lady Alysanne woke up and, upon not finding her mother, began crying and we’ve not been able to calm her down.”

“I’m here, I’m here,” she took Alysanne from Tansy’s arms, smiling at her daughter. “I’ll be going to my office,” she turned to Gerold and Olyvar. “Aren’t we, Alysanne?” she kissed her in the forehead and began to gently rub her little back, as she walked back into the castle. She hummed to Alysanne as they walked, her daughter, stopping her crying, laid her head on her shoulder.

Alysanne was troublesome in a way that Samwell had never been. Usually, she was quite the happy baby, babbling away and making as much noise as possible, but she hated being far from her, Olyvar or Septa Roelle, who spent nearly as much time with Alysanne as her parents. Whenever she couldn’t see any of the three, she’d end up crying. It normally wasn’t a big issue, but there were a few odd days when all three were busy.

“Have you seen your brother?” she asked the big bright blue eyes that stared back at her, she had Olyvar’s eyes.

“He was playing with his maps, milady,” Tansy spoke up, behind her.

She’d had toys made for them. The Seven Kingdoms did not actually have a diverse variety of toys for babies, so she’d asked the local carpenter to make them. He’d finished the latest order of spear shafts and had more than enough time for her little ideas. Alysanne, who so loved making noise, was fond of her horse-shaped rattle, a stuffed lamb with a bell inside and a little drum made with a goat’s hide. For Sam, she’d had educational toys made. On a board of wood, painted white, she drew a map of the Vale, colorful and full of small shields with sigils, showing where every house made their home, and tasked the carpenter with cutting the tiles, to make a puzzle. It had taken him a while to be able to properly cut the tiles, but once he’d presented the finished puzzle it had been a resounding success.

Sam had loved his twenty-piece puzzle, which prompted her to draw maps of every individual kingdom, all colored with little shields and local animals and flowers. Once he was older, she was tempted to make one of the entire Seven Kingdoms, a thousand pieces to occupy her son for many moons. Sam’s favorite was the map of the Free Cities where, due to not having shields to fill the space with, she’d asked Cella to draw mysterious animals, giant turtles, Dothraki, Unsullied, elephants and more. Sam was also fond of building blocks.

The carpenter had taken her idea and used it for his own business. He’d paid a brother, from one of the septries, to make woodcut prints for him—showing knights ahorse, ladies (which she ignored whenever they looked suspiciously like her), ships and other things that children liked—and took in a former apprentice from a painter’s workshop to color the prints, which he then used to make more puzzles, to sell in Gulltown. The carpenter had her blessing, he began to build a second floor for his workshop and took on more apprentices, urchins and orphans from Gulltown and the neighboring villages, and soon it seemed that for every spear shaft he made, three puzzles were made. She’d told the carpenter that a hundred pieces would be more enjoyable for the older children. She was very impressed with the holy brother’s woodcuts. She had commissioned the brother to make a woodcut of the designs that Rhaena had made for her wall hangings and tapestries, printed a copy for herself, and sent the relief to Dragonstone, for Rhaena to learn from. In the place from before she had seen some breathtaking woodcuts, so hopefully a lot of practice would make the holy brother into an artist of legend.

She was also teaching Sam how to share. He didn’t mind sharing his toys, and she encouraged him when he wanted to play with the children of staff, or villagers; but he threw tantrum whenever she wanted to lend his puzzles. They were great tools for teaching children, learning about the kingdoms with a game, so she wanted her wards to play with them, but Sam hated it. She soon learnt it wasn’t the sharing that he disliked, what made him mad was whenever the puzzles that he’d painstakingly completed were taken apart. There were only forty pieces or so, she’d think, but to a boy of two they were the result of effort and trial and error. She suspected that not many lordlings were taught to share.

“Elaena,” Septa Roelle, pale white stood to receive her in her office, a letter clutched in her hand. Elaena nodded at Tansy, who left them alone with a curtsy. “Read this,” she handed her a letter, her kingly uncle’s seal at the bottom.

“Lady Royce,” she read out loud. “His Grace King Viserys and His Lordship Ser Otto Hightower has bid me place an order for one thousand yards of cloth, dyed black, and one thousand yards of cloth, dyed gold. Upon receiving said goods, payment will follow. Signed Lord Larys Strong, Master of Whispers and Lord of Harrenhal,” she shrugged. “For the Gold Cloaks most like.”

“It continues in the back,” Roelle was shaking.

Elaena’s blood ran cold when she turned the letter. In the same round script of Lord Larys their own code was written, already deciphered by Roelle. Hello, it read, this was fun. If you do not wish for Their Graces and the Hand to learn about your singer, I’ve a service you can provide for me. Septon Donnel of the Most Devout, head of the Sept of Maidenpool. Use whatever means you have at your disposal and get him out of the Riverlands. I expect to hear good news.

“What do we do?” Roelle asked her, green eyes wide with worry.

“Let us think this through,” she sat down, hugging Alysanne tight. “He could have kept quiet, reading all our messages without our knowledge. But he chose to let us know,” Larys Strong was dangerous. She had chosen to ignore him, being so far from King’s Landing, but here was a man who murdered his own father and brother and now tried to blackmail her. “Every Lord likely has agents in Court,” they had to, every servant and knight had to be in someone’s employ, she tried to convince herself. “What is one more? He gains more from holding this over my head than currying favor with someone else. If he hasn’t already told.”

“Do we tell Errol to return?”

“For his own safety, I’d say yes,” he might have told Larys Strong about their code, a voice inside her whispered. “But let us wait. Do you know anything about Septon Donnel?”

“Not much,” Roelle shook her head. “He travelled with the High Septon, they’re close. Septon Lomas ought to know more, he has friends everywhere.”

“Ask him, please. Find out what you can from any septas you may know. Ask Septa Myranda,” she bit her lip. “Septon Robin will come for our harvest festival, I’ll ask him there.”

“You’ll try to get Septon Donnel taken elsewhere?”

“If I do as Larys Strong wishes, he’ll just come back demanding other things,” anger began to replace fear. “Let us discover why he wants the septon away from Maidenpool and if possible, try to take him away from the Riverlands and send him to another place where he might trouble our good lord of Harrenhal,” she bit her lip. Larys Strong wants him away from Maidenpool? I’ll see if I can put him in King’s Landing, send him to Lannisport or even Gulltown, and if he’s a friend of Larys? Dorne.

She’d not be cowed by him. Her walls were strong, her knights stalwart. So what if she had a spy in the king’s court? Everyone had spies, her uncle wouldn’t do a thing. She took deep breaths, Alysanne was playing with her silver streak, gently pulling at her hair. All she needed to do was find out more and then comply in a way that troubled Larys Strong. She had to continue her messages with Errol with the knowledge that he was compromised, whether by betrayal or a cracked code. A cracked code was its own resource. She couldn’t take Errol away from court, she needed to have him there to try and protect Helaena’s children.

“Any other letter of note?” she wanted to get her mind off Larys Strong.

“From Oldtown, a letter from the Starry Sept,” Roelle handed the letter with reverence. “It’s not from the hand of His High Holiness, but he’s signed it himself.”

She’d asked him if he knew of alternative solutions to a dissolution of marriage, beyond forcing the wife to join the Silent Sisters, or the husband to the Night’s Watch. The Faith actually recognized divorce, under specific circumstances, and annulments; but neither of them would apply to the troubles of her landed knights. Divorce was only granted on grounds of consanguinity or when several king’s ransoms were donated to the Faith. It wasn’t granted on grounds of adultery.

Annulments were only accepted when there had been no consummation, oft used when children were married and, once they came of age, their fathers no longer cared to keep an alliance, or when, after many years of marriage, there had been no quickening of the womb. She’d asked the maester to look into the histories of the Vale, looking for past annulments and divorces, seeking possible excuses. All they’d found was an amusing anecdote: eighty years before the Conquest, Lord Grafton had requested an annulment, arguing his wife’s infertility after thirty years of marriage. The lord remarried, and his new wife also gave him no children. When the lord died, a cousin inherited. The problem was clearly on the man.

“His High Holiness advises that, if both parties in a marriage are in agreement, one of the two may abandon the marriage to join the Faith, as a septon or a septa, not a Silent Sister,” she bit her lips, it was better that the alternative of marrying the Stranger; but it left her unsatisfied.

“Lord Waynwood is not interested in a match between his heir and your niece,” Roelle still seemed nervous, but was trying to control her breathing. “Septa Myranda mentioned that it’s just not that he’s sickly, there’s something else there and they don’t believe he’ll live long.”

“Mya arranged a match for Rhea,” her cousin had not left it all to her and sought matches on her own, Rhea would be marrying Roland Tollett, the lord’s grandson. “Willa will likely marry the Dutton heir, then.”

“There’s a letter from Rhaena, I’ve not opened it,” Elaena smiled, seeing her sister’s neat script.

Rhaena had asked Lord Corlys to teach her how to sail, so he’d taken his five grandchildren on a boat trip to Duskendale, teaching them along the way. Rhaena wrote to her boasting of all the new seafaring knowledge she had, and the three different ways to tie a rope that she’d learnt, even drawing them. She’d been sending constant ravens to her sisters, once a sennight at the least, telling them about her day, what Sam and Alysanne got up to, and asking them questions about their lessons. She’d also asked after her brothers, Baela had started to read Aegon her letters, in front of a painting of her. She had her suspicions of where they got it from.

“Your cousin Gunthor asks for ceremonial robes to take his septon’s vows,” Roelle handed her another letter, once she was done penning an answer to her sister. “’Tis customary to wear fine white robes and belts woven with seven colors.”

“Could you see to it?” Roelle nodded. The rest of her letters were mostly requests and greetings from merchants and knights travelling through her lands.

“There was another request,” Roelle stood to open the door after a knock, letting in her nephews, Allard and Robar, and Eldric. Behind them came Mya, Jon, Gunthor and Septa Myranda.

“Lady Royce,” the three squires talked as one and bowed.

“We are of age now,” Allard began, he was seven-and-ten. Eldric, the youngest of the three, was five-and-ten. “We come to beg permission to lend our swords to Lord Tollett to defend his land from the clans and earn our knighthoods,” whenever it was time for the harvest, the clans tried attacking villages and farms, to steal their crops.

“I see,” that they had the adults with them meant that their parents, and grandparents in Eldric’s case, had already consented. “I will send ten knights and half as many squires to Lord Tollett, you will go with them,” smiles appeared on the three boys. “But you will not be rash, overeager or put yourself in unnecessary danger to earn your spurs.”

“Aye, my Lady,” the three nodded, eager. Behind them, both Mya and Myranda nodded in approval.

“Ser Gunthor,” she looked towards the old knight. “You’ll have command, keep the squires safe, judge their skill and nature,” the Bronze Giant put a hand on Eldric’s shoulder, nodding. “A knight is not just a warrior,” she turned back to the boys. “Warriors are everywhere, from here to Asshai. On your way to Grey Glen, think of a knight’s vows and what they mean. You are eager for the title, rushing to earn it, thinking of the honor of having Ser before your name; but ‘tis not titles that honor men, but men that honor titles. Become men that bring honor to knighthood.”

“We’ll do you proud,” Eldric stated. He was the most eager for a knighthood, out of the three. His wedding was close, and he didn’t wish to marry without a knighthood.

“Do yourselves proud,” she smiled. “Gunthor, have new swords and shields made for our three squires, inscribed with our best wishes.”

“Aye, I’ll do that.”

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“Spirited lad, eh?” Septon Robin, Chancellor of the University, laughed. They were looking at Samwell, who was laughing as he chased a lamb, whenever he reached the lamb, he’d turn around and the roles would be switched, the pursuer becoming the pursued. “Reminds me of myself at his age.”

The septon had travelled to Runestone for the harvest festival. It was the largest in her land, many smallfolk choosing not to host their own in their villages and instead journeying to the castle town. They’d come bearing offerings: their choiciest crops to offer to the Gods. She had the statues of the Seven taken out from the castle’s sept, bronze statues of her own make, copies of those in the Bronze Sept, for the offerings to be put in front of. She’d also made an offering of her own, a portion of her harvest joined the smallfolk’s own.

They lit incense in front of the statues, prayed and thanked the Seven for a good harvest and sang hymns to their glory. Septon Robin led the prayers, but she had led the hymns. The offerings went to the Faith, to feed holy men and women and as alms for the poor. Beggars from Gulltown travelled every year to her land seeking charity and always found her farmers in generous mood. After the hymns came music, dances and a feast. Besides the offering, farmers brought crops and animals just for the feast, to share with everyone. Brothers and septas, from the nearby septries and motherhouses had also made the journey with carts full of ale and cheese. They’d be taking their share of the tithe back on their empty carts.

The people in her territory ate a lot of onions, the crops they grew the most of, and made many dishes out of it. Elaena’s favorite was an onion soup that reminded her of the place from before. Onions were everywhere on their tables. The year had been good for them, the harvest rich. Ser Gerold fully believed that a long summer meant a long winter, so he had asked her to order that a portion of their onion harvest to be dried and stored away. Even without his saying, smallfolk families would dry and pickle onions and other vegetables, storing away food for the coming months.

“Do you miss the Reach’s fare?” she asked the septon. He’d lived most of his life in Oldtown.

“You’d think so, but my cook is from Oldtown and works wonders with the local ingredients. And nowhere else is garlic so large and flavorful as in the Vale,” he gave her a satisfied smile. “You’ll be pleased with the students, they know their histories and the teachings of the Seven. Sums and letters and various arts, of course,” he waved his hand with dismissal. “But their knowledge of the Seven-Pointed-Star is second to none, I’ve made sure of it.”

“That’s good,” she shifted Alysanne’s weight from one leg to the other. She’d tried to give some food to her daughter, but she seemed more interested in the musicians than in eating. “Those I’ve taken into my service have proven their worth,” the septon nodded, pleased. Moondancer’s Port’s small custom house was working smoothly and the proctors she’d sent to the towns and villages in her lands had already proven their usefulness. Gerold usually spent days counting sacks of onions and weighing peas, but his work had been cut in half thanks to the university students.

“I’m glad,” one of the septon’s attendants served him another plate of mutton, cooked with plenty of onions. “I suspect that soon His High Holiness will leave us and join the Seven-who-are-One,” they both made a sign of the star, second nature to her by now. “And I will be recalled to Oldtown. I’ve long thought on who to leave as my successor, and Septon Donnel of Maidenpool is a good choice,” she’d looked into the septon, which turned out to be much easier than she’d feared. He was one of her own septon’s many pen pals. It appeared that he was a friend of Lord Lyonel Strong and suspected foul play, he’d been asking questions and as far as she could tell, that was what scared Larys. Upon learning that, she sent a letter to Septon Robin proposing Donnel as his replacement. “He’s well learnt and has performed admirably in his post in Maidenpool. I’ve sent word to Oldtown, asking for Donnel to be assigned to the university.”

“Have you given thought to the painting?” she’d proposed they make a painting of him, to hang in the university library. “It could also be a bust. We are making history; you are the first Chancellor. Come a hundred years, yours would be the first of many paintings, showing the students of the future the history of the university.”

“I’ll admit,” he spoke slowly. “At first it sounded like vanity,” he looked at her pointedly. The gardens of the University boasted of a statue of her own, reading a book, with a little lamb at her feet. “But you are correct, it is important that we record our histories. We’ll have the painting made,” she smiled, knowing just who to commission.

“Mama,” Sam ran towards her, the little lamb hot on his heels. “I’m hungry.”

“Do you want some soup?” he nodded, putting his hands up, waiting to be lifted. “Cella?” she called out to her handmaiden, who sat nearby with her wards while they ate. “Could you take Alysanne for a while?”

“Aye, my Lady,” she smiled at Alysanne. “Do you want to go see the statues?”

“Come here,” she helped Sam up to her lap, where he could reach the table. He ate on his own now, but he still needed a tall chair. “Do you like the soup?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “Can I have a sheep?” the lamb he’d been playing with had run off, probably to find its own mother.

“We’ll see,” she searched for Cella and Alysanne in the crowd of merrymakers. They were in front of the Maiden’s statue, Cella likely explaining to the baby how they had made it. Olyvar was near, laughing with the guardsmen. He’d gone on a hunt before the festival and brought down an elk that they’d given to the people, so he was the target of quite a few toasts. “Here,” she handed Sam a plate with some bacon.

“Ah,” Septon Robing stood. “They’re beginning the dance, and these old bones can still join in,” the musicians began to play an old, and playful song, about Hugor of the Hill asking the Smith to build him a wedding bed that could withstand his lovemaking. People found it amusing that he’d had forty-four sons. Cella returned with Alysanne, taking the empty seat beside her, as the festivalgoers stood in a circle around the statues of the Seven and their offerings and began to dance.

Chapter Text

126 AC

“We’ll get there by midday,” Olyvar told her through the carriage window.

The road had been long, but they were nearly there. Strongsong was fairly close to Ninestars, but on a different tributary and south of the river, which made it accessible by land. It was just a few days away from the Eyrie, but weeks from Runestone. Lyonel Belmore wished for the wedding to be held at his castle, and, as he was paying for most of it, there had been no argument from her. They’d been traveling for a little over a fortnight and would finally be arriving.

“Finally!” she heard Robar exclaim from the front of the carriage, sitting with the driver.

Eldric and Mya’s boys had all earned their knighthoods. According to Gunthor, they’d seen fires in the mountain one night and went searching for clansmen. They found a large raiding party in the making and fell upon them, earning knighthoods for all squires present. However, in the coming celebration, the lads had all gotten terribly drunk and Robar slipped on a set of stairs, breaking his leg. Maester Qarlton was certain the break would heal cleanly, and he’d regain all use of his leg. But Ser Robar was forced to endure the entire trip to Strongsong sitting with her driver, watching everyone else ride freely on the Vale’s open plains.

Ser Eldric would continue to live in Runestone, now joined by Bethany Belmore. His education would continue there. He might be considered a man grown at six-and-ten, a knight wedded, but, in her eyes, his education wasn’t finished. She had to make sure he was as prepared as possible for when his time came; she owed it to the entire Vale. Eldric began the journey in good spirits, joking with the rest of the knights and racing with Allard, but the closer they got to Strongsong, the quieter he grew.

“Can I go riding?” Samwell looked up at her. He was sitting at her side, while she carried Alysanne in her arms.

“Can I go riding…”

“Can I go riding, please, mummy?” he gave her the sweetest smile he could muster at will.

“Let’s ask your father.” She turned to the window. “Olyvar? Your son grows tired of my company,” she acted hurt, though she made sure to give Sam a wink and a tickle.

“Not so!” Sam giggled, once Olyvar appeared at the window. “I want to go riding!”

“Come on then.” Olyvar laughed as he took the almost three-year-old out the carriage window. “I’ll bring him back when the castle’s on sight.”

“Wave good-bye to you brother,” she told Alysanne, who gave her brother a toothy smile and a wave.

“’Tis much quieter and nicer with that little rascal outside,” Septa Myranda gave a heavy sigh. She’d spent the last hour or so being subjected to Sam’s questions. Her son had decided that the septa was his favorite aunt because she knew many stories about knights. Late Ser Jonothor had squired for Ryam Redwyne, whose legend kept on growing. Every squire and knight looked up to Ser Ryam and Septa Myranda knew stories that her father told her from his time as a squire. “I still think the gift you got for the girl was far too much.”

Elaena smiled, amused. The girl would be Bethany Belmore. Septa Myranda was yet to decide what she thought of Eldric’s future wife. Poor girl would have a grandmother-in-law who’d fit in a soap opera. As for the gift, she remembered that for her own wedding most of the gifts had been for Olyvar or the yet unborn Sam—there was a room full of things for when he grew older—and so, she wanted to give something that the bride would use. Thankfully it had arrived on time. Few moons past, she’d gone to Gulltown to oversee the manor’s progress and, since she was there and looking for ideas for a present, also went around the markets. She’d chanced upon a merchant from the Summer Isles selling beautifully ornate jewelry, but what had drawn her eyes had been the small decorations on the man’s ears. Hanging from his earrings were small wooden boards with mother-of-pearl inlay.

When she asked about them, the man had proudly boasted of the skills of the craftsmen of Tall Trees Town. So, after learning that the man would soon return to the Summer Isles to visit his family, she’d commissioned furniture from him. After the first two months she worried he wouldn’t make it in time for the wedding, then she worried he’d never make it all, that he had taken her down payment and run. But just a few days before they set out for Strongsong, the man returned and presented himself at Runestone with the finished products.

The merchant was right to boast about his countrymen’s skill. Her wedding gift was a mahogany wardrobe, richly decorated with mother-of-pearl. On the top panel it had two large sigils: an Arryn moon and falcon made in shells of Belmore purple, and the Belmore bells in Arryn sky-blue. She’d paid quite a lot for the two sigils alone. The pieces she’d bought for herself were made only with one color of mother-of-pearl, and, as she’d not been particular about the designs of the decoration, she asked for whatever the craftsmen were better at making.

“I think it’s very pretty,” Cella told the septa.

“That it is,” the septa agreed. “And with how much it cost, it better had been.” She’d been there when she negotiated with the merchant.

“All other furniture in the Eyrie will pale in comparison,” Elaena joked. Jeyne had finely carved furniture, even some lacquerware from Yi Ti and a Myrish table made with colored glasswork, but the wardrobe might very well beat them all.

“There is a workshop in Lannisport who work with pearl, but their skill is not at the same level,” Septa Roelle informed them. “And they don’t have the same wood.”

“I still believe it was too much gold for a gift,” Septa Myranda huffed. It had been expensive, but the payment for her uncle’s order of black and gold cloth had filled her coffers and more than paid for it. She’d even paid back the Braavosi and would soon be asking for another loan, hopefully with better rates.

Talk between her ladies went on to a discussion on the weather as the open farmland gave way to hamlets, villages and an abundance of inns and taverns. They were at the height of summer, the fields surrounding the road brimming with golden wheat, giant pumpkins and half a dozen other crops. Close by, downstream from Strongsong, lay one of the largest towns in the Vale.

“Girls, see that?” Septa Myranda spoke to her young wards, pointing out the window at a large brick building with several chimneys, all blowing out smoke. “The Belmore Mint. Once upon a time the Vale’s silver moons were minted there. Now,” the septa scrunched her nose, “only copper coins come out of it.”

While staffed by Belmore smallfolk and using Belmore copper, the mint was under the direct authority of the crown. A tower stood next to the Mint, with Targaryen banners flying above it. There lived and worked an officer of the mint, appointed by the Master of Coin.

“Which copper coins?” Maris Shett asked. The girl was a Gulltown native and was used to handling her own allowance to buy sweets in the markets.

“All of them,” Elaena answered. “Stars, groats, pennies, and all the ones in between.”

“Elaena?” Olyvar knocked on the door. “The welcoming party is up ahead, here’s Sam.” Her son went through the window, giggling.

Through the small window at the front of the carriage, she could make out Lyonel Belmore with his knights. And hear him. His horse had a purple caparison with white bells embroidered; and, sown into every bell, little jingle bells that rang whenever the horse moved. She’d only seen him ride on a tourney once and the jingling had been so distracting that she forgot to pay attention to the actual jousting.

She could make out the castle behind them. It was built on both sides of the river, connected by a bridge. Most of the castle was on the near side of the river. It boasted a large round keep, stout walls and a ditch. The far side was a jumble of towers built closely together, meant mostly to defend from attacks from the mountains, or to fall back from the main keep in case of emergencies. It was the Belmore fortress, while the keep was the residence. Raising tall in the middle of the river, halfway through the bridge, was the tallest of the castle’s towers. It commanded a view of the mountains to the north, the valley to the south and the river. At the top of the tower stood a massive bell that would ring out in alarm when enemies were spotted.

They fell in with them, Lord Lyonel jingling all the way. Elaena suppressed a laugh when she imagined him dressed in red and white. Belmore gave her a lordly nod and then rode up to Eldric’s side. They used the last stretch of road to brush their hair, smooth out dresses and make Sam a tad more presentable. Her son somehow always managed to get his clothes full of dirt. If they’d allow him to walk, instead of joining Olyvar on his horse, he’d also have sticks in his hair and mud in his pants up to his knees. She’d learnt early on during their trip that letting him run around meant muddy pants and ruined cloth shoes. They’d bought little wooden boots from a travelling merchant for him and stored away his other shoes for when they’d need them. Upon arriving at Strongsong’s gates, Lord Belmore himself opened her carriage door, kissed the back of her hand and offered her his arm with a smile.

“Cousin,” he told her. “I had hoped to have a few quiet words with you, if you’ll allow me.”

“Of course,” she offered him a smile.

In the castle yard Lady Belmore welcomed them, her children behind, with a plate with bread and salt. She had been born a Lannister of Lannisport. Upon asking Roelle, she’d learnt that the lady was Roelle’s aunt, a first cousin of her father, but she’d never met her. With Lyonel Belmore escorting her, it fell to Olyvar to escort Lady Jocasta Belmore. Eldric, quieted by sudden shyness, escorted his betrothed.

“You have been long on the road, so it falls to me to inform you of your family’s affairs,” Lyonel Belmore spoke once they were out of earshot. “Corlys Velaryon is dying, or mayhaps dead by now.”

Her blood ran cold. In the show, it had been while he lay dying that Vaemond Velaryon pressed his claim, the feast happened, and her uncle Viserys died. She thought she had more time, another year before the war began. Aegon’s children were Sam’s age, and they’d been four or five years old when the war began. Ages in the show and in her new life were different, judging by her siblings and Rhaenyra’s children, and Aegon and Aemond were both quite young, too young for a war; but Aegon’s children? She’d been timing the coming war with their age.

“Arwood Flowers, the officer in charge of the mint, gleefully informed me of what Princess Rhaenyra has done,” Lyonel Belmore continued, shaking his head and not noticing the effect his words had on her. “The Princess flew to High Tide to get the dying lord to name her second son heir, but a Velaryon nephew called the young princes bastards, in front of everyone.” Elaena winced. “So, the Princess commanded your father to bring her the man’s head and fed his body to her dragon.”

“What?” She stopped walking, the brutality unexpected. She knew her father was a violent man, but Rhaenyra as well?

“Aye,” Belmore nodded. “The man’s brothers, sons, nephews or something or other, then went to the king for justice. And he took their tongues.”

“What happened then?”

“Nothing,” he shrugged. “Flowers has said nothing else at least.”

“Could I mayhaps ask you for your maester’s services? I’d like to send word home.”

“Of course,” the lord led her inside the keep, trading her with Olyvar, as each man took their respective wife’s arm. “Maester Franklyn is ever accommodating.”

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“Did you see the missing banners?” Luceon leaned over Lanna, his wife, to talk to Olyvar.

She’d sent word to Runestone, asking for copies of any letter for her to be sent to Strongsong. She’d been so distracted that she barely paid attention during the tourney. Not even when Olyvar won the joust and crowned her. She kept thinking: is the king dead? Has Aegon taken the throne? Is war coming?

“Aye,” Olyvar answered. “No Hunter, no Redfort, no Corbray and Lady Arryn did not come.”

Elaena knew that even if he’d been a prisoner for nearly six years, Jeyne was still angry at her cousin Arnold. But she had expected her to be able to think of Eldric as separate as his father. He wasn’t Arnold writ small, but his own person. And Eldric was a good lad; she’d made sure to educate him properly to be a good lord when his time came. She trusted that he’d never move against Jeyne and he’d keep the peace.

“The Corbrays are back in Jeyne’s good graces then?” she asked. She was trying to take her mind away from the possibility that as they celebrated a wedding, dragons were dancing. She was breaking her fast with the Templetons. It was the morning of the wedding.

“Aye,” Luceon grumbled. “I’d thought to get Corwyn to betroth one of his daughters to my eldest, but he refused. He’s a widower now, so he’s back to hovering around the Maid, to see if she’ll wed him.”

“That won’t happen,” Elaena told the Templetons.

“Aye, I keep on telling him, but he doesn’t listen,” Lanna said with a laugh. She’d also grown up at the Eyrie and knew where Jeyne’s heart lay.

“Where’d Eldric get his armor?” Lomas Templeton changed the subject.

“King’s Landing. Ser Willam took him to the Street of Steel, to a Qohorik’s smithy,” Olyvar answered his nephew. “Father and Ser Gunthor put the gold apart for him and as it seems he’s stopped growing, they commissioned a tourney armor.”

Eldric’s new armor was tinted Arryn blue. Engraved in the chest were the Arryn sky and moon, and the sides and back had falcon feathers engraved. The winged helmet made her think of fantasy; it had wings to the side and a faceplate that looked like a falcon. A crescent moon made from silver jutted out the helmet’s top. Every rivet and stud had a little moon and falcon engraved in it. Above the armor he wore a cream-white tabard where he’d quartered the Arryn, Royce and Templeton sigils, showing off all his family relations.

“Any tourney at King’s Landing soon? I’d like to get a black and yellow armor,” Lomas laughed. “Imagine a helmet shaped like a star.”

“Black armor, with golden fittings and rivets and a gold tabard with black stars,” Elaena looked at Olyvar, imagining him in showy armor. “Mayhaps the helmet should look like an ancient Andal one, with some changes to make it more secure. And since we’re doing the helmet like that, why not all the armor?”

“And gold stars engraved?” Luceon asked.

“Less is more, mayhaps have the rivets end in stars, the horse’s dress should be the same as the tabard,” Elaena nodded. “That’d look the best.”

“And for Sam?” Olyvar smiled at her.

“Ancient bronze armor, with runes carved on it, of course,” she nodded. Roelle was looking after her children at the moment, Sam had made friends with Luceon’s two sons, and they’d been playing with blocks.

“Lady Royce,” an old man’s voice called to her. When she turned, she saw the Strongsong maester holding a letter.

“Thank you, maester,” she held out her hand, heart in her throat. No sooner had the maester nodded and left, had she tore the letter open. In Maester Qarlton’s neat script, she read her father’s words. Nothing about Viserys, nothing about Corlys dying, nothing about him killing a Velaryon, nothing about Rhaenyra feeding someone to Syrax, only a few lines about Rhaena being very excited about becoming lady of Driftmark and dragging Lucerys to the docks to talk to sailors. She let out a sigh. The maester did write down that she’d received that letter only three days ago, so she had to assume peace continued, for now. Sometimes book adaptations squeezed multiple events in one episode.

“News?” Olyvar asked her, concern in his eyes.

“Nothing,” she laughed as tension left her body.

“Good, now break your fast, we’ve a long day ahead.”

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“To her lady cousin on this most joyous occasion,” the herald intoned. “Loreon Lannister wishes to congratulate her on her wedding.”

It had been a long day. The wedding itself, with everyone packed inside Strongsong’s sept, was endless. House Belmore’s septon spoke slowly and far too quietly. Bethany Belmore, now Bethany Arryn, was a comely woman. Golden blonde hair framed emerald green eyes, rosy cheeks and thick lips made for pouting. The little gap between her front teeth only added to her loveliness. Both her and Lanna shared the Lannister coloring, which made her think of Cersei Lannister and the incest, but they also looked just like their grandmother, the dowager Lady Belmore. And the young Belmore heir looked just like his mother but had his father’s red hair. When she and Eldric had met, she’d been the taller of the two, but at six-and-ten Eldric had gained around a foot on her.

Bethany and Eldric sat at the high table receiving their wedding gifts. They made a handsome couple. Elaena sat to the side, Olyvar to her left and Lyonel Belmore to her right. Her wardrobe was well received, admired for its beauty and praised for the sturdiness of its wood. And, as she’d expected, most gifts were for Eldric or a hypothetical son. Luceon and Lanna had given them matching saddles; Lord Moore a golden goblet with the Arryn sigil engraved; young Orrel Sunderland an ermine cloak; and Dutton a set of hunting knives. Jeyne had not gone to the wedding, but she’d sent a sword that had belonged to Eldric’s grandfather. That same grandfather that tried to usurp Jeyne and died for it.

“From the workshops of Lannisport,” the herald continued. He presented a box full of gold combs, masterfully decorated with gold and amethysts. “Lord Loreon hopes for his cousin’s happy marriage.”

“Pah,” when Elaena turned, she saw Lyonel Belmore rolling his eyes. “Jason Lannister’s new babe,” he explained to her. “Every letter my wife has received has been written by the baby, he even writes in baby language,” the lord scoffed. “I can understand being excited for the birth of an heir, but Jason Lannister has the dignity of a Braavosi courtesan.”

“He writes in baby language?” she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to stop the laugh that imagining Jason Lannister writing like a child’s lisp caused.

“’Tis very tiring, cousin,” Lyonel shook his head. “When I married Tymond Lannister’s favorite niece, I did not expect to start receiving letters allegedly penned by a babe of just a few moons.”

“’Tis cute,” Jocasta Belmore laughed at his side. “Cousin Jason only had daughters, not even a bastard son from one of his mistresses.”

“How did you meet? Lannisport is quite far,” Elaena asked.

“At the Great Council, in Harrenhal,” Jocasta gave her a smile. “My father was Uncle Tymond’s closest advisor. Lyonel can be very romantic when he wishes to, we were betrothed before the Council ended.” Lord Belmore kissed his wife on the head.

“Remind me to ask Bethany to see the combs, the handiwork is beautiful,” she told Olyvar.

“Speaking of Bethany,” Lord Lyonel cleared his throat. “What do you intend to have her do? I understand Eldric is being educated to rule the Vale one day, but what about her?”

“She’ll join my ladies, of course. She can learn from me.”

“Do you run the castle?” the lord looked her in the eyes. “I mean, do you run the castle as a lady would, not a lord. Do you direct the duties of the servants, act as steward to the kitchens, take charge of food storage and ensure the castle is livable?”

“Oh,” she did not actually handle most of those duties. They were split between Gerold, Mya and Cella, who’d been taking on more now that Mya had a keep of her own to look after. “I do not, but I have ladies who’ll be able to teach her. And once I know her better, and she knows Runestone better, she could even take on duties in the castle.”

“Good,” the lord nodded. “Give her something to do, wouldn’t want the girl to become useless. You didn’t meet Jeyne Arryn’s mother, right?” Elaena shook her head. “Comely, but her husband had to bring in a cousin to run the Eyrie because of how useless the woman was. Your grandsire kept the cousin around when he became regent. That incident with the clans just made her even more useless, and one day she slipped coming down the Eyrie and fell. ‘Twas a kindness that Lady Jeyne was too young to remember that.”

“She was very nice,” Lady Jocasta leaned over, with a smile. “She treated a lonely girl from the Westerlands very kindly.”

“That’s Arwood Flowers,” Lyonel pointed at the man stepping towards the couple with his gift. “He’s new, two years on the job. Comes from Oldtown.”

“How’d he hear so quickly about what you told me?”

“He’s got a maester of his own and knows many people in the Red Keep,” he began to whisper. “I’m quite certain that Lord Beesbury did not appoint that one. He’s been doing a fine job at the mint, but,” he lowered his voice even more, “he’s in a good position to keep eyes on the Eyrie and the comings and goings of the Vale’s coin.”

“He’s a spy, then?” the officer of the mint was a thin man, clean-shaven and balding. His wedding gift was a silver inkwell.

“Him, or one of his lackeys,” Belmore sighed. “He has many. Every tavern and inn from here to the Eyrie now knows about the princess feeding Velaryon to his dragon, and the accusations.”

“I’d put down good money that from the Wall to Dorne everyone will hear about it,” Elaena let out a slow breath. When the egg of her youngest brother, Viserys, did not hatch, every tavern in Gulltown apparently knew about it.

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They stayed in Strongsong for another three days. She was half tempted to ask for a longship to go down the river and return by sea. But the lack of any news calmed her nerves, so they returned by land. The only other letter forwarded to her came from her sisters. Maester Qarlton wrote down the congratulations they sent Eldric and their promise to gift him and Bethany something next time they saw him.

“Lady Elaena, she’d waking up,” Bethany whispered, handing her a fidgeting Alysanne.

Eldric’s bride had wasted no time in getting to know her children. Sam was quite fond of her. Sitting next to Septa Roelle, she and Bethany could pass for sisters. The same nose, the same lips and the same coloring. They’d been close to a fortnight on the road and had crossed into Royce lands.

“We’ll be at Runestone soon,” Elaena smiled at her daughter as she woke. “Would you like a song?” she asked Alysanne, poking her on the nose.

“Aye, mummy,” Sam answered for his sister.

The ladies sang and clapped. From outside, Robar sang a few verses, for the songs he knew. Alysanne went down from her lap and tried to dance on the moving carriage, much to everyone’s amusement. No one laughed as hard as Sam. When they arrived at her castle, and she found it as she had left it, a weight left her shoulders.

“Runestone is yours, my Lady,” Gerold bowed to welcome her.

“Any news, uncle?” Her steward shook his head. “Cella, could you see about everyone’s belongings?” she turned towards her chief lady-in-waiting. “Bethany, go with her, she’ll show you where your rooms are and where your things will go.” They both nodded. With Alysanne in her arms, and Sam hot on her heels, Elaena walked to her solar.

“Sam, could you hand me those papers, please?” She made sure to thank her son, so he’d learn. He picked up her letters for her. “Thank you,” she kissed him in the head. He sat on the floor; they kept a few toys for him in her solar.

She went through her letters. Her father’s and her sisters’ she’d already read; but there was one from Rhaenys. Her aunt confirmed everything she heard. Vaemond Velaryon had called Rhaenyra’s sons bastards as Corlys fell deathly ill. Rhaenyra didn’t set Daemon on him, he went after him by himself, but she did feed Vaemond’s body to Syrax. And Corlys recovered from his illness and confirmed Lucerys as his heir. Elaena let her full weight fall on the chair. She read the back of the letter. The king had cut himself on the throne and nearly died. Rhaenyra took her maester to see him and he’d been saved. Then the Grand Maester died, and Rhaenyra and Alicent were fighting over who should be the new Grand Maester. Elaena laughed. Tension left her body. A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding came out.

“Mummy?” Sam walked over to her. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing, dear,” she caressed his cheek. “Mummy heard some good news and was very happy.”

“Good,” he nodded. He was mimicking Olyvar’s way of nodding, curt and knightly. “Can Aly play with me?”

“Here you go,” she put Alysanne on the ground after she cried out “Sam!”

For the rest of the afternoon she watched her children play together. They were safe. She still had time. She could do a lot in a year. The tunnels were there. The weapons were laid in hoard. She had gold and planned on a new loan. During the wedding they had negotiated matches for Mya’s girls; they were all now betrothed to heirs: Melcolm, Dutton, Tollett and Ruthermont. If it came down to it, she could hide children in Ninestars, or even in faraway Braavos. She was ready, they were safe, she repeated to herself.

Before the month was out, the maester told her she was once more with child.