Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He had married Lord Buckler of Bronzegate’s youngest daughter three years past, and despite her being no maiden when they wed, she was healthy and red-cheeked and had given him two daughters. The gods had not favoured him when it came to his children. His first-born, Galladon, had perished in Tarth’s sapphire waters which had looked inviting but offered nothing but danger. His third and fourth daughters had not survived to take their first steps out of the cradle. Before young Lady Buckler, he had but one daughter. Brienne. Brienne the ‘Beauty’, Brienne the Maid.

May the Father give her strength, he clutched at his heart. His Brienne was not made for this world and he had discovered that early. Despite her size at two and ten, which rivalled his own tall stature, she had a soft and shy heart. He recalled her weeping at nearly everything that came out of tart-tongued Septa Roelle’s mouth and her agog mouth when faced with a suitor. The only time she was fearless and fierce was when in mail and chain, which led him to indulge her martial fantasies instead of her marital duties.

He clutched the raven in his hand. Despite her heart so soft, it could have been edged in Myrish lace, she had survived. She had survived in this new and changed world. A world where dragons roamed once more and a Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne, where the Bastard of Winterfell was no bastard but a dragon himself, where Wildings fought side-by-side with Black Brothers and where the wars that were fought were not over thrones or fabricated claims but against an army of men made of ice.

His daughter had been given a new name, ‘The Kingslayer’s Whore’. He tittered at the thought, an army of men made of ice would be more believable, for he did not believe his honourable daughter would entwine herself with a man with shit for honour. And the Lion of Lannister? Tywin’s golden lad? He would have been a cripple now, but the most handsome cripple in Westeros and probably Essos would not entwine himself with his homely daughter except on the battlefield. She would be even homelier now, he had no doubt. 6 years she had spent, first leaving Tarth to join Renly’s camp despite her pleas to stay out of it. No more matches, he had promised her. She could train and fight and when the time came, choose whoever she wished, but he begged her to stay. She went, of course, but now she was coming home. He unscrolled the parchment and his eyes hungrily read his daughter’s neat hand, every time more astonished that the large hands of hers were responsible for such beautiful calligraphy.

To my Lord Father,

I am coming home, and will arrive in Tarth three moons from now, early on Maiden’s Day. I will be on our docks just before Sunrise. No fanfare or celebrations, it is important that you come alone. I hear you are now married with more children and although I hope to meet my new Lady Mother at a later date, I cannot be acquainted with her now.

I am safe but in trouble, Father. I hope your children are bringing you more joy than I. Please do not reply to this.

Your daughter,

Brienne

His heart had burst when he had read the raven for the first time, and it had continued to burst every time he had read it for the past three moons. He had searched for any clue to her whereabouts, but the ink was black and the note remained without a seal. He would have to ask her when he saw her. Luckily, Lady Tarth-was-Buckler was a gregarious creature who often wished brother’s new babe back on the mainland. On this visit, he had encouraged her to stay longer, citing that the castle’s defences needed improving and he did not feel comfortable invading the Lady’s home with Braavosi labourers. She agreed and would be gone for the next moon, along with an entourage of handmaidens and Septas.

Selwyn pulled back the curtains in his chambers, inspecting the horizon and the long fingers of the sun that had began to stretch across it. A ship had gradually appeared out of shadows before it suddenly came to being on the forefront of the calm sea. It was lit up with its own torches and the light of stars but he could not see any helm or arms. When he heard the crash of the rowboat being dropped into the sea, he took a deep breath before pulling on his sealskin boots and a ceremonial doublet of azure and rose silk. No fanfare, he had remembered, opting to pull a heavy cloak of midnight blue over his shoulders. Now he would blend into the night.

He grabbed his torch and made his way down the footpath to Evenfall Hall’s enclosed docks. It was dark and the descent steep, but he shuffled as fast as his aged limbs would let him, pebbles and grit crunching and skidding beneath his feet. The boat’s arrival to the dock seemed like an eternity, but with every heave, his heart grew lighter and he could feel a smile creeping up his face. A large figure soon came into focus, wrapped in layers of furs, smiling back at him.

“Daughter! My daughter!” he cried, the chill of the sea air nearly freezing the tears on his cheeks

“Father!” she cried back, her eyes locked on his, even when the sandy-haired oarsman helped her off the boat.

He held her, and she held him. She felt both soft and hard at the same time, the softness had gone from her face and she looked a woman grown at last, but her eyes were as beautiful and enquiring as her name day. When they finally broke apart, he looked at the oarsman and clutched him by his hand.

“I thank you, Ser, for bring my daughter back to me unharmed. My gratitude is inexplicable,” he wiped his eyes and nose with his cloak sleeve “but please, take shelter at Evenfall before your onwards journey. I will also ensure that you are rewarded suitably when my steward arises.”

The oarsman bowed and shook his head, his gold-green eyes flickering like the torchlight.

“I thank you for your kind offer, Lord Tarth but my crew and I swore an oath to bring your daughter back to you safely. Fulfilling that is payment enough, I hope I do not offend.”

“Gods bless you, Ser.”

“That will be all, Lord Tarth. We now have to continue on our voyage. Again, thank you for your gratitude and warm wishes.”

Despite their reunion at the docks, their journey back to the castle was stilted and silent. He had a light supper of soft cheese, figs and charcoal bread prepared before ushering the last kitchen girl to her chambers.

“Is Lady Tarth present?” She had asked after some time

“No, she is visiting Lord Buckler the Younger back at Bronzegate.” He still was not sure why she did not want to meet her, he stroked her hair as he took a seat next to her and it was only then that he truly saw her.

Her hair had grown, much longer than she had ever let it grow back on Tarth, thick and yellow, it hung behind her back with a few tendrils grazing what was left of her cheek. A bear? An errant morningstar? The purplish, knotted flesh bloomed from her cheekbone down to her neck. Once she was aware of what he was staring at, she brought a hand to her cheek, her eyes filled with hurt.

“And you thought I wouldn’t get any uglier...” She said, sadly.

“It looks very distinctive.” He bit his tongue, sensing she didn’t want to talk about it “I don’t care about battle scars, however large. I’m just overjoyed to have you home, my first daughter.” He squeezed her hand. He recalled her letter vividly for he could remember it off by heart.

“You said you were in trouble…” She could not look him in the eye, opting to tear the black crusts from the softness of the bread. “A feud with someone?”, she shook her head, “Have you been dismissed from service, fallen out of favour with a lord?” a tear rolled down her good cheek.

"Daughter, please talk to me. Before this raven, I hadn’t heard from you since you had been captured by those mercenaries. My ransom was rejected, it was only when I heard news from Kings Landing that you had been spotted with the Kingslayer in the Riverlands did I know you were alive.” She winced on the word ‘Kingslayer’ and went to talk, but stopped herself, as unsure as she had been as a child.

“Brienne?” Lord Tarth’s eyes widened, he tried to squeeze her hand once more but she got up to leave. Lord Tarth was now a man of sixty, tall, but bandy-legged with a weak and shaky grip. All he could do to stop his hulking daughter was to feebly clutch at the cloak that she had wrapped around her body. It came away with a snap, the blue-glass brooch that held it together, pinging into a dusty corner.

She turned around like he had struck her, her eyes wide and her full lips parted.

“I’m sorry, Brienne, let me find your…” His voice trailed off as he took her in. She was not wearing her old uniform of boiled leather, but a pretty roughspun tunic of blue-grey wool that made her look almost a lady if it was not for the strange red-black sword slung around her hips. Lord Selwyn stared at her midriff, but it was not the beautiful golden lion pommel that he was taken with, but soft curve of her belly under wool.

They stood, eight feet apart, staring at each other for some time. Brienne' eyes, big and blue, were filled with shame whilst the Lord of Tarth was frozen with shock. In the scuffle, a carafe of mead was spilt, but no one went to tend to it. The stream of liquid hitting the floor in splatters was the only accompaniment to the Evenstar's moment of realisation. "Who did that to you?" He said calmly, but for all Brienne cared, he could have been screaming.

There was a moment before she spat back "No one did anything to me," but recoiled before her tongue hit the last syllable of her defiance.

Lord Tarth's mind flashed to lustful hedge knights or foreign mercenaries who would take anything soft and wet by either sweet word or force. Men who would either tell his daughter she was strong and beautiful or restrain her by rope and arms.

"Who did that to you?" He repeated once more, his tone, intended to come out softer, sounded barbed and fierce.

"I can't Father," she began to sob. "I can't tell you, I can't tell anyone."

 "Did this man tell you he loved you, Brienne? Tell you he would marry you after the wars had come and gone? He would take you back to be both his lady and his master of arms?"

"He did marry me, father, in a ransacked sept in the Riverlands. He was about to die and he gave me his name and his child."

"Who? I swear it, Brienne, if you do not-"

"Ser Jaime Lannister," she cried, her cheeks burning crimson.

"The Kingslayer?" Selwyn bellowed.

She looked at the ground. "All his sin was for honour, and to protect the city of Kings Landing."

"His sin? His sins. A Kingslayer, oath breaker, a man who dishonoured his own sister; who loved and sired children with his own sister."

"I know all of it, all you speak is the truth; but it did not stop me loving him or him loving me. He did, he did love me." He hadn't questioned her, but it was if she needed to reassure herself.

Lord Selwyn narrowed his own deep blue eyes at the bold curve of his daughter's belly, which had saddled below her hip, the imprint of her navel grazing her tunic.

"Where is your love now, dear daughter? Your husband even?" His voice wavered for her, for he knew his sweet and strong daughter was in love with the green eyes and golden curls the singers sang of.

"He was put to the sword by the Brotherhood Without Banners," she sobbed "....and I was the one who led him there. He gave me his name, he gave me his seed and I gave him an unmarked grave in the Riverlands." She shuddered, her eyes wide "You must tell no one. My belly is the result of a rape or a wanton hedge knight. Lannisters are being put to the sword, young and old, even with the imp riding a dragon. My child will be a Storm, not a Lion of the Rock."

She is delirious, he thought. He called a select few guards to carry his daughter's well-cloaked body to her chambers she had left so many years ago.She went into labour two nights later, exhaling the battle cries of her time in the ring, this time sane enough to reach down and touch the straw-coloured crown of her late babe.

She looked at her father, her eyes wide, expressing happiness since the first time he saw her, but suddenly they contracted and twisted like a young ward's first scribe on parchment. The maester squeezed her thick wrist and looked beneath her sheets, the colour draining from his rotund face.

"My Lord, please, you may find it more comfortable to leave now.” He heard pushing and pulling and the rip and stretch of flesh that he knew from battle himself before a roar filled the air.

"The..." His girl whimpered.

"A boy, my lady," stammered the maester "A golden boy!"

His daughter managed to hold her son for some time. Stroking the silky tufts of his hair and kissing his milk-white skin with a softness he had never seen from her.

"Take him..." She wailed, her hands flailing as she clutched at her stomach. Crossing her legs and scratching at her left side like a feral wolf. The maester grabbed the boy and passed him to Selwyn, who was gingerly standing in the arch of the door.

His strong daughter shrieked and cried and bound herself into a ball before the life bled out of her, and the maester sought to sponge between her legs with both nursing wools and the silken dress that she had brought with her to Tarth.

Only when that was done, could he look at the boy who stared up at him with eyes that were as blue-green as the shore-lapping waters of Shipbreaker's Bay.

Chapter Text

Parry, parry, parry, side-step, side-slash, strafe, strafe, parry, parry, side-step, thrust. The young lordling fell to the floor in heap, gazing up at the mountain of flesh that extended a large hand towards him.

“We’ll make a man of you yet.” He smirked, waving his hand “Get up, little turtle.”

“Must you always be so rough, Gally?" Shrieked Floris, the mountain’s pink-cheeked sister who straddled the gate like she would a horse. “He’s only a lad.”

“He’s only had three name days less than me, he’s nearly a man grown.” Galladon Storm pulled the boy up with as much ease as pulling a daisy out the grass. “Besides, we were using tourney swords, which means you need to spar twice as hard.” He clasped Alyx Estermont’s shoulder tightly. The boy had lasted longer than the heap of squires and boys-too-young-to-be-squires who sat at Floris’ feet clutching chipped wooden swords.

“You’re ten and six and have been a knight nearly as long as you have been a squire.” She was right. Ser Galladon had been knighted a year ago by Onion Knight himself. The Lord of the Waters, a bastard from Driftmark who had set himself up as pirate king in the Stepstones, had targeted Black Bertha as they delivered supplies to Greenmont after a particularly miserable harvest. He could remember now how they had swarmed the ships like a plague of locusts, swinging swords like butchers in a way that his master-at-arms would have winced at. Before the silver-haired bastard could plunge his sword into Ser Davos’ belly, Galladon had managed to disarm him and restrain him with his right hand whilst fending Aurane Waters’ pirate roe overboard with his left. If his knighthood was not a sweet enough reward for his efforts, presenting the Lady Paramount of the Stormlands with two triple-decked warships that they had taken from Waters filled him with pride.

He had been knighted back in Storm’s End, whilst the self-styled Pirate King languished in the bowels below the court.

"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just” Ser Davos stopped himself and spoke gruffly “….and I know you can be just because a lesser man would have skewered the pirating bastard Lord of Driftstones, or whatever he called himself. You brought him back here for judgement, to answer to his crimes and still managed to save my life.” He had smiled, crinkling his lined face as the sword moved over to his right shoulder. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent….” Ser Davos had continued whilst a room of people smiled upon him. He had known pride so young and gods, he was thankful for it.

As a result of his bravery and respect for the laws of the Stormlands, Lady Shireen had insisted he stayed with her at Storm’s End, to act as one of her commanders. Galladon had accepted gratefully despite knowing he would have very little to do. The realm was at peace and he was the only young lad he knew thankful for it. He had been fostered at Storm’s End long before he could participate in the defences of it and remembered the squeals of delight when hearing the more recent histories of Westeros; the Young Wolf slaughtered at dinner after never losing on the battlefield, Jon Stark fighting the men made of ice with an army of Wildings and Aegon the Conquerer with teats and silver braids landing on the Broken Arm with three dragons and a horde of mercenaries and horsemen. Life was quieter now, summer was here and despite loving to fight, tournies were enough for Galladon Storm. His father had lost a daughter so many years ago and he would not let him bury a son next to her.

“Unfair advantage, I’d say.” Floris swung herself off the gate, scattering the mice below her. “Come, young Alyx. We need to make sure you are well turned out, or your lady mother will be quite irate.” She trod off, before swinging her thick straw-coloured braid around “…and the rest of you! The wedding is at noon. That includes you, brother.” She tried to kiss him on the cheek, but couldn’t until he ducked his head down to meet her.

If Galladon Storm was a mountain, his hair was the sun. Golden curls tumbled down the nape of his neck, secured by a string of leather. He was as tall as the Mountain who Rode had been, but his features were anything but squashed and giantlike. His cheekbones were high, his jaw sharp and his eyes feline. The small folk often jested that the Evenstar must have been visited by the Maiden herself for Bastard of Tarth was prettier than all of his sisters put together. The smallfolk did not forget that detail, nor did the lesser Stormlords. Bastard. Bastards had become rebel leaders and Lord Commanders and had even been able to marry noble girls and take their names, but it still cut worse than any sword or dagger. The fact that his lady stepmother and true-born sisters were so kind made it worse.

One of those sisters, his eldest, Elaena was getting married today to a weak-chinned Estermont who was not a bastard, but so far down the succession list that he was joining House Tarth. Lady Shireen had given him leave to join the festivities that were set to last three days. He handed his tourney sword, so small in his hands that it looked like a knife to sup with, to red-haired House Cafferen squire who looked at him expectantly, eager to serve. He adores me now, they all do. Soon he’ll be a man grown who won’t want my bad, lusty blood near his betrothed.

Dusty from a morning of sparring with the squires and young lordlings who were desperate for him to teach them the art of wielding weapons with both hands, he took some time to bathe in the bathhouse. As he studied the steam rising off his hands, he thanked the gods for his gift and felt quite smug that he would not be able to teach anyone even if they offered him all the fine silks in Yi Ti. His maester had told him that with most men, they favoured one hand and would be both clumsy with sword and quill with the other. This was not the case for Galladon, who could slice and overhand with the same dexterity at the end of either wrist and produce beautiful letters with both. Not his spellings, though, he thought sadly, however, nice the writing looked. The letters seemed to get jumbled up on the page, the words in books too.

He combed his hair through until it shone like spun gold and dressed in black breeches, glossy high boots and a doublet of midnight blue. His own personal standard was etched on his left breast, an inverted pall between a sun, a moon and a lightning bolt, silver on blue. Underneath, he wore a shirt of the palest pink as a nod to the arms of his father’s house. I’m a comely bastard, at least, laughing to himself. The women whispered as he walked down the aisles of the sept, as they always did but he paid them no mind. The only women he was interested in today were his sisters and his lady step-mother, who had always treated him kindly. 

“Lady Tarth.” He bowed to the mousey-haired woman who had gifted his sisters with cheeks of roses. “You look absolutely radiant.” He turned and flashed a smile at poor chinless Aymond Estermont who clutching a turtle-clad cloak with his weak grip “You do as well, Aymond. That green really complements your complexion at the moment. Shall I send for a strong, sweet tea?” The chinless turtle glared.

Lady Tarth laughed “He jests, Lord Estermont.” she smoothed out her pale blue skirts, slashed with pink. “Would you care to sit with us?” Nowhere else in the Stormlands, maybe even the Seven Kingdoms had bastards been given such status. She moved down the pews to offer him space and squeezed his hand. How could my father have betrayed such a lovely woman? Her heart is so pure.

It was not long before his father appeared with Elaena clutching at his arm. Her yellow hair was pulled into a tight braid, studded with evening star and gillyflower, which sat prettily on top of her Tarth maiden’s cloak. Her wedding dress was embellished with pearls that had been caught just off the west coast of the island, Galladon knew that for sure as he had aided the divers. Vows were exchanged under the seven pointed star and Elaena Tarth was taken under the protection of Lord Aymond, despite him looking like he could not protect her from a strong gust of wind.

“She should still be in blue and rose.” Whispered Galladon sourly, to his father who had slotted in next to him.

“It’s all for show, lad. Elaena’s babes will be Tarth through and through.”

From their behaviour at the feast, the Estermonts and their banner men weren’t terribly bothered about losing a cousin to a matrilineal union. If anything, many were jealous, not all third sons were lucky to gain such beautiful lands and a High Lordship over them. Generally, they were sent to the wall or given small fiefdoms with irksome smallfolk. The wine flowed, the mead flowed and the blood flowed to his lord father’s head so much that he turned as pink as his doublet.

Galladon whirled his sisters around merrily, smothering their cheeks with kisses; he didn’t even stop at his stepmother who giggled like a maiden as she spun around his arm. He did the same with her sister, Lady Buckler the younger. He even stole a raven-haired serving girl from Lord Grandison Greybeard, replacing him in one of the circle dances before he knew what was happening.

Galladon heard a clutter of plates and froze, assuming he had knocked over one of the serving wenches who he hadn’t danced with yet. His sheer size meant he was used to breaking things and knocking over innocents as he went about his business. A silence draped over the room.

“M’lord…” His black-haired girl whispered and pointed to the Evenstar who was stood on the dais.

His father clutched a flagon of mead in one hand “Friends, I would like to thank you for travelling many leagues across both land and sapphire seas to attend the wedding of my wonderful daughter.” He slurred his words but the majority of the Stormlords were in a similar state. “The gods have been good. I never thought I would be blessed enough to see the wedding of a child of mine. I never thought I would have a child of mine, safe and home with me, but now I am lucky enough to have two.” Two, thought Galladon, just two. “To Lady Elaena and Lady Floris, the Sapphires of Tarth.”

“Lady Elaena and Lady Floris, the Sapphires of Tarth.” Echoed the crowd, raising their goblets; Galladon did the same, catching his fathers eye.

“Galla-” He mouthed, before being mobbed by his merry bannerman.

I’m a knight and a commander of the Stormlands but I’ll always be the bastard boy of Tarth. He placed his goblet on the table, storming out of the warm candlelight of Evenfall Hall and into the chill of the night.

Chapter Text

The boy swung at the tree, carving it like a joint of venison. His heavy blows made the leaves shake and shudder and large chunks of bark shattered when it came in contact with Galladon’s sword. His face was red with drink, cold and anger. He threw the greatsword in the air and caught it with his left, delivering unrelenting, furious blows to what was left of the bark, screaming with each slice. The scream was too familiar to the Evenstar and he wanted it to stop. He approached him gingerly, his joints creaking with age and mead.

“That tree has been here since the days of Aegon the Conquerer and his sister-wives.”

“Up until the days of Daenerys the Conquerer.” He retorted, looking down the silver of his blade before his sea-green eyes flashed up to meet him “What do you want?”

“Galladon, I-”

“You don’t need to apologise.”

“I didn’t come here to apologise, I came here to talk to you.” He mopped his brow with a cotton of silk from his breast pocket. Galladon turned to him angrily, but he could see the hurt in his eyes. “What could be so terribly important that you have left one of your children’s wedding feast? More specifically, one half of your brood’s wedding.” he spat and continued to hack.

“Stop that.” He raised his voice, and Galladon did for a moment. The Evenstar was usually such a placid man that a louder voice could silence the largest of men, but Galladon was not most men. Galladon was so unpredictable that he drove his sword through the tree. “There.”

“Come with me, boy.” He sighed.

They climbed the spiralled stairs to his solar, the giggles and debauchery of the bedding getting fainter with each step they took. It was a dark room that even smelled of the dark. In the daytime, sunlight streamed through making the room glow pink and yellow from the stained glass windows. But now, it was the hour of the bat and the only light came from the burning fire and a handful of candles.

“Please sit.” Lord Selwyn commanded, before disappearing to a dark corner of the room. He knew what he was going to show him, but he could not quite reach it. He could have swore that his limbs had shrunk with age. "Could you help me?” The boy immediately leapt up and came to his aid, lifting the heavy chest that was tucked away at the back of a dresser. I am getting frailer by the day, the Evenstar sighed. “Over there,” he gestured. Galladon placed the chest on a blue damask carpet that was embedded with sand from walks on the white beaches of the east coast. He tried to open it but failed, and went to try once more.

“It’s locked. Strength cannot solve everything, you’d do well to learn that now.” Selwyn pulled out a golden chain from underneath his shirt, which held a key behind his sun and moon pendant. With difficulty, he pulled it over his head and opened the chest with as much care as he could. Galladon looked with awe as he pulled out a longsword that appeared to dance with the flames of the fire before them. Red and black ripples bloomed over the flat of the blade, right down to its golden lion pommel.

“Valyrian steel.” The boy said right away, his eyebrows raised. “I have never seen it myself, but it is! Isn’t it? How did you get?”

“It was your mother’s.”

The boy gasped. “At the start of the War for the Dawn, Queen Daenerys commanded that everything made of Valyrian steel should be delivered to her. Even the maesters at the Citadel needed to remove their Valyrian links from their chains. I can’t believe you kept this, father.” He recounted it perfectly, exactly as Maester Steffon had taught him. His eyes were wide with excitement.

“It wasn’t mine to deliver.”

“My mother’s sword…” He lifted it up with his left hand, flexing it, so the red-black ripples glistened from pommel to point. “I thought my mother was a mummer from the Westerlands. Are you sure she wasn’t an outlaw who stole this from a vault at Casterly Rock?” You’re not too far from the truth. Galladon grinned and stood up quickly, shaking the furniture around him and took to cutting through the air. In his enthusiasm, he struck down a religious tapestry leaving a clear, straight rip through the waist of the Mother. “Gods! I’m sorry.” He swooped it up and examined the tear. "I'll fix it, I swear."

That's not your type of needlework, boy. “Sit down, Galladon.”

He studied the boy, staring deep into his eyes. A startling shade of green, very nearly blue. He hadn’t fully believed it until he looked at those eyes. Brienne had become more coherent as the time to birth the boy approached, it was if his daughter knew that this was the last time to tell her father all that she wished.

“I was captured by the Brotherhood without Banners.” She had said, stroking her face “They hung my squire, and me, and demanded Jaime in exchange for us. If it was just me, I would have died for him. But my squire was not indebted to him like I. Noose or sword. Noose or sword. I chose sword. Would you have done the same?”

“I don’t know, sweetling. I have been fortunate enough to have never been captured. I’d imagine people do difficult, incomprehensible things when faced with two equally bad choices.” Night had began to creep across the sky, so he reached to light a few more candles next to his chair. “You need to tell it all and tell it true, Brienne. I need to know what happened to you.

She took a deep breath and rubbed at her bursting belly underneath the furs. “I managed to catch up with the Lannister host in the Riverlands and he came with me without so much as a question when I lied and told him I had Sansa Stark. I said she would be killed if he did not accompany me. I loved him, father, so my lies did not hold up very long. On the second night of our ride, we had taken shelter in a cave. I looked at him and I couldn’t send him to his death, so I just told him. When he found out what I had done, he was not even angry. Stupid, ugly wench I thought he was going to call me, but he didn’t.” She had burst into tears at that point “He kissed me and comforted me in a way that Septa Roelle said would never happen. And I wanted him, father, I wanted it. We spent two days in that cave and when we emerged and debated what to do next, we found a ransacked sept.” She sat up a bit straighter and her tears stopped, her eyes shining. “‘Do you fancy getting wed, wench? We might be dead tomorrow, best to legitimise the rumpled furs.’” She laughed, and Selwyn couldn’t help but laugh himself. He'd never seen her so bold, or unafraid. “We had been looking for food, but a Septon was there, too old and blind to question the white cloak he wore. ‘Well?’, he said to me and first the time, no one was playing with me or making a wager. So we did. He cloaked me in white and brought me under his protection...and he did protect me. So well. And I couldn't do the same...” The confidence left her in a heartbeat, her blue eyes turning glassy.

“What happened next?” He clutched at her hands.

“We headed to Blackwood Vale. Jaime had a plan. He told Tytos Blackwood that he would forgo any hostages to Kings Landing, sons or daughters, if he gave me a horse and supplies and him a parchment and quill, as well as his silence. He agreed. Jaime made me ride for Lannisport with a message commanding to return me back to Tarth. ‘They are loyal to me, at least, and have no love for Cersei there. Keep your head down, try not to be so bloody stubborn and I’ll join you soon,’ he said. He was worried the Queen Mother would be less than pleased seeing as I had a part in his disappearance.”

“I can’t believe my stubborn daughter just left.” Selwyn had said, getting up to mop her brow with a wet cloth, for she was starting to burn with fever.

“Neither can I, I should have been with him. ‘You bloody well got us into this mess, I’ll find a way to get us out it’, he'd jested. He claimed that he would take his most loyal men to retrieve Pod and a find a position for him. I trusted him, father, I had such hope he would do it, but no one ever saw him again.” She started sobbing once more and the sadness did not stop. She cried ‘Jaime’ in her sleep and wept until the sobs turned to screams as Galladon forced his way into the world.

“Father?” Selwyn slammed the chest shut and looked at the boy who clutched the bottom half of his tapestry that had hung in Evenfall Hall for hundreds of years “I’m sorry, I do promise, I'll get it fixed."

“I’m not your father, boy.”

“Was he the outlaw?” Smirked Galladon, before his face fell. “What do you mean..?"

“You’re my grandson. You’re my daughter Brienne’s son.”

“No, I’m not. She’s my sister and..I’m your son. I’m the bastard offspring of you and lusty mummer from the Westerlands with eyes like wildfire and golden hair. I know the story, everyone knows the story, from the smallfolk to the great Stormlords.”

“I wish you were my son. I prayed and wished for a son like you, but the gods blessed me with a grandson instead. For the first time in your life, my headstrong boy, please, listen.” And he did.

He told the story of how his daughter came home sixteen years ago, her belly bursting with child and how she would birth him two days later. He told him how loved he was, and how far she had travelled to keep him safe. How his mother and father married in a tumbledown sept in the Riverlands. How his father did not even know what he was going to be born, but his father’s kinsman had kept him safe and brought them both to him.

When he was done, he sat there blankly. “If you tell it true....then who is my father?” He said in a small voice that did not seem to fit his frame.

“Who do you think, Gally?” Selwyn lowered his hands into the chest and brought out what could have just been a simple lining, but Galladon knew was much more than that. Galladon allowed one clammy hand to stroke the white cloth as if it was the finest of furs before reaching for the red-black sword that he had laid at his feet. It was if for the first time, he saw past the dancing colours and looked at the pommel. The golden lion seemed to roar with defiance whilst its ruby eyes twinkled in the candlelight.

“Kingslayer.” He said breathlessly before dropping it as if it was the burning sword of tales and legends.

Chapter Text

“Come back!” he heard his father cry as he bolted down the stairs. He wouldn’t be able to catch up with him, for it had taken an age for the old man to get up the stairs to begin. He’s not my father, he reminded himself, but doubted that he would ever forget. Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Sisterfucker. Man without honour. The villain of the songs and histories of his childhood flashed before him. Fuck the Kingslayer. He doesn’t matter.

He slowed down on the last few steps to see a handful of ruddy faced-revellers in various states of undress were cluttering up the landing, passing back and forward a wine skin. He rolled his eyes and carried on walking, sending four of them scattering.

“Bastard!” The fattest one called drunkenly, but all it took was a turn of the large cage of Galladon’s head to make him with wither into the cracks in the brickwork. He clenched his fists, but seeing the doughy man piss his breeches in fear was satisfying enough. You shouldn’t let such pathetic men test your patience, besides he isn’t even right as long as my ‘grandsire’ has told it true.

Galladon picked up the pace, his sealskin boots slamming against the cobbled floor of the courtyard. Emerald green moss and ivy crept up sky-stretching towers around him and for once they succeeded in making him feel small. He clasped a hand to his chest; his heart was beating and he felt sick with drink and fear, but he knew where he was going. He rubbed at his eyes. He wasn’t crying of course, the chill had just become too much for them.

Tarth was an island of varying terrains; of rivers, waterfalls and ravines. Evenfall Hall stood at one of the highest points, and when one looked out from the gaps in the portcullis, they had a grand view of the mainland and even Storms End on a clear day. Galladon nodded to the guards to raise the door and as he passed under it, he felt different and changed. The salty winds lashed through his hair, whistling through his ears and making his face throb. He stayed there for a moment studying the emptiness in front of him. The sun had long set and his torch was the only light in the world.

After some time, he turned left, climbing up a grassy bank which lead to one of the highest points of the island where his forefathers lay. It was an arduous ascent, even for Galladon, who had to stop momentarily to wipe the moisture from his brow that was sweat and moisture that was not. The smallfolk had to burn their dead or could release them into the sea if they wished, but good land was scarce on Tarth, and only the Tarths themselves could bury their dead. The old Kings of Tarth’s bones rested here and had done for hundreds of years. On such a beautiful island, crypts would not do. The dead would drink in the sun forever.

When he reached the top, Galladon swung open the gate with such force it unhinged, which just make him weep more. I’m sorry, he had whispered to himself, wondering if the gods could hear him; if she could hear him. He picked up the gate, rough-with-rust and leant it against the fence. I’ll come back and fix it, I promise.

His torch illuminated the rows of graves and also the spaces where he and his family would be placed in the earth. He came across the first Galladon, Galladon the Older, who had drowned long before he was born. His receptacle, like the others, was enamelled blue-grey and showed him sleeping peacefully between a sun and moon with the seven pointed star at his breast. His dead sisters, Arianne and Alysanne had miniature versions next to Lord Tarth’s first wife Lady Biliana, for they had been taken by the gods so young. Galladon Tarth waved his torch, knowing what he was looking but unable to find it, until he found it and saw her.

Lady Brienne’s resting place was at the far end of the yard and different from the others; she stood the same height she stood in life with an incarnation of the sword Galladon had held himself pointing towards Evenfall Hall. Either side of her likeness were two torches that Galladon lit, causing the same enamel of her siblings tombs to glow sapphire blue. He took two large steps back, gripping his flame tightly and drank her in like his ancestors did the sun. She was clad in chain and mail, her non-sword hand clutching a shield defensively, but her face was not as fearsome as her frame, and she appeared to look down on him softly. It was only then that Galladon noticed that she was not alone on the vast slab of silver-grey marble. A cast-iron lion cub was coiling around one strong leg, one paw raised defiantly. He had never noticed it before.

Galladon collapsed on his knees and cry filled the air, mingling with the waves crashing on the rocks below. A pained, roaring cry. Galladon could not be sure whether it came from his own lungs until he felt a spindly hand on his shoulder.

“The blacksmith asked why I requested a lion. I said she liked them. It seemed to satisfy him.” a worn-looking Selwyn laughed sheepishly before his laugher turned into a hollow cough. Galladon rubbed his eyes and thumped his back. “Thank you, boy. Although I had to describe Oathkeeper, her sword, to him. I couldn’t risk someone else seeing it. If anyone saw that sword, they'd know. Joffrey the Cruel had its brother sword, Widow's Wail, he called it. Gods only know where that is.”

King Joffrey. My...His stomach lurched. He could not bear to think about that. “How did you get up here?” Galladon asked, shuddering as he peered into his grandfather's eyes, cloudy and blue.

“With difficulty. I am usually carried these days.” Lord Tarth took his hand. “At least you were where I thought you would be, otherwise, my aches and pains would have been in vain."

“The stories are true then, she was the Kingslayer’s whore.” He said defiantly, blinking his tears away. The words were acid on his tongue, burning as they poured out of his mouth.

“Never say that to me again, Galladon.” He grabbed his wrist with a strength uncommon for such a frail man. The torchlight burned angrily in his eyes and Galladon knew that Lord Tarth meant it.

He let go, “It surprised me...when she told me they were lovers, but he proved himself when Ser Jaime risked a great deal for hers and your safety. I believe he paid with his own life for it."

King Joffrey, and Tommen. And the princess. What was her name? “I thought the Kingslayer only fucked his sister.” His grandfather winced.

“Brienne made her peace with that.” Galladon’s stomach churned.

“She knew? She knew and she still wed him?”

“I believe so. My daughter loved the man and would not lie. The Lannisters of Lannisport are the only ones who could confirm any wedding, and they had their titles stripped long ago. That was how you came to me. The Crown had marched West and were due to siege Lannisport, Brienne could not risk being found with you. The well-behaving Lannisters were exiled and the ones who did not behave were fed to the dragons. I suspect the ones who brought you here made their way across the Narrow Sea, but I’ve been unable to track them down. I have tried over the years. It seems like if your father had made it out of the Riverlands, he wouldn't have lasted long anyway.”

“There’s no one else?”

“No. The Lannister name is no more unless you count the Imp. No mistaking, he is definitely a kinslayer now. No man is as accursed as the kinslayer.”

“My uncle.”

“Yes, your uncle.” Lord Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the Queen, had been reinstated as the Lord of the Westerlands. It was said he rode a dragon and was wiser than all of the maesters in the Seven Kingdoms.

“I want to meet him.” Do you?

“I don't think that will ever be wise. I know you are a man grown now, however much I call you boy, but I don’t want you near Kings Landing, not with people knowing who you are. From the Queen’s point of view, you are the son of her father’s murderer. From Tyrion’s, you’re the trueborn heir to Casterly Rock.” Heir to Casterly Rock? I didn’t think I’d be heir to anything. “When you mother came to me, she was terrified of what the Dragon would do to you. She begged me to raise you as a Storm, forbade me from letting you become a lion.”

“Then why have you told me? Seems rather counterproductive to my dear mother’s wishes.”

“You’re not mine to hide away any more, Galladon, you’re not mine to claim. You have grown into such a marvellous man, she deserves to have you take her as your mother. My Brienne was maimed and mocked throughout the Seven Kingdoms, never recognised for her skills or prowess or her kind heart. She deserves to be recognised for making you. I’m not going to conceal you anymore, not from Floris or Elaena or my Lady wife.”

My sisters, my aunts? Galladon thought of them as children together; sparring in the yard, picking wildflowers and swan-diving down the waterfalls. Would they still love him as much?

“Are you going to hide my father from them?”

“Of course I am. Have you been listening to what I’ve been saying, boy? The world is no longer safe from Lannisters, especially not the eldest son of the eldest son of Tywin bloody Lannister. No, you’ll be Brienne’s son, but no one can know about Ser Jaime. People will believe how I wanted to protect her from the dishonour of a rape or a lapse in judgement before her death...”

“You would tarnish her memory?” Raged Galladon “This daughter, my mother, who you apparently loved so much…you would let people think ill of her?”

“You didn’t know her, my boy. She loved you more than anything else in this world. Her honour wouldn’t have meant shit to her if it meant her cub’s pelt was on the floor of the Red Keep.” He spat.

“Leave me!” Roared Galladon, flying into a rage, squaring up to the Evenstar with his teeth bared. Lord Tarth just shook his head in disappointment.

“I’ll ignore your pig-headedness given the eventful evening we had we’ll discuss this on the morrow when we are both not so full of wine.” He handed him the white cloak that he had carried out with him, Galladon lifted it out of his aged hands gingerly. “Keep this, and let it remind you of what your mother and father did. Both of their blood was spilt so you could live. Don’t go soiling that cloak.”

“This cloak is already soiled! Soiled with the blood of a king!” He threw it down at his feet, grinding his boot on it for good measure.

Lord Selwyn turned on his heel. “Your father slew a king to stop him from turning Kings Landing into a fiery inferno. Kingslayer, he may be, but he saved the lives of countless men, women and children in the dusk of Roberts Rebellion. Yes, his cloak was soiled when he chose to lay with your lady mother, but I like to think some good came of that too.”

 Selwyn left him there, in the shadow of his mother, the warrior maid of Tarth. He fell to his knees once more and fumbled for the cloak amongst the beach grass, clasping it around his shoulders. It felt warm. What would you have me do now? he thought You’d probably want me to stay here. You’re probably upset that I even know. He kissed her boots gently, cold against his lips. But I’ve heard so much about you, and I’m going to be your son. The wind blew, dusting across the beach grass that grew so high up on Tarth and he looked around suspiciously. But you loved the Kingslayer didn’t you? He obviously loved you too. I’ll be his son as well, however much it pains me right now.

He stayed at her feet, until he knew the Evenfall Hall would be sleeping. When he returned, he went straight up the stairs, praying that the chest in Lord Tarth’s solar had been left open in the commotion and thankfully it had. Red light bounced around the room as he flexed Oathkeeper. Galladon was so strong that he could wield a two-handed great sword with just one, but this blade had a lightness and a drive that made every cut and thrust more powerful, more purposeful. The balance is perfect, it’s as if it was made for me. He studied the pommel, thumbing the ruby eyes of the roaring lion. A Lannister lion. Maybe it was made for me.

Once the sword had been thrust into its scabbard, and the scabbard had been slung around his hips, Galladon ventured to the rookery. When he had to send ravens he would dictate them to a maester who would write the letters perfectly, all of them in the write places. He didn’t want to wake the maester to do that this evening. They squawked as he burst through the door, an ear curdling scream that made him want to clasp his ears over his head. “Shut up! Shut up!” he mouthed, fumbling on the desk for parchment and ink.

 Dear Lady Shireen,

Thank you for granting me leav to attend the wedding and feast of my deer sister Elaena. I will be returning too Storms End on the morrow as I have urgent matters to discus.

You're ever loyal commander,

Galladon Storm

 Galladon Lannister, he thought. Part of him liked the sound of that. The other part just wished he was Lord Selwyn’s trueborn son, which was what he desired for six-and-ten years. He found the Storm's End raven and attached the parchment carefully to its foot and shooed it off. Before he would set off to Storm's End, he would need to fetch some tools from the blacksmith. Galladon promised to fix the gate and he always kept his promises.

Chapter Text

 He's a green boy, inexperienced and unprepared, the clever ones had said. A bastard green boy, inexperienced and unprepared, the not-so-clever ones had said, forgetting the Lady Shireen's husband was baseborn himself. He was rash, yes, but the men of experience had perished in the War of the Five Kings and the following War for the Dawn. Nowadays, her council meetings were filled with men too frail to have fought in the conflicts previous; crippled, frail, cautious. She needed rashness and youth.

"A lovely day to be back in Storm's End!" Lady Shireen announced, and it was. The landscape was alive with colour and the trees were filled with green. She had happily given up Dragonstone as Princess Rhaenyra approached adulthood. A place so cold and angular, it was if it had been carved out obsidian entirely. And full of magic and memories; secrets and death. The Targaryens could have the shit-stained rock for all she cared.  She was content with Storms End, and with every day she spent here she could see why her father had been so sore about being passed over for Renly. She liked to think that she was equally colourful as the landscape in a dress of butter yellow, with sage does leaping up her skirts. An older dress that had recently had the bodice embellished in Tarthian pearls, to give it a new lease of life. A gift from Galladon that many had raised their brows at, accompanied with whispers of those who knew what had got the bastard lordling from Tarth pushed up the ranks so quickly. Foul rumours, she had thought, with no truth to them; but part of her enjoyed the attention a young man so gallant.

She could see gallant Galladon Storm's impish grin widen as he rowed closer to the mainland. He eventually bowed down to her, his thick golden curls falling in front of his eyes. She had a fondness for Galladon that started when he dragged Aurane Waters swearing and spitting into her halls like a hound on a leash. She demanded he serve her as one of her commanders straight after he arose from Davos' feet as Ser Galladon Storm.

"My liege. It feels me with joy to have you receive me yourself."

"Stop it." She giggled a girlish giggle, the cracked mask of her cheek bending into a smile.

"How was Lady Elaena's wedding feast? I hope you sent my apologies. The maesters believed it was too late to travel in my condition" she said, clutching at the swell of her belly.

"Eventful." He sprang out of the boat, his feet landing firmly on the dock. "I think young Lord Estermont has his work cut out for him.” He felt his hip for his sword, his hand gracing the beautiful golden pommel.

“New?”

“Yes.” he said, fixing his hair.

“Sublime, but as for Lord Estermont having his work cut out, that is how it should be." They ambled up the crags of the shore, Shireen taking Galladon's arm for support. The yellow and black stag fluttered in the salty winds, but the firey heart of her sire had been replaced by a seven pointed star. She had changed it when she swore fealty to Daenerys, wavering her claim to the throne that her father had fought and paid for so dearly. She didn't care. They could have the pointy chair, and the shit-stained Rock and even her late lord father's Red God for all she cared. "Come, she gestured him up the steps. You must want to break your fast." His grin got wider, but this time it seemed forced. Nevertheless, he followed her up the steps, taking one stride for every three of her small ones.

 They dined on fresh baked bread, scattered with poppy seeds; blood sausage and mustard; eggs scrambled with herbs and roasted mushrooms.

"You couldn't have come back at a better time," she patted at her mouth, her lips were painted rosy pink whilst her greyscale scars were displayed proudly without powder. "Lyseni pirates have become more brazen, raiding the villages south of here. At the moment it has just been cloth and food, it's a matter of time before their confidence grows even more and they start taking Stormlander women as loot. Since Salladhor Saan died, even Ser Davos can't keep the peace.”

“We could position each of the ships along the coastline, in a constant defensive position? It seems to work for the Westermen, fending off the Ironborn.”

“Wouldn’t that take an awful lot of manpower?”

“No, you’d only need a few crews, they’d swap ship every other day. The Lysenis won’t know what’s manned and what isn’t. It may be the deterrent that we need.” he said earnestly.

“Are you a merling yourself, Ser Galladon? You are well suited to command at sea.”

“I learned from the best, and on Tarth one learns how to use sails and oars before reins and saddle.” 

“Let us stop. This is not a war council meeting.” she poured a glass of water for him that had been infused with mint and lemons from Dorne. “Or something stronger?”

“Not after last night, my Lady. My head is still cloudy from the feast.” The same weak smile.

“You said you had urgent matters to discuss, you haven’t brought them up so I will. What are these matters?”

He took some time to answer, nibbling his full bottom lip.”My Lady, it pains me to say this, but I have come to beg your leave to leave.” Go?

"Go?" Her blue eyes fluttered "Does the Evenstar require you back on Tarth? I know he is getting older. I imagine you are a great help.” He swivelled round to eyeball the servants standing at their backs.

"Could we discuss this privately?” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Thank you, Milda and Tamara. You are dismissed.” the two women-servants in dark green tunics curtsied and shuffled out of the hall on their cork-bottomed shoes. As soon as the oaken door slammed behind her, she looked at him expectantly. "Yes?"

"I'm not the bastard son of Lord Selwyn and a mummer from the Westerlands." He blurted out, looking immediately more at ease.

"You've been legitimised? To take over Tarth as a result of your sire's ailing health."

"No, that's-"

"I had often thought of petitioning the Queen myself. You are a warrior like your sister was. Elaena just wants to whelp pups and Floris was always a bit of a laggard. It is only right." She beamed before her smile fell. No, that's not right. The poor boy looks petrified. "Am I getting it wrong?"

"A bit, my lady." He said politely.

"Go on..."

"I'm not Lord Selwyn's son, I'm his daughter's son. Brienne' son. The Evenstar is my grandfather."

Brienne the Maid? The Maid of Tarth? Brienne the Beauty? She had been a member of her Uncle's Kingsguard. A huge, hulking warrior woman who had died in the Saltpans running errands for the Kingslayer. She swapped her allegiances quickly. She tilted her head, hoping she was expressing the word "really?".

He nodded, seemingly giving her time to process what he had told her. He tore at a hunk of poppy bread, breaking the soft middle from crust.

"And your father? Your mother was quite infatuated with my uncle. Are you sure he didn't mistake her for a strong young lad and you're here to claim Storm's End from me?" She smirked and looked at him to respond but the man boy looked startled. ”I jest, Galladon."

"A very witty jest, my lady.” he garbled. An honest boy, never good at false flattery. “…but my grandsire has assured me that my father is Ser Jaime Lannister.” he closed his eyes as if he had dropped a casket of wildfire.

"The Kingslayer?" She blinked, playing with a tendril of coal-black hair. "How? Your sister? Him?" She didn't quite believe that such an abominable man had created a son so sweet.

"She was not my sister, she was my mother and he was not just the Kingslayer, but my father. My lord grandfather told it true. She came to Tarth sixteen years ago with me in her belly. She had married Ser Jaime in a ruined sept with a crippled Septon."

"How incredibly fitting." She retorted. She leant back, cupping a goblet of lemon water and studying his features. "You look like a Lannister. The golden hair, your eyes. Strong as your mother though if the stories are true. The more I look at you, the more I’m surprised no one has suspected it before. It’s like you’ve been carved out of Casterly Rock gold.” Not that there was much gold left for the Westermen anymore, the Dragon had set to draining the minds shortly after she landed.

"I've come to ask your advice, my lady. I'm not experienced at court or anything besides swinging a sword. My father was an oathbreaker and sisterfucker and a kingslayer and all of those things, but he loved my mother. He gave her a magic sword and broke another oath to marry her. I need to know more about him. I was thinking that if I headed to the capital..” He pulled his sword out of his scabbard and handed the flat of the blade to her. A Lannister sword, to be sure. And the colours? I’ve never seen a sword so beautiful. This must be Valyrian steel.

"To seek Tyrion Lannister?” The boy moved fast. Daenerys revoked Lannisport from the Lannister cadet branch shortly after she had assumed her rule. The daughters were married off to her horselords and the men of fighting age were put to the sword. The quicker ones had taken passage to Essos, some had become outlaws but the only person who undoubtedly knew the Kingslayer and who carried the name Lannister was Lord Tyrion, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Hand of the Queen.

"Correct, my lady. I was hoping that if I went to King's-”

"You won't be able to just go to King's Landing.." She snapped. Maybe he really was a green boy. "I wouldn't take the risk of encountering the Dragon first if I were you.”

She’d feed him to her winged beasts as soon as he announced who he was. Shireen hated dragons; as a child, long before Daenerys the Conquerer landed in Westeros, she had violent nightmares of black and red terrible wings. The nightmares had stopped when her mother died and the red woman joined the late Jon Stark, but she was still suspicious of them.

"'My lady-“ …but did he need to announce who he was?

"I'm thinking.” She recollected her thoughts. Not yet. No, the boy can’t announce who is, that’s for certain, but he certainly could bend the Imp’s ear as a Storm.

“If you wish to seek out Tyrion Lannister, you seek him out as Ser Galladon Storm, commander of Stormlands. You will treat with him on my behalf to request more men to defend Shipbreaker’s Bay. When you are with him, you can ask some questions about the Kingslayer, but you must not let on who you are. He owes Queen Daenerys his life, blood of his blood or not, he will be bound by duty to present you to her.” Her voice seemed to ring through the air, his comely face downtrodden. She squeezed his hand.

“When your curiosity is satisfied, you will return to me.” Shireen stood up and retrieved a pen, quill and stamped from an enamelled black and gold box by the window ledge, depicting the Maiden in a field of corn. “I will make you an offer and I'm sure the Evenstar will agree. I will petition Queen Daenerys for your legitimisation. I am sure she will agree seeing as the Tarth male line is no more, especially with your fathe-, grandfather's health ailing. You will kneel a Storm and arise a Tarth, your mother's birthright as first born child now your own.”

“A Tarth? Trueborn?”

“Legitimised. But only if no one finds out the truth.” she began to write, in elegant hand

I, Lady Shireen of House Baratheon, Lady Paramount of the Stormlands and Warden of the East declare Ser Galladon Storm to be about the business of the Stormlands and to be allowed to make his journey to Kings Landing with neither haste nor hinderance. Gods bless Queen Daenerys, first of her name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms.

“You’re a fast writer, my lady.” He said, giving her the first genuine smile of the day.

She waved the parchment in the air, willing it dry quicker before sealing the document with the stamp of House Baratheon. She learned over and kissing his head tenderly. He smelled of the sea.

”Regardless of the details of your birth, you are valued deeply. To me, to Lord Tarth, to everyone….but I can't guarantee your safety if you choose to roar.”

Chapter Text

The man stood there, in a murky watering hole, thick with the stench of death. His toes sunk into the bed of pond, not allowing him to paddle or swim to the edge. That smell…he looked around and saw that the scent was rising from one thousand fish, upturned and rotting on the surface like algae. He heard a branch snap, and from a rock, a lioness watched him with cold, red eyes. “Please,” the man mouthed, holding his hands out and bowing his head and he could swear that he saw the lion smirk. Before she could spring to a pounce, a bear appeared from the trees; snarling and snapping until the she-lion was pinned to the ground. The lioness did not manage to puncture the bear with her jaws, but something had struck the bear down anyway. The great beast roared and convulsed before melting into seafoam that crashed into the pond like a waterfall. The ripples licked at his stomach and the lioness got back on her feet lurked back into the shadows, but always watching him. An ear-piercing scream ripped through the air, no, screams, but before he could free himself from the glutinous pond bed to see who it was, it went black.

The man woke up in the night dowsed with sweat, his garish green hair sticking to his forehead. He could still hear their screams at night, of mothers and lovers and foes. He rubbed his eye with a blue mottled hand and shuffled off his mattress. The tiles of his lodgings were warm and dusty despite his efforts to keep out the heat. Fifteen years he had been in Tyrosh and he still wasn’t accustomed to the dry, burning heat.

He eased the shutters open and light poured into the room. The scent of pepper and roasted garlic drifted up from the alleyways below. Tyrosh was as alive with colour as their garments that the Tyroshi wore and was truly an assault on the senses. The smells, the sounds, the sights. He had often through about crossing the Narrow Sea under different circumstances, taking his sister and their children and going somewhere where no one knew their name, but his sister was dead and his children were too. Would they have come here? He didn’t know. It wasn’t worth worrying about anymore. The man who fathered three golden bastards was as dead as they all were.

He was another man once before he came to Tyrosh and found work in a dye house; using both his stump and good hand to swirl silks and cloth in vats of pink and blue and yellow and drying them out under the pulsating sun. He had a wife too, for a few days. Was she, though? Did it count? How bad was it to break another oath, after all? He thought of his wench-wife and the promise that he had made to her as her big, blue eyes filled with hurt. He remembered the last time they had kissed when cruelly they had only had their first kiss days before; he pushed her hair out of her eyes and clasped her good cheek with his good hand and she melted into him with a softness he had never known. Gentler than Cersei. She was always gentler than Cersei. He always thanked the gods that it wasn’t Cersei who harmed her in the end.

He didn't have time to round up some men to save her little squire, for he was set upon by the Brotherhood without Banners on his way back from Blackwood Vale. They ambushed him a day after he set off, despite taking care to stay off the King’s Road.

"Your whore did a runner then, Kingslayer?" said a Northern one, in filthy sheepskin that had clearly not been white for some time.

"Only at my bidding. My sweet wife is quite good at following instructions if you know how to ask them of her,” he said, muffled through the sack they had placed on his head.

"Shut your sisterfucking mouth." he spat as he dragged him off the wagon and across the floor. The fools didn’t even have enough sense to remove his armour before they shackled him at the ankle.

"I haven't fucked my sister in a long time and I doubt I ever will again, I hope that doesn't stick like 'Kingslayer' has. I can't imagine the maesters telling their young charges of Ser Jaime the Sisterfucker.” The sack was lifted off his head at that point, but he was still in darkness, only able to make out the Northern fellow attaching his chains to a hook in the cave wall.

"You like talking don't you," said a man with but one bulbous eye, "let's see how much you like talking when you meet our lady. I'd smash your head in now for what you did, but she wants to string you up herself.”

But the man didn't get a chance to meet the woman they called Stoneheart. Shackled at the feet, he tried his best to drag himself to the cave’s edge but still could only use his ears to listen to shouting, fighting and cluttering before a woman’s scream filled the air and silence fell once more. After some time, a pink-clad man with a long, bony neck entered the cave holding a torch. The man knew who he was immediately. A few stone lighter, yes, but they had met in another life.

“Thoros of Myr, I hate to admit it, but I’ve seen you looking better.”

“Likewise, Ser Jaime," said the red wizard in a voice that was very nearly a laugh, taking a seat across from him on the ground.

“Are you taking me to Lady Catelyn?”

“No. Lady Catelyn died long ago.” The red priest looked at the floor.

“Stoneheart, then.”

“She is dead too," he said calmly.

“A sickness of the bowels? Fever? A pox of the crotch from being surrounded by lusty Northmen?”

“Careful,” Thoros sighed “It was I who plunged my dagger into her heart. I saw in the flames the horror she would bring and now was the time. Your lady will be sad to hear of her companions passing. We buried them decently.”

“They were hung? How long ago?” She loved that little squire as if he was her own. His stomach lurched at the thought of telling her. Would it be that I live to tell her?

“Not in the way the lady intended. One of our brothers gave extra rations to the Imp’s young squire at supper this evening, the boy was ill with fever and needed strength. The lady named him as a Lannister loyalist and strung him up with your Brienne’s companions which not all of the Brotherhood supported. I tried to stop the injustice but it was too late. The camp split and Stoneheart’s followers scattered once I managed to subdue her. I thank the Red God that Stoneheart had made more foes than friends of late.” He mumbled something in Valyrian and scratched at his gaunt wrist.

“What does that mean for me?”

“I don’t wish to kill you, Ser Jaime. I believe Lady Brienne was right to plead your case. The man I knew wouldn’t have sent Lady Brienne to safety and risk returning to confront the Brotherhood unarmed. An honourable act. Her companions died as a result of injustice and their lives have paid for yours.” Honourable. “But I can’t let you return, not yet.” He rose to his feet “You remain a prisoner and if we have the chance to return you quietly for gold, I will see to it that I do. I can’t guarantee the safety of the members of the Brotherhood who openly let the Kingslayer roam free.”

“Understandable,” the man had admitted, quietly elated that his death had not come to him today.

“Ser Jaime, could we please have a piece of your armour? I could just strip it from you if I wanted, but this way you have a part in feeding the smallfolk of the Riverlands. An honourable deed for the honourable new you," Thoros said, stifling a smile.

“Take your pick.” The man said, waving his coated arms in the air.

The man did not know how long he had been in the cave, opting to measure time in missing pieces of armour that he surrendered to the Brotherhood. He had been in captivity for one gorget, two gauntlets, both faulds, both cuisses and a breastplate before Thoros of Myr came to him late one night like Catelyn Stark had come to him years before. If only my wench was with him too, he thought, stretching himself awake from his pallet of furs. Thoros struck off his ankle chains and handed him a brown tunic and cloak, as well as a new pair of boots for his had rotted on his feet long ago.

“Am I being ransomed?”

“Definitely not, Ser Jaime. Please, you must sit. I have grave news from the capital.”

“Daenerys Targaryen landed in the Crownlands with her dragons a few nights past, after rallying Dorne. Your sister and the King are dead.” Cersei may not have had his love anymore, but a part of him died when that spilt from Thoros of Myr’s withered lips. His golden, fickle, ruthless, fool of a twin. The Dyer did not want to remember that part so he chose not to.

“You must go." He eased him out of his rotting boots. "The Dragon is marching westwards and the rest of the Brotherhood will demand I sell you to her for a few coppers and a wineskin. If you want your life, cross the Narrow Sea. Daenerys is not as revered in the Free Cities, as they believe her dragons will bring death and despair. If you are found, the Sealords will not be as eager to turn you in.” Westwards. Westwards. Lannisport. Brienne.

“How long have I been here?”

“Near enough six moons.” Six bloody moons? Time had passed, but relief washed over the man. At least she was safe. She’d be in Tarth by now.

“Have you been drinking the milk of the poppy? Fuck the Free Cities. If you wish to set me free, I intend to go to Tarth. I have been here long enough, and I swore I would join her there.”

“Then I better place your shackles back on your legs. She’ll be fed to the dragons for harbouring you when the time comes, if you hold any love for the Maid of Tarth, leave her well alone. The dawn of the dragon is amongst us and those who are against her shall bask in her flames. I don’t doubt she will judge you fairly one day, my lord has come to me in the flames, and told me to give you a head start.”

Jaime had agreed to the red priest’s terms but didn’t intend on following them. He had travelled west to the smaller holding of Kayce, choosing not to risk being recognised at Lannisport by lions nor dragons. From there, he caught a small ship to Oldtown, where he would then travel onwards to Tarth. Passage east had tripled as people fled from Daenerys, terrified of what her dragons would do, but he could more than afford it. He had sold his hand to a goldsmith who had paid a handsome price. With his pocket full of coin and a night to spare, he sought refuge in an inn by the harbour, which was flooded with the forces of the Reach, but the man kept his hood up, his head down and continued to keep his stump hidden. I am not longer a lion, but more-so a flea bitten cat with a recurring case of mange.

Hours before his ship was due to leave eastwards, he supped on a stew of poultry and vegetables and nursed a tankard of ale that he stared into for he was surrounded by young men wearing the red archer of House Tarly.

“Did you remember that lumbering sow in chain and mail from Tarth? The hulking beast of a woman who showed up at camp many moons ago claiming she was looking for Sansa Stark?” Said one. The man did not see him smile, but he could hear the laughter in his voice.

“Did she finally get that good fucking she was begging for?” His friend replied. The man had thumped his fist on the table with anger, recalling the time he had wiped the smirk of Red Ronnet’s pinched face with his golden hand, but he was not that man anymore and his golden hand was probably being melted down as he sipped his pissy ale. The Tarly men looked over, not recognising the emaciated cripple with the lank yellow hair under the hood.

“Can I help you?” Said the one with the jesting voice. He had a squashed nose and ears like cauliflowers under his helm.

“No, not at all. I’m just cracking my knuckles.” Said the man, roughening his voice, hiding the dulcet tones he had been raised to speak with.

“Fucking prick, crack them quietly,” he called over before turning to his friend. “Anyway, they didn’t call her the Kingslayer’s whore for no reason. Ser Jaime lost his fucking mind along with his sword hand it seems, from sisters to sows….but better than that, she’s dead. Killed in battle up in the Riverlands, helping Westerland peasants try and fail at pushing back the Queen’s men. Luckily, her lord father’s got another wife for whelping now, hopefully, the next one won’t be such a fucking disappointment.” Killed. My satin and steel both gone. Without thinking, the man got up and turned to them as if he was the same golden man, in golden armour with a lion’s head helm and two sword hands.

“Helping Westerland peasants? A loyal whore then….” The spotty one smirked and lifted his head to glare at the man and reached for his sword. “I’d fuck off if I were you, old man.” And he did, defeated. He was not the man he once was.

He headed to his ship, the vomit rising in his throat. Cersei was guilty of every treason they laid at her feet, the Gods would have taken her soon enough. But Brienne? A cart of apples crashed into him in a daze, the merchant cursed and pointed at him but it just blended into the endless stream of colour and faces and noise. Not my wench. Not my Brienne. The noise and hustle-bustle of the streets of Oldtown just served to make his skin crawl after a period of near-solitude. After wandering the streets, feeling more alone in the world than he ever had before, his green moustachioed captain spied him; an absurdly-dressed man in pantaloons of fuchsia and jade who was ornamented more than the gaudiest of whores.

“You? You! Tarth you wanted? We leave soon. The winds are good.”

There is nothing there for me there now. “What’s your final destination?” Choked the man.

The captain looked at him queerly, as if he should have known from his garb. “Tyrosh, of course, my friend!”

“That’ll do.” choked the man. “Take me far from here.”

The green-haired man realised he had been staring into the same dusty corner for some time. He pulled on his breeches and tunic that lay on a single chair, both garments blooming with dyes of all shades and colours before struggling to put on his boots. Frustrated, he kicked it into the corner of the room. He knew not to dwell on the past, he had made the same mistake so many times before. My father didn't want anyone laughing at his Lions of Lannister, thank the gods he's dead.

Chapter Text

30,000 for the winner of the joust, 15,000 for second place. And 20,000 for the winner of the melee, with 12,000 set aside for the champion archer. Oh, 300 dragons for the mummers, that needed to be accounted for.

It didn’t seem too long ago that he’d be lying in his own fermented vomit, two lithe whores curled around him whilst he farted himself awake; but of late he had become a more temperate man. Here he was, assessing the books near a fortnight before he needed to. The poured through the window of the Hand’s Tower, a lodging he was pleased to reclaim. Even more so than the Rock, thought Tyrion; Casterly Rock never felt like his. As much as he wished his father would graciously name him heir, eventually taking it back did not taste as sweet as he thought he did. He edged over to the bay window, hoisting his legs up to the ledge to check the sun. High in the sky, his oil lamp had told it true. He had been working a while.

“My Lord Hand,” called a feeble voice through the door.

“Please come in.”

“The petitioners are starting to arrive, it is near noon. Will you treat with them in the throne room, or here?” whimpered Denys, a speckled servant with the longest neck he had ever seen in all of his travels. He laughed audibly.’In the throne room’? If only my sweet sister could be here to witness this, she’d combust a great deal more effectively than the wildfire she couldn’t even set off. He could never quite believe it himself, that he would remain standing, snarling in the midst of it all.

“Here, will be quite suitable. I don’t know how our Queen does it, it’s awfully uncomfortable.” Unsuccessfully of late.

“One boy-commander from the Stormlands has been here since the break of dawn, my Lord Hand, shall I ask the guards to bring him forth? Something about pirates?”

5000 for the feast, 5000 for Rhaenyra’s gown….5000, is that right? She’s barely bigger than me, how much fabric does she need…He slammed the blue bound book shut. Littlefinger once said Tyrion’s fingers of gold were suited to the task, which was true, but as the years went on her found it more tiresome.

“Why not? He sounds terribly eager. And pirates! I haven't heard a good pirate story for an entire moon.” He said as he turned, knocking over a lonesome, half-drunk goblet of Arbor Gold that he had forgotten about the night before.

The door knocked as Tyrion scrabbled around looking for something to mop the rapidly growing stain. “Come in.” he called in the voice of the Hand of the Queen, but could not stop himself from sounding audibly flustered as he flailed around with a silken necktie. Isn’t this what servants are for?

“Its Ser Galladon Storm, commander of the Stormlands, natural son of Lord Selwyn Tarth of the Straits of Tarth. I am here on the business of Lady Shireen Baratheon, Lady Paramount of the Stormlands and Warden of the East.”

“Yes, yes, yes! Come in.” Sighed Tyrion, mopping at the sodden papers in front of him with a cloth. Being around Queen Daenerys, First of Her Name, had made him long tired of such long titles.

“Now?” More boy than commander. He sounds as feeble as Denys.

“Yes, now, Ser Gallahad.”

The door swung open, “Ser Galladon, my Lord Hand.” Before Tyrion, bowed a ghost. Jaime, he said breathlessly.

“Are you quite alright, my lord?” He pointed a huge hand down the wine stain on the table. “Should I fetch someone to clear it?”

“No. Let us move over there instead.” He pointed to a bejewelled table of gold near the window, with dragons coiling their way up the legs; it was not the table that Tyrion was studying. He eyed the boy with every step he took, for he had seen that table every day for fifteen years, he had not seen this sight for near twenty. This is not my brother, he thought sadly as looked upon the boy's face. He was leonine and beautiful with Jaime’s sharp jaw, high cheekbones and hair as golden as his armour had been, but there was so much that was not him. The boy was brawn where Jaime was lean; standing near seven-foot and carrying himself like he had a barrel under each arm. The eyes though…green, but not Jaime’s green. More Summer Sea than wildfire. No, it was not Jaime. This was a bastard from the Stormlands, but definitely not one of Robert’s by-blows.

Sunlight streamed in the room, making the bastard Ser look otherworldly. He seemed nervous.

“Are you quite alright, Ser Galladon?” Tyrion pushed himself off his chair and joined the boy who was sitting awkwardly, his large hands clasped between his lap. The boy looked at him and smiled. Jaime. But it wasn’t his big brother, Jaime was dead.

“I apologise my Lord Hand, it was a long journey from Storm’s End, I rode through the night.”

“Such urgency. You’ve aroused my curiosity already.”

“It’s not your curiosity I need, my Lord Hand, but your help. Down on Shipbreaker’s Bay, we are plagued with Lysenis who are beginning to pillage the coastal villages. Before the death of one of the pirate-lords, we were left untouched, but the old rules do not apply any more. Lady Shireen has sent me to gather any suggestions you have for strengthening the region.” He passed him a letter bearing the wax stag of House Baratheon. “…And even more fighting men to protect the coastline if you believe that the Crownlands can provide them…”

“What measures have you taken already?” cut in Tyrion

“I have moved our fleet out into constant defensive positions, that will hopefully act as a deterrent for now, but we need more protection in case they touch down on our sands.”

“Exactly what I would have suggested myself, exactly as they had to do in- ”

“Lannisport.” Said the boy brightly

“Yes, Lannisport.” This boy was not Jaime, but he knew this boy. He had heard the stories of how a child had dragged Aurane Waters, his sister’s treacherous Grand Admiral to Lady Shireen’s feet. “I can certainly provide you with the Crown’s men, or some coin to hire some sellswords of your choosing?”

“I would prefer the Crown’s men. I would not trust sellswords when gold and Stormlander women are involved.”

“Good. I shall send an army down on the morrow for you to carve and station up as you please? I imagine 350 shall do nicely?”

"Is that all?" He said aghast.

“I personally thought it was extremely generous.”

“Of course, my Lord Hand. I just didn't expect that I'd be provided with what I needed so quickly.” He looked over to see that his oil lamp had barely burned since he last looked at it; he enjoyed it when words were not minced and petitioners were so easily pleased.

“Would you care for a drink, Ser Galladon?”

“A drink? Yes, my Lord Hand.” He said almost girlishly. He looked almost girlish. The more he stared, the more the boy’s head blended into Cersei’s. Best not to stare too much. He thought Cersei’s head would have brought him more joy than it had, it just made his self-loathing worse.

“If you will…” Tyrion shook the thought out of his head, and pointed to the carafe on the table. The boy nodded dutifully and stood; grandly dressed for a bastard. Well-worn, but expensive black high boots, with breeches of slate grey. He wore a sleeved jerkin of dark-blue suede with an embellished sun, moon and lightning bolt on his breast. His cape was butter-yellow, perhaps changed in haste, perhaps in respect for the house of his liege. Tyrion’s eyes scanned down the silk of his sunshine cape to his broad hip, where a cherrywood scabbard sat flush to his leg. From the top, protruded a lion’s head; roaring in defiance.

He would never forget it. He thought that there was only one sword in the world like it, but there were two. This was the second. He recalled the day he was summoned to this very room and permitted to take a look inside the oilcloth bundle that Tobho Mott had presented his Lord Father with. Less fussy than Widow’s Wail, but just as beautiful; the identical ripples of black and grey and Lannister red oscillating up the flat of the blade. And the pommel, a golden lion, with rubies in its eyes. Garnets had lacked the fire, apparently. Tyrion would have given anything for a Valyrian steel spoon with some measly, non-fiery garnets in the grip, but there was only enough Valyrian steel for one sword. For one son.

“Draw your sword.” The boy froze clasped it protectively and looked at him fearfully. His fingers placed the carafe back down on that table from which it was just lifted. How this big, burly man-boy could look at Tyrion with fear, he did not know.

“Do you wish to spar, my Lord Hand?” A fake smile crept across the boy’s handsome face, but he looked away.

“I don’t think it would be a fair fight.” Tyrion stood up and approached him “An old dwarf like me, against a strong young man wielding Valyrian steel. Please, Ser Galladon, draw your sword.” The boy looked like he had struck him but went ahead and pulled the length of it from his scabbard, the familiar colours rippling up and down the blade. My father’s sword, Jaime’s sword. What became of it?

“It was my sister’s sword.” He choked, his blue-green eyes brimming with uncertainty. He clasped the hilt for dear life.

“Ser Galladon, I do not suspect you of any misdeed, I am just curious of how a bastard from the Stormlands is wielding the Valyrian steel of a firstborn son from House Lannister. It sounds like a story I would like to hear.” He waddled past the boy and grabbed the carafe himself, leaving the boy standing like a wounded giant in the middle of a room that seemed too small for him.

“It was my sister’s sword. My sister was Lady Brienne, the Maid of Tarth. She travelled with the Kingslay-…your brother during the wars. He gave it to her.”

Returned safely to King’s Landing by Brienne, the Maid of Tarth. He recalled his brother’s White Book entry, definitely plausible, but he believed that it was not the whole tale.

He remembered Cersei, in her last days. He had gone to visit her out of spite on three occasions and once for the love he bore. She would not stop blathering about her children or the wildfire in her madness, but most of all she would not stop talking about Jaime. “He would not abandon me, he would not leave me, not for a great beast of a woman in man’s mail.” But it seemed their brother had. The last they had heard, he was riding off with the Evenstar's daughter, the Lady Brienne. Tyrion had often thought about why he would, for sixteen years he wondered what would make him abandon his duty and abandon his Cersei. Finally, the answer was before him. Standing right before him and casting him in shadow.

“You’re not telling it completely true, Ser Galladon.” The boy sheathed the sword, but continued to wrap his fingers around it. His face was panic and anger and fear and sadness, all at once. His sharp chin quivered before he spoke.

“I am, I swear to you, my Lord Hand. Ser Jaime Lannister ga-”

“Gave the sword to your mother. Brienne of Tarth.”

Chapter Text

“I have to say, I never had  the pleasure of knowing your mother, but I adore her. I wish I sired you myself!” thumping his hammy, little fist on the table. “She drove my sister absolutely, raving mad. The was the last she heard of Jaime, him running off into the Riverlands with an absurd, lumbering beast who dressed in man’s mail.” He roared with laughter, which blended into a hiccup. Three hours before he had been claiming the benefits of temperance, but Galladon could suppose that this situation would drive the most devout of septons to drink. Perhaps it would have been better to come straight into the room saying “Hello Nuncle Imp, I am Ser Galladon Lannister, the trueborn son of Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne of Tarth. Do you like my sword?”. Instead, he got in a muddle at the gate of the Red Keep amongst the throngs of petitioners that he bundled his cape of white into his pack and forgot the large, pointed clue on his hip. Stupid, stupid, stupid. His first Maester always told him he was stupid, until Lord Selwyn sent him back to the Citadel. He struggled to read the simplest of books and tomes and his letters seemed to spill out on the page in an odds-and-ends stew of mangled Common Tongue. He always thought he had a different intelligence though, a practical intelligence, but all of his wits had taken leave. Nothing had been the same since he found out his father wasn’t actually his father at all.

 Nuncle Imp had taken his news on the chin, opting to take the carafe instead of pouring it into the goblet. He had sent for a gangly servant to announce to a string of lesser lords and famished peasants who waited outside the gate that he would not be treating with anyone today, but he did provide a bed and a hot meal for those who had travelled far. “I don’t think I’ll be ready for them tomorrow.” he had said, shaking his blond and black-streaked head. They had drank and feasted on roasted quail, honied parsnips and rich, dark fruit cake. Galladon had lapped up the stories of his father’s youth greedier than the food.

Tyrion continued to laugh at the absurdity of the situation but all Galladon could do was stare blankly. Is this what my mother had to contend with? Laughing at the prospect of someone loving her? His sisters weren’t terribly pretty, he knew that. They were Tarths; thick waists, thick wrists, yellow coloured hair and a jaw that did not sit correctly on a woman. All they had inherited from the petite and comely Lady Buckler of Bronzegate were pinkish cheeks and melodious voices. As a result of Lord Selwyn’s progressive daughter-rearing, they were strong, warriors themselves. Along with their strong limbs, they had a sharp wit and a sharper tongue. But a kind heart too. I’d rather someone kind and wise even if they were not comely. I’d rather that than a simple-minded slip of a thing. His discontent must have been obvious for Tyrion leant forward on his elbows, his beady black eye filled with regret.

“I apologise, when I heard my brother was last seen with her, I sought out what I could. It seems your mother was kind and good, and decent enough to wield that lionsword of yours. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to roam the Seven Kingdoms with no banners in times of war.” He held his hands up high, but they would barely clasp over Galladon’s hulking shoulders. “The absurd, lumbering beast…a direct quotation from the mouth of my vile sister, my dear boy.”

Cersei. Cersei, Cersei. Her name dripped off the tongue like honey but Galladon knew she was nowhere near as sweet. She would have burned the city to the ground if it was not for their new Queen’s arrival. That was not the only sin he thought of. The more he thought of Cersei the more his stomach churned, the more he found it difficult to talk about his own sisters. The more he felt awful for admiring his own sisters.

“What was she like, Cersei?” He said, his voice as tiny as the mice that gently scurried under the boards beneath them.

“You know the stories, don’t you Galladon?” He clenched his goblet and furrowed his brows. The stories of his father and his sister carrying out a love affair since they were children; him siring her children. My siblings.

“Was there definitely any truth to them?” Said Galladon, despite knowing the answer already.

“You’re dense enough to stroll in here looking at pretty as my vile sister with a lion-headed sword on your hip but I’m sure you’re not naive enough to not know the answer to that.” He poured another goblet and handed it to him. His face softened “…but Cersei? Beautiful and she loved her children, that could not be denied- but vengeful and stupid; she lacked the wits to be truly ambitious. And vain, incredibly vain. I’d imagine she latched onto Jaime because fucking him was the closest she could get to fucking herself. I’d imagine Jaime felt the same.” The wine swirled in Galladon’s stomach.

“My mother wasn’t beautiful but he-”

“Your mother was probably everything my dear brother wanted to be; honourable, good, just…that’s probably why he latched onto her.” He smiled gently, clumsily placing his wine down on the ornate tabletop and popping a fig from an oakwood sweet dish into his mouth.

“I heard she had pretty eyes, though, blue and big.…My Lord F-, Grandfather says.” Galladon noticed he was slurring his words himself as if he was watching himself from the corner of the dimly lit room. It was past nightfall now, and the candles burned low.

“Jaime had good enough looks for both you and your mother. You’re the image of him. There are paintings of his likeness back in Casterly Rock that I wish I could show you. Maybe I will.”

Galladon couldn’t think of anything he’d like to see more. “I want to show you something.” He hoisted all ten and seven stone of him off the chair and ambled over to The Lord Hand’s desk; he had cast his belongings beside it when Tyrion awkwardly clasped his hand many wineskins ago.

Her reached inside his pack and pulled out his father’s cloak; it spilt out of the jute sack like fresh cream, despite the age of it. He strode back to where they were seated, his path jagged, and handed it to Tyrion.

“Is this…?” He inquired, stroking it like the first time Galladon held it himself.

“It is. It has another function as well, though, they didn’t have a maiden’s cloak so they used this. My Grandsire told me.”

“Maiden’s cloak?” Tyron looked up, his eyes were still and steady but his fingers kept running over the cloth.

“They were wed, Lord Tyrion. A tumbledown sept in the Riverlands, a crippled septon…” said Galladon warmly, but when Tyrion looked up, his face did not match the inviting fire that was Galladon’s. Instead, it cackled wickedly, like embers were spluttering and about to go out. He smirked, ever-so-slightly.

“I believe you are Jaime’s. I can look at you and see plain as day that you are my nephew. You’re nearly as pretty as sweet Cersei herself, but you can’t expect me to believe that you are trueborn. A stupid thing to claim, the Dragon Queen would have your head in place of his.”

“But-” Tyrion cut him off before he could finish.

“I’d imagine this romantic Riverlands wedding was an invention of Lord Selwyn, to make him feel better that his daughter warmed the bed of the Kingslayer.” he said matter-of-factly, reaching for another fig, “I would not believe it, Ser Galladon. Baseborn or not, you are my blood.”

“It’s the truth.” Stated Galladon, aghast. Standing up sharply, he staggered over him; as tall as the Hightower of Oldtown; as thick as the walls of Harrenhal.

Tyrion glanced up, nonplussed by his mass nor pleas. “Well, let us suppose it is the truth. I wasn’t invited to this wedding. Neither were the other lords of the Westerlands. Why should they accept you as their liege? There is also the slight problem of your sire being a member of the Kingsguard, forbidden to marry. If this elopement did take place, the validity of the marriage would be queried and-”

“Who said anything about lieges? Is that why you think I’m here? To claim some overdue birthright?”

“Why on earth else would you be here claiming such nonsense?” The Imp fired back, the tone of a merry drinking partner, well and truly gone from his voice. “Or were you genuinely here to discuss the Lyseni pirates and this is all a fantastic coincidence?”

I thought it was Daenerys who would look at me with suspicion. The prospect of titles and birthrights did not occur to him, mainly because he was raised knowing full well he was not entitled to any. Galladon leant forward and gripped the table tightly.

“…because I wanted to speak to someone who would tell me about a man who bought him his first pony and sparred with him and visited him all the way from King’s Landing to the Rock. Because I grew up having older children tell me that that same man was going to come and steal my hand whilst I slept, and when I began my schooling, I learned that he was the vilest, dishonourable man who ever lived.”

Galladon turned the table over in anger, sending glass and papers and droplets of Dornish Red falling to the floor like rain. The Imp, coiled back in his seat, shielding his eyes.

“Because I learned that that exact, same man was my father.” he roared, clenching his fists as salty tears of anger rolled down his face. All Tyrion could do was watch in horror; his mismatched eyes scanning from the door to Oathkeeper. Back and forth. Back and forth. He fears me.

“I was sick of hearing about the Kingslayer. I just wanted to know about Ser Jaime Lannister.” He tried to soften his voice but it sounded coarse as mail. He rubbed his eyes with his great paws. “And now I do. So thank you.” He grabbed his father’s cloak from the Imp’s hands and stormed out the door. He did not want Casterly Rock or a doublet with a roaring lion; his heart ached for home. His real home.

As he began his descent down the staircase, the walls began to close in on him; beating and pulsating. He felt like he was in the stomach cavity of a giant beast.  A small voice called behind him and kept calling; sounding more desperate with every step but Galladon felt desperate and too scared to stop. This was not my Lady Mother’s wish, he thought, I have betrayed her with every stride from Tarth.

 “Please, don’t go, my nephew.” Nephew. As the gentleness of Lord Tyrion’s voice rang through the air, something made Galladon stop and turn. The dwarf appeared around the bend of the tower seconds later; his waddle coming to a halt. He was panting in short, deep breaths like an old hound in red silks. “I don’t care about the details of your birth, you are my kin, please.”

“I must. But I am no bastard, my Lord Hand. My parents were wed. My mother would not lie, you have spoken yourself of her honour and good heart.” He kept on walking rhythmically down the stairs, the sound bouncing around the curves and narrow tower. He did take care, despite his anger, after remembering that the tower had been finished in haste. Lord Tyrion had told him how Cersei had destroyed it with wildfire when searching for him. It had been intended to be built a new, but Tyrion opted to renovate the skeleton structure instead.

“I believe you, I believe you!”

Galladon turned once more. “No, you don’t.”

“Maybe I don’t. But I don’t…not believe you either. Who could possibly know what happened those years ago? The noble, good men of those days whose word was gold are dead or mad. I will never know, for I was not even here. I just know a Lion stands before me. That’s what I believe.”

He accepts me. The dwarf had been kind until the mention the prospect of his parent’s marriage after all. They stood awkwardly on the stairs for some time, Tyrion now towering over Galladon.

“Sorry about the table.” No, you’re not.

“Oh, I hated it anyway. Worst table I’ve ever sat at. He said, beaming down at him, still out of breath “Look at you now, I thought you were going to devour me and now you are as placid as a lake.”

“There is still time," muttered Galladon. “I’ll be making haste back Storm’s End now.”

“It’s awfully late to start that journey. I have something I want to show you.”

“How do you know that I want to see it?”

“You will,” he said knowingly. “Now, put your cloak on, you will catch a chill.”

 They wound across the courtyard, passing the pigsty, the stables and the barracks of the Gold Cloaks. Up the Serpentine Stairs until they came to another tower.

“Where are we?” Inquired Galladon, for it looked like any of the other red towers that were jewelled in the Red Keep’s great walls. He bent his head down to the little man who stared up at him, grinning.

“The White Sword Tower, the residence of the Queensguard.”

The once-residence of the Kingsguard. “Won’t the Queensguard wonder why you are taking me up there? The stableboy has already looked at me funny.”

“I’d imagine you get funny looks wherever you go. And no, the Queen doesn’t travel without them. They are with her and her daughters in Dragonstone. Come.”

They only had to climb a flight of stairs, more stable than the last, before reaching what Tyrion wanted them to find. They pushed open the door to arrive in a round, white room with bleached tapestries. In the middle of the room, three giant stallions held up a table of weirwood, carved into the likeness of a shield. In the middle of that table, sat a book. The Book of Brothers? Galladon gripped the tails of his white cloak, feeling like a mummer.

 “Go on then,” mumbled Tyrion. “Although I’d prefer it if you didn’t turn this table over.” Ha. Galladon approached the tome gingerly, feeling scared to open it. He looked to Tyrion for approval, who nodded. He carefully pulled apart the pages until he found what he was looking for. His eyes focussed on the golden lion on a crimson field adjacent to the clear white shield of the Kingsguard before daring to scan down the page. He devoured the first part, in neat and elegant hand, but skimmed over the word Kingslayer. It hurt to read, but he continued.

Returned safely to King’s Landing by Brienne, the Maid of Tarth, he read. “Lord Tyrion, my mother! He wrote about my mother!” to which the dwarf called, “I knew you would want to see it.” as he shuffled on his nimble feet. 

Galladon stroked the spidery writing, noting the difference between the two passages of text. The awkward hand may have come after his maiming and it was plain that his father was not as skilled with his left hand as he. How did he fight without his sword hand? As his thick finger graced the delicate page, he became tied to the person within it with each ascender and descender.

Successfully negotiated the return of Riverrun to House Frey on the orders of King Tommen, first of his name. Went missing in the Riverlands shortly before the ascent of Queen Daenerys, first of her name.

“What do you know of me, Ser Galladon?”

“You’re the son of Lord Tywin Lannister, the youngest, but the heir. When in exile from the Usurper’s Dogs, you travelled with the Mummer’s Dragon before joining Queen Daenerys who then ruled over the Narrow Sea and-” he tried his best to echo the histories as his Maester had taught him.

“What did I do to my house?” Is this a trick?

“You became Lord of Casterly Rock when Queen Daenerys crossed the Narrow Sea?” He said, unsure.

“As was my right. But I am not asking of the governance of my house, but instead what I did to it. What did I do to my sister, however vile she was? What did I allow to happen to my kinsman who happened to be loyal to their liege and carried a displeasing name? Did I plead Queen Daenerys for my brother’s pardon, in the hope that he may appear again? No.” No, no no, he kept repeating as he waddled over the window and peeped over the ledge into the night. “It seems you’re all I have, Ser Galladon,” he said, after some time, before turning to face him.

 “You came to King’s Landing to hear of your father, I want you to stay in King’s Landing so I can hear more of you.” He implored, an earnest smile creaking up his scar-crumpled face.

“How can I stay here? The Queen would-” feed me to the dragons, I’m sure.

“The Queen would not have to know anything. But you must remember, even if you are right and you are trueborn, you cannot be his. Not whilst Daenerys reigns. You can’t even be his and baseborn, for as long as you are here either. But if you stay as Ser Storm, natural son of Lord Selwyn, I can find a position for you here. The City Watch, perhaps? Your father wore white, you can wear gold. I can just imagine the thieves and rapers of King’s Landing running in fear of you.” he gushed, beaming with what seemed like pride.

“The City Watch?” Bastards could rise high in the City Watch, he had read. Not that he was one.

“The Queensguard would be mildly inappropriate, don’t you think?” He quirked an eyebrow and Galladon allowed himself to snigger darkly, before remembering where he was, who he was with.

“I don’t know.” Galladon closed the White Book and clutched his scabbard as if it was a child’s comfort cloth.

“You’ll have all night to think.” The dwarf began to wander away, before glancing back at him one last time. “But even if you return to Storm’s End, thank you.”

“For what?” Called Galladon after time.

Lord Tyrion smiled once more and left him standing at the brilliant white table. Did my father once stand, as I am now? Greedily, he opened the book, wanting to read that page once more. This time, he would not flinch at the word Kingslayer.

Chapter Text

“It was not the best flying conditions today, my daughters.” Queen Daenerys shouted, over the scuffle of Drogon’s claws on the tile below as he halted to a stop.

“Really?” Called Viserra, another dragon-rider, circling above her; her own magnificent beast beating its orange-yellow wings as he steadied himself to a landing. Once touched down, she looked over to her sister and mother on the black beast’s back and raised an eyebrow.

“Could we have not waited a day for the storm to pass?” The Maester had told them the skies would be calmer in the morning, after all.

Summer storms had clouded the skies of the Crownlands, drenching the Silver Queen herself from the roots of her locks to the toes of her soft, blue riding boots. She unseated herself from Drogon and slid down his scaled underbelly, before turning to nuzzle him with her cheek. It was almost comical, as her tiny mother was only just big as Drogon’s giant cage of a head. They were right to call her the Mother of Dragons, she loves them more than us. Queen Daenerys extended a hand to Drogon’s other rider, her eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, steadying her as she slid. When Rhaenyra’s feet touched the ground, she was pulled back sharply as Daenerys walked ten paces back to give Drogon adequate room to take flight again. Viserra stayed put on Rhaegal’s back, leaning forward on her belly and clutching him tightly, to prevent herself from being thrown into the air by the winds of Drogon’s colossal wings.

Her mother, the Queen looked up at him proudly as the black shadow set off. Daenerys had not wished to rebuild the tragic Dragonpit; opting for them to roam free, as a means to not curtail their growth. Instead, she had labourers convert the high, slated roof of the Maidenvault to a flat surface where their dragons could land and fly again safely, but soon Drogon would outgrow it. 

Viserra never really wanted to land on a clear day but felt nervous when the weather was rough. She always thought of poor Luke Velaryon, and how he could have escaped his fate had the weather been more pleasant; not that she would ever have anyone giving chase to her on dragonback. Their Targaryen dragons were the only ones in the world. False Targaryens had crawled out the woodwork, and so had false dragons. Many an Essosi master had claimed they too birthed dragons, but they continuously turned out to be overgrown lizard-lions or strange breeds of bird.

“I overstayed in Dragonstone, Rhaenyra’s nameday tourney is merely days away. We must prepare.” She squeezed Rhaenyra’s hand tightly.

“We have been preparing in Dragonstone for a moon. Wars have had less preparation Rhaenyra’s ten and seventh name day.”

“The realm would be a better place if we planned for merriment as much as battle. My brother Rhaegar was the last Crown Prince of Dragonstone, and I have no memories of him. I wish to have many happy ones of my daughter.” She looked at both her children earnestly and clasped Rhae’s hands.

“Shall we go, mother?” said Rhaenyra dully. Gods, she may not have a dragon of her own, but she’s having plenty of golden ones spent on her. She could at least be bloody grateful about it. Viserra pulled a face.

“Will you be joining, Viserra?” said the Queen

“I want to see Grey Worm.”

“Whatever for?”

“I haven’t trained since we left King’s Landing, you would not allow it on Dragonstone.”

“Because gods forbid you will ever need to use that spear to defend yourself, I wanted time with my daughters with no distractions- especially as Rhaenyra will be departing for Dragonstone until her ascent soon.” She rolled her eyes, but her face was not irate. “You may visit Grey Worm, but I wish for you to sup with us later. Is that agreeable?”

“Extremely, Mother.” She leapt off Rhaegal like a cat, landing on all fours. Rhaegal was still much smaller than his black brother so the descent from his back was not the most arduous. She kissed her on the cheek, tasting her rain-soaked skin before looking to her sister.

“You could have ridden with me!” Said the littlest Princess chirpily, combing her fingers through her silver hair. The choppy and rough winds over Blackwater Bay had turned her usual silken curtain into a cluster of shredded rags.

Their mother smiled warmly. “I’ll leave you girls,” Queen Daenerys announced “I shall be in the Throne Room once I have bathed and rested, Rhaenyra. It will be fitting if you join me.” She let go of her hand, leaving the elder sister looking at the younger sourly, her deep purple eyes boring into her.

“I meant….you always ride with mother!” she pouted, trying to break her icy exterior. “I’d like some company for once.” But as she remained as blank and cold as the Wall and shook her head grimly.

“Given the weather, I felt safer in mother’s hands than yours.” sighed the Crown Princess Rhaenyra.

Oh well. She knew better than to ask. Very occasionally, her elder sister would show her kindness but it would be in the strangest of ways. A new gown in her favourite hue or jewelled haircomb, delivered to her by her handmaiden; never herself. Or even silently creeping into her chambers to embrace her in bed and braid her hair; saying nothing all the while. After these gestures of sisterly love and sweetness, she would pretend like nothing had happened and would be back to her usual haughty self.

Of course, there was no sisterly love where it concerned the dragons. Viserra’s Rhaegal was meant for Rhaenyra. Her mother had said so herself and had even named her for Rhaegal. This detail had hurt her sister, even more, when the green beast tossed her off of his horned back and bowed to Viserra instead. She could picture her chubby pink hand outstretched, when she was no more than six, reaching out and stroking his snout. The beast clicked and purred. Rhaenyra looked the real dragon, only a year elder, her face contorted in fury.

She had changed very little since that day, Viserra could count the occasions on one hand where Rhaenyra had not been sulky and ill-tempered. At the time, their mother had tried to explain that once a dragon had chosen its rider, it was been sealed. Rhaenyra had been elated when Drogon produced an ill-fated cluster of eggs, but her little emerald-winged hatchling, Greengrace, hadn’t lived more than a day.

"She's a sellsword’s daughter, a bastard one at that. Why does she get a dragon? Why does the dwarf get one too?” She had wept and wailed to the Queen before she had reached out and struck her across her golden face. She had never spoken ill of her again in front of Daenerys, but Viserra wouldn’t have minded if she did. I am a sellsword’s, bastard daughter. But Rhae is a trueborn dragon, a Princess of Dragonstone, a dragon sister, but with no dragon of her own, she thought. She couldn't think of anything sadder, even being a sellsword’s bastard daughter. After all, she had been legitimised by her mother but even the Queen’s will could not bend a dragon to accept Rhaenyra like the smallfolk had accepted her. She stroked Rhaegal under his great chin; he clicked and purred like the first time she had touched him. Fly, she told him, but she did not have to open her mouth. He roared and took flight, sending their skirts whirling with every flap of his wings.

The first Rhaenyra was cheered as the Realm's Delight, but this Rhaenyra was seen as a mongrel. Back in Meereen, she was the Harpy and the Dragon; a great and cherished beauty. Here her foreign gods and foreign ways were looked on with suspicion, and Rhaenyra herself did not like their western ways. She had spent the majority of her life with her Father in the Great Pyramid her mother began her reign in, only coming to King’s Landing when she was of age. The smallfolk told stories of her being a sorceress, using the spells of the east to make her more beautiful. Viserra told her she should be flattered; that was until the mocking of her thick accenting started, and pinken Westerosi mummers began coating themselves with dust and browngrease to pretend to be her in plays.

 “I must go.” She said, in mock-haste. She didn’t have anywhere to be urgently at all.

“I will see you at supper later, won’t I dear sister?” Implored Viserra, raising a hand to her brightly-clad shoulder, only for her to recoil.

“I suppose. Enjoy your training, sister," she said insincerely, smoothing her blue skirts and turning on her heel.

Her young Pentoshi handmaidens; Laenor, a sandy-haired girl of twelve and Olys, a peaky-looking thing, a year younger, were sat waiting for Viserra when she entered her chambers. Immediately, they stood up, hands clasped in front of them.

“How was your journey, my princess?” Laenor asked, approaching her with her head bowed. Olys took a silken cloak from her dresser and draped it over Viserra's shoulders, squeaking noises of concern.

“Wet.” She laughed and draped the fabric around her. “Could you please draw me a bath, Laenor?” Laenor nodded as if she had bestowed a great honour on her and set upon her task. She filled Viserra’s personal tub of soft pink marble with scalding-hot water and petals and eased her into it, whilst Olys even took the time to fold her damp and dirty clothes whilst she adjusted to the heat. Laenor then scrubbed her limbs with a pumice stone until she was pink and massaged her skin with oils of spiceflower and cinnamon until she shone. Once she had dried, they both watched as Viserra pulled on a tunic, practical breeches of dark red leather and glossy pair of high boots. Laenor then meticulously wove her silver hair into dozens of tiny braids, slick with the same oil so it would remain tight to her head, exposing her scalp to the hot sun. When loose, her hair fell down to her slender hips beautifully, but Viserra did not like it getting in the way of training. She often wanted to cut it, but her mother had forbade her, joking she had lost her hair twice in her youth to dragonflame and did not want to see good Valyrian hair go to waste.

“Thank you.” She smiled, admiring their handwork in the looking glass.

“My pleasure, my princess.” Laenor knelt before her. Viserra reached out to squeeze her hand gently.

“Please, both of you. Go take a walk or see your friends or take some time to eat or rest. I shan’t be needing you for the rest of today.”

“But my princess, I-” Olys begged, her pale eyebrows raised.

“I command it, go.”

The handmaidens left in a whirl of giggles and graciousness, leaving Viserra alone. She was thankful. An entire moon of Rhaenyra being Rhaenyra and their mother coaxing them into getting along had been exhausting. She took a while to lay on the bed, enjoying her chambers. Her bookshelves heaving with familiar and well-thumbed tomes; the tapestry of a sun setting over an emerald-green forest and her silk sleeping sheets of red and orange. Her haven was warm and cosy, not like Rhaenyra’s Dragonstone. Rich with Targaryen history, but utterly depressing. The island seemed cold and grey and wind-beaten even in the height of summer. She had decided it suited Rhaenyra much better than King’s Landing ever did.

 She nearly drifted off into a slumber, sleepy from the intoxicating scents she had been massaged with, before realising her promise to meet with Grey Worm as soon as she returned. He had been training her in spear for the past year after she became bored of learning tongues with Maester Yarwyn in her spare time. Sliding herself off the bed with more difficulty than she slid off her dragon earlier, she grabbed the spear he had given her and made her way out of Maegor’s Holdfast. An abundance of Black Cloaks, the Targaryen Household guards, were patrolling the halls in lieu of the Kingsguard travelling back from Dragonstone. They grinned excitedly as they saw her, but bowed their heads graciously straight afterwards.

Skipping down the Serpentine Steps, she rubbed her eyes and took some time to enjoy the simple noises of the middle bailey. The blacksmith shoeing horses; the giggles of the pages and squires and pigs oinking in their sty, just as she remembered. The only thing that seemed strange to her was a huge and hulking Gold Cloak who she did not know, dancing around with an enamelled red sword. Who is that?

"Your flank is completely unprotected.” She called as she approached him, her feet crunching against the gravel.

"My flank?" He turned around, alarmed; sheathing his sword abruptly and knotting a strange, thick strip of leather over the pommel. He does not know who I am. She liked that. Walking closer to him, she smiled her most dazzling smile but realised it must pale in comparison to his. He had a beautiful face that was seldom found on such a terrifying build. His eyes were the deep green of the sea and sun-speckled freckles dusted his high cheekbones. His hair, golden as the cloak on his back, was tied up in a knot on his head, fastened with tan leather. Her stomach fluttered as he looked at her queerly, but she was no blushing maid. She had known men before, and she liked men very much.

"Yes. Your flank, Ser. Anyone could come up to you and poke you full of tiny holes.”

“Are you going to poke me full of holes?” He sighed, pointing at the spear on her back, giving her a brilliant smile that near knocked her over.

“Maybe.” She laughed, stroking one of her braids to compose herself. “But lightness aside, your armour has a severe weakness where shoulder and breastplate meet." She raised her finger to his shoulder, it taking all of her stretch to reach it.

He turned around and studied it, his finger plunging into the gap where his flesh was exposed.

“Indeed, you’re right. I did notice myself that it didn’t seem sufficient when they fitted me for it. Thank you for echoing my concerns, my lady." He said, most sincerely. Strange, he listens. I expected him to tell me that my feistiness was charming.

"Are you skiving from patrol, Ser?” The weather was most pleasant on the ground, the sun beating down on them and a cool breeze passing through the air. No one could blame a workshy watchman for wanting to take a moment to enjoy it.

"I had a meeting with the Hand of the Queen," he replied, pointing over to the Hand's Tower "I am about to return to the River Gate. The Queen wants to make sure unsavoury characters are inspected before entering the capital in the coming days.” He clasped his golden helm and put it under one strong arm.

My Queen mother is most thorough. “Meeting with the Hand? Even the Commander of the City Watch has to make do with the Master of Laws. You must be a wonderful watchman."

He looked embarrassed, and despite his size, Viserra realised how young he was. Originally she thought him older but his stature was deceiving and they were probably the same age. A blushing green boy!

"I have been at the barracks for less than a moon. I am not so important."

"That's why I have not seen you before! I have been away for a while.” Will he guess where I have been? Will the penny drop? It was well-known that the Queen and her two daughters, maids of five-and-ten and six-and-ten were on Dragonstone but he carried on looking at her in wonder. His smile was wide and beautiful.

”...are you participating in the tourney, Ser…? I know the rest of the Gold Cloaks have been quite excited, they are a cocky lot.”

"Ser Galladon." He continued to blush. "And partly, my lady. I have never been trained in the art of jousting, but I believe I will be taking part in the melee."

"The art of jousting, that's an interesting way to describe two men poking each other with big sticks on horseback, Ser Galladon.”

"I doubt that could be applied the melee either. There is little art in beating a man into submission with a well-shaped piece of steel, my lady."

"You should take part in the lists," she studied his arms, they were covered by gauntlets and mail but she knew were pure muscle underneath. "I hear the prize is substantial, more than you earn in a year, and all you need to do is poke more men with sticks than anyone else.”

“I doubt it would be that simple, I’m not the most natural horseman. Where I come from, we are taught to row and handle sails before we trot and canter.”

“Where is that?”

“Tarth, my lady.”

A small island in the middle of the Narrow Sea, beautiful waters surrounded it. Viserra had flown over it many times before. “I’ve never been.”

“Maybe we’ll go one day.” He said jestingly, without missing a beat. He put his golden helm on his golden head, looking down on her in such a way that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise.

"What's your name, my lady?”

"Serra." It was technically true. Her mother always called her Serra when she was in a good mood, although those were becoming less and less frequent. Rhaenyra hadn’t called her that since her sixth nameday. Generally, she referred to her sister as ‘she’, ‘her’ and ‘you’.

"Lady Serra, will you be participating tomorrow?" He pointed to the spear that was strapped to her back.

"No, but I'll be watching." She backed away, her head bowed her head to him. "I must take my leave now Ser, I have work to be-”

He cut in, ”If I do, maybe I'll ask for your favour, Lady Serra?" He definitely does not know who I am.

"Maybe I'll give it to you."

“Well, if I win, I may crown you my Queen of Love and Beauty.” She smirked, but internally rolled her eyes. She was dreading the moment in the Tourney where a garland of red would be placed in her lap, or her fairer Mother’s or even one of the striking ladies-in-waiting popular at court; but never Rhaenyra’s.

“It would be wasted on me, Ser. The Crown Princess deserves it on her nameday, both court and the smallfolk have no love for her, and for no good reason.” It was true. Rhaenyra may be ghastly to her, but she had tried her best to win them over with food and charity. Unfortunately, everything she did was looked on with suspicion. Her mother had made a grave error in bringing the most dishonourable of Dothraki horselords west with her. Now, everyone from the far East, be them Meereenese or YiTish or from the Shadowlands of Asshai, were potentially dangerous and definitely not to be trusted.

“I doubt it will be up to me to give it to her, but I hope someone does. I have heard she is most lovely.” Really?

“Oh, she is. She is most kind to me when I have been in her presence.” That’s the biggest lie you’ve told all day, Viserra.

“Not as lovely as you, I’m sure, Lady Serra.” He bowed to her. “Please excuse me, I must return to the River Gate.”

“Of course. Farewell, Ser Galladon.” 

He walked away in large strides, tilting his head repeatedly to look back at her and grin before he disappeared under the portcullis. Poor boy. She shook her head. Someone would probably inform of the truth later, when he spoke of a peasant girl with braided silver hair. Both the Gold and White knew her and enjoyed her, and would turn a blind eye to her sneaking out in peasants dress to meet gallant hedge knights or to drink sour red in the most unsavoury of taverns. They would sometimes seek her out and sneak her back into the Holdfast under a roughspun cloak. As a result of her excursions; the smallfolk called her Fair Viserra and loved her, a courtesy they obviously did not extend to their future Queen.  

She found the stocky Master-at-Arms, in the main yard, drilling the children of the Red Keep. They must have finished their training session, for he stood with one hand pressed to his smooth cheek, shaking his head as young-looking pages squabbled as they placed their tourney swords back in the holders.

“This one expected you earlier, my princess." He said, without turning.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Your scent, my princess.” His stoic face resembled something close to a grin under his prickled helm. “Why do you smile, my princess? These young boys are useless, but soon they will be great warriors.”

I don’t care about these boys. She blushed herself as she pulled the spear from her back.

“Nothing at all, Grey Worm. Please, shall we begin?”

Chapter Text

Galladon had just put his head down in his sleeping cot when Arron Uller called for him in his Dornish lilt. He had not known him very long, but apparently his accent had not softened in all of the ten years he had been north of Dorne. When on the Small Council, his father Lord Ulwyck had brought him as a babe with a view to him being fostered with other nobles' children at King's Landing as a means to strengthen the relationship between Dorne and the Crown. Unfortunately for Lord Ulwyck, he grew up disliking letters and preferred to spar in the yard with the peasants instead. When his father grew infirm and returned to Hellholt, he begged to stay. Eventually, he found himself squiring for the knights in the City Watch. Galladon had only spent a month here but had noted rather quickly that the barracks of the Gold Cloaks seemed to attract an array of misfits. Highborns, lowborns, those who were hedge knights in another life and those who would one day have fiefs of their own, all seemed to live and work together.

“Ser Galladon? Ser?" The little lordling called once more. And again, and again, and again, until two molten brown eyes peered at him, less than a foot away from his face.

"Yes, Arron.” Grumbled Galladon, between yawns, squelching his heavy head against the down-filled pillow.

"Cabbage the kitchenboy brought me this, it's meant for you.” He whispered intensely. Galladon sat upright and rubbed his eyes.

A whole suckling pig? A platter of pepper blackened trout? A board of soft cheese and figs and cold cured venison? Sadly not. Even a bastard son of a lesser Lord ate better than the majority of the watchmen of Kings Landing, but at least his earnings were enough for ale after patrol. Some of the Gold Cloaks would rather spend it on companionship, but that was never his way.

He had never known a woman. He was up to his shoulders in pretty serving girls back in Tarth but had never wanted to cause them dishonour. There would be no repercussions for a lust-blooded highborn bastard, but a lowborn girl with his seed in her belly would be more shunned than she was already. That was deterrence enough for him. His father had always said he would make a matrilineal match for him, like the lesser-housed second son who had wed Lady Sansa in the North- all of their wolf-pups Starks with hair like fire. “Like Lady Shireen?” He had asked his then-Father, eagerly, finding both sides of her face comely in their own way. His father had laughed and explained to him kindly that she was much older and already wed, anyway.

Arron placed something next to Galladon, then jumped back excitedly. His shoeless feet skidded across the smooth floor; the small Dornish lad seemed to slide everywhere like a particularly slippery otter, but at least he was quick. He was the youngest lad to have ever avoided Galladon's blows with a morningstar.

“We restrain and retain so they can receive the Queen’s Justice,” Commander Blackwood had said to him wisely. The tall, surly man with the hooked nose was fiercely loyal to Queen Daenerys for they shared the same blood. “We are here to protect the people and to give them a fair trial, not to kill them on first sight.” He went on. “In the time of the Usurper, a hungry thief with twelve children to feed would lose his head for stealing a smoked ham. That is not Queen Daenerys’ way.”

Instead, they used stubby wooden cudgels and short throwing spears that were there to look imposing rather than be used as intended. However, most Gold Cloaks, even the most inept, were half-decent with a spear if they ever needed to use it. They were drilled by Unsullied as soon as they joined, becoming trained in the art of spearmanship. As a result, his mother's sword had been hidden carefully beneath the boards, under his cot. He had brought it out a few times, when it was quieter, but the red blade drew attention even with the pommel concealed in thick leather bindings.

"What is it?" Galladon picked up the messily wrapped object that Arron had placed beside him. It was small enough to fit in one hand and did not look offensive, but he was unsure about opening it. Is it from Lord Tyrion? Should I open this here? He had made so many missteps since he had arrived at the Red Keep, but the boy looked at him expectantly, his hands clasped together.

"I'm not sure, Arron." He stared at it some more. It does not look like it is from Tyrion.

"Ser, the kitchenboy was adamant that you need to open it right away." He scratched his hairless chin.

Galladon gingerly tore at the corners of the parchment that the package was wrapped in before feeling something hard and cold against his calloused fingertips. Inside was a glossy wooden box, possibly cherrywood. He thumbed it curiously, as it became apparent that it definitely was not something from Tyrion. When he wanted to give him something, it was usually backed up with an elaborate story that Galladon had to play along with. When they wanted to meet, Tyrion would approach Commander Blackwood claiming a friendship with Lord Selwyn and a desire to see how his son was getting on. He had missed patrol every seventh afternoon to take iced, honeyed milk and apricots tarts with the Hand of the Queen. He never sent mysterious boxes with kitchen boys, half of them who apparently couldn't be trusted. Tyrion had warned him so when making him promise to not disclose why he was really here.

He had told the Commander that he had found Selwyn Tarth’s bastard in an inn, seeking employ. They had strolled into the barracks as bold as anything, much to the amusement of the off-duty Gold Cloaks in the common room, who were passing a wineskin between them. Their eyes had scanned from the great heights of Galladon to  Lord Tyrion, and when they had noticed their smallest visitor, they had all leapt up.

"My Lord Hand," they said almost cohesively, faces ruddy with drink.

"How can we assist you?" Slurred a comely-faced one, with an unfortunate orange-coloured hairline, clutching his half-helm under his shoulder. The room was dark and claustrophobic; it smelled like hard work and courtyard dust, but at the same time, it was reasonably inviting. Lord Tyrion demanded to be shown to their commander and at least six offered at the same time. The orange-haired officer won, and lead them silently through the corridor until they reached the Commander's chambers.

"Wait here," Tyrion said to Galladon before turning to their escort to dismiss him. "Thank you, Ser Emyl." A knight, thought Galladon. He didn't think there would be any here. He was knighted as a boy for bravery, but had never really known war; giving him a sense of awe when he met knights older than him. He had the right to be called Ser, but he knew he was not a true knight yet. My mother was a true knight, my father too, even if no one knows it, he had told himself. I will be too, one day.

Some time had passed before Tyrion and another man's voice called him in. The chambers of the Commander of the Gold Cloaks were a set of simple but comfortable rooms, with a high domed ceiling and elaborate maps of tunnels and rivers gracing the walls.

“See? I told you didn’t I.” Tyrion was sat at the Commander of the Gold Cloak's own desk; arms crossed, face smug.

“I did not doubt that you would be lying.” Commander Blackwood had frowned, scratching the oily black hair of his head. “I have heard stories of his sister. Built like a brick shithouse apparently. Took a whole unit to bring her down in the War for the West.” He paused and took a moment to drink Galladon in, in a way that made him feel slightly uncomfortable. “I don’t know what they are doing to them on that island, I really don’t.” He laughed a hearty laugh and waved his arms. “Come closer, Ser. We’re in need of good men, always. Why anyone would want to freeze their bollocks off up North or wrap their bollocks up in chains on the bloody Kingsguard is beyond me.”

“So you’ll have him then, Commander Blackwood?” Said the Queen’s Hand leaning forward. He sounded jovial but Galladon could sense his nerves. What if he says no? Where will I go? Should I go back to Ta-

“Of course we’ll have him. There’s hardly anyone here that I could call a true warrior. I’m up to my knees in namby-pamby third sons who are too good for patrol or lowborn lads who swing weapons like butchers.”

“Wonderful.” Tyrion drummed his small, stubby fingers on the table and leapt off Blackwood's chair and made for the door with a finger raised purposefully in the air. “I’ll have your horse and possessions brought to the barracks at some point. We were so carried away, Commander Blackwood, he left his steed back at Eel Alley.”

“I wouldn’t be too optimistic about getting it back, Ser Galladon. Your pretty pony is probably being churned up into bowls of brown.”

"What are bowls of brown?" They both laughed, but Galladon didn't know why.

Galladon did get it back three nights later after drill, but not the piebald palfrey he had taken from Storm’s End. Brought to the barracks that evening was a magnificent black charger with midnight in its mane and an easy temperament. He dropped his spear into the ground and stroked its silky hide. He had always liked animals. Cats, horses, even sad, mangey hounds with three legs.

“Thunder...” he had stuttered, when the enamoured stableboy had asked what he was called. He raised his hand to the beast’s nose, allowing him to become accustomed to his scent. Thunder was not the only gift of Tyrion’s, as seconds later, four more delicate-looking lads came coursing around the corner, hoisting a large chest between them.

“Your possessions, Ser. The Lord Hand hopes you will find everything intact.”

“Possessions?” He thought that was just his father’s cloak and his mother’s sword. He hadn’t even brought another pair of breeches with him. He certainly did not remember carrying an oaken chest from Tarth to Storm’s End, to King’s Landing”

“Your things, Ser.” Said a yellow-headed one nervously, terrified he was making a mistake. “Your garb and personal armour?”

“My armour.” Repeated Galladon, unconvincingly.

“Yes, Ser. You were lucky to have such an honest inkeep, if you don’t mind me saying so Ser.” Galladon smiled at the yellow-haired boy and handed the reins of Thunder to the smallest stableboy who was clearly in love with the charger.

“Will you all see to him?” The boys obliged and led the charger into the stables, him delicately trotting behind them, surprisingly light on his hooves. Once he was sure they were gone, he lifted up the chest to find a full set of armour, enamelled with dark blue and bronze. He even had an elaborate greathelm; the visor framed with what at first sight seemed like wings. Galladon held it in one hand, his thick thumb tracing the embellishment. Upon closer inspection, the wings were crashing, tumbling waves; the currents of the tide outlined with gleaming bronze paintwork.

“Never let allow me to let you guard the armoury in a riot, Ser Galladon,” said Commander Blackwood, aghast. Blackwood was lightfooted, seeming to appear and disappear just as quickly. Galladon had quick become envious of his stealth, but not accustomed to it.

“Why?” Galladon jumped, nearly knocking the helm out of his own hands.

“Gods, boy. You’ve got at least 15,000 dragons of plate in there, and you entrusted it to an Eel Alley inkeep?”

“He seemed trustworthy,” said Galladon, making an effort to sound much younger and naive than he already was. Play the game, Storm, he told himself.

“No one is trustworthy here, Ser Galladon. Not even most of my bloody Gold Cloaks.” He shook his head and pointed to the chest, “Take care of that boy. It may be fine to flaunt that finery back on your Sapphire Isle, but not here.”

Galladon thought that to be sensible advice, and although he was touched by the fine gift, he had no use for it. After showing him to his cell three nights previous, Commander Blackwood told him that he must visit the armoury that the following morning. There he was kitted out in sand-coloured padded armour, mail and a heavy cloak of gold, with a half-helm bearing engravings of the Targaryen three-headed dragon. His personal armour had been kept under lock and key at the foot of his cot in the same oaken chest it was presented to him in. He was, however, unsure about the diminutive box that lay in the palm of his hand.

"What is it, Ser?" said Arron once more, practically dancing with movement. He never stood still, always flapping an arm or tapping a foot. Galladon was sometimes exhausted just looking at him.

"Once again, I'm not sure, Arron." He snapped, before feeling bad, remembering the boy was just ten and one. He lifted the latch to find a mound of spice-smelling petals. He pawed through them until he touched a different texture, silk. He pulled out two yards of hair ribbon, the colour of sunset. Serra, the girl from the yard. It must be. She had smelled like these flowers the day they had met.

"A favour! A favour! Whose is it, Ser?"

"A girl I met the other day. I think. Sounded highborn but I think she was a well-spoken kitchen girl from her dress, clever and comely.” He could feel his grin widening.

"Will she be watching the tourney? You didn't know if you would be competing."

"I haven't decided, but she said that she would be watching."

"I think she wants you to, Ser." The boy giggled. He was a strong lad, and tall with it too, but still very young despite growing up with drinking and whoring Gold Cloaks.

Galladon swung his trunk-like legs out of bed and flexed his arms under his shirt. "Oh, I'll definitely do the melee." He said confidently, feeling confident as he said it. Despite being a newcomer, he was not phased.

He had competed in melees across the Stormlands, always raised up as champion, after knocking older warriors to the ground. “There comes a point where experience is no match for youth." growled one Ser whose name he had forgotten in celebration. He had never met another man as big as him, nor as quick as him with it. But the joust? He was as wide as a wall and much easier toppled over.

"I'm not trained in lance. It's not done in Tarth. I competed as a squire at Lady Shireen's name day once, but I was put out in the first round. My opponent's lance seem to strike true before my horse had bolted." He said honestly. Some had thought him arrogant, the upjumped Bastard of Tarth, but he was quick to accept responsibility for his shortcomings. He recalled how he had begged Lord Selywn to bring his Maester back "It's not his fault, I am stupid!" He had wailed. "The letters move around on the page for me, it's not his fault," but his then-father would not have it.

 "I suppose you are a bigger target, Ser." He said tactfully, just as Ser Emyl Redwyne came through the door, casting off his helm into one corner of the room with an almighty crash. He was the orange-haired knight who Galladon had once been impressed by, but after a few days on patrol with him, it was clear they were as green as each other.

"Did your helm start taking the piss out of your receding hairline?" Sniped Galladon, slamming the box shut and snorting at his dramatic entrance.

"Not in the mood for it, Storm." He ran his fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. His brows were furrowed but his Storm came without venom. Half of them were bastards here, oats sowed during the wars.

"What's the matter, Ser Emyl?" Whispered Arron feebly, clutching his hands together.

"Double fucking patrol. I haven’t slept for two nights past. I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t pointless, but it is pointless. Oh, and I haven't been paid for the pleasure either.” He extended himself on the cot, adjacent to Galladon’s, closing his eyes before sitting upright with them open and crazed. “What does she think is going to happen? A few peasants might kick off over the towering feast whilst they continue to live off bread and stews of mystery meat, but the majority of them know better. I’ve been pacing the cobbles for two days, nothing out of the ordinary and definitely nothing suggesting that something terrible is going to ruin Princess Harpy's nameday.”

"Princess Harpy?" Inquired Galladon nervously, looking to the open door in case anyone was passing by.

"Rhaenyra, bloody Rhaenyra obviously," shot back Ser Emyl before continuing to reel off his list of grievances. He had known who he was talking about, but Galladon hadn't heard the term ‘Princess Harpy’ before. She was usually referred to as 'the mongrel' or the 'dogeater' or 'that Meereenese whore' but never within the earshot of Commander Blackwood. Galladon had asked some of the men why they called her that and had received different answers each time. Some simply thought she was not a true dragon and had no right to succeed Queen Daenerys, some had taken issue with her strolling the streets in her finery, flanked in Black Cloaks; not even tossing a small coin to those in need. There were other stories of her shrieking and setting her personal guards on smallfolk who only wished to give her flowers when she first came to court. She certainly did not sound very queenly, but Galladon thought the people speaking ill of her did not sound most kind either.

“It’ll be over shortly, stop your bloody moaning," called a lump from the middle of another cot to Ser Emyl Redwyne, who was still bleating on.

“It never bloody stops, thankless bloody work. My father sent me here to make a name for myself as a hero, ‘a great honour’ he said, ‘without the oaths of the Kingsguard’ he said. I’ve got a right mind to head back to the Reach to marry a pretty Tyrell. My father says she'd be as fair as Marg-"

"My father, my father. Go back and stick your prick in every maid from The Arbor to Highgarden for all I care, just stop your moaning Redwyne. Gods." said the lump tossing over, causing Ser Emyl to leap up in fury. Arron flapped his arms like a hatchling and leapt between the talking, tossing cot and Emyl, who had become the same colour of his hair.

“Talking of girls, show him, Ser.” Said Arron, excitedly, dimples piercing his sun-bronzed cheeks.

"Show him what?" The sheets were pulled down to reveal Robert, a Fleabottom born-and-bred, baker's son with a head as shiny as a duck's egg. He was usually drunk, generally unclean and always quick to torment the younger lads.

"Arron.." sighed Galladon, before turning to his brothers. "It's not that exciting," he said casually, but quietly proud, pulling out the orange ribbon.

"A lady's favour? Whose is it?" Said one of them, Galladon did not note who it was in the flurry. Whoring and hitching the skirts up of tavern girls were commonplace in the City Watch, but it was rare to be approached by a lady without coin on her mind.

"A girl I met yesterday." He smiled, remembering her wicked grin and big, blue eyes. "She is expecting me to compete at 'Princess Harpy's' nameday tourney.” He whispered.

"You're going to joust?" Said Robert coarsely.

“Well, I was just going to compete in the melee…”

"Redwyne's competing too. I can't wait to see you island boys get struck off your mount by better men!” Interrupted Robert.

“…but I don't really want to joust" Said Galladon, wrapping the ribbon around his fingers.

"If the lady has asked it of you, you've got to do it," said Ser Emyl smoothly, his mood notably lighter.

"What do you know of it, Ser Emyl? You're the one who asks, and you've got to pay them to do it." Robert laughed until he broke wind. He was pleased his jape, but for once, Ser Emyl did not rise to it.

“Storm." He clasped one hand to his shoulder. "You must. If you get dismounted, then feign a shoulder pain which prevented you to performing your best. Maybe get her to rub it with walnut oil.”

“Bloody walnut oil, Emyl? Are you jesting? I may not even be alive to feign the injury," said Galladon unconvinced. He had seen more experienced tourneymen than him take a lance to the neck, before bleeding out into the tiltyard's dust whilst ladies sobbed. Would Serra sob for me? Probably not, she doesn’t even know me.

"Make haste," called Emyl, retrieving his helm from the corner in which he had cast it. "It's still early. We could get a few hours in with the quintain before the other parties arrive. Arron, help Ser Galladon dress."

Galladon got out of his cot and pulled on his breeches, before looking at him queerly.

“You were about to collapse into your cot. Why are you so keen on me competing? Are you trying to kill me off?”

“No, I just want to beat you, Storm. Hurry up, the tiltyard calls our names."

Chapter Text

She had not watched the melee. Her time spent pretending that the fighting pits were a tradition worth preserving had been enough for her, but she was pleased to find out that it had been won by one of her watchmen.

"He was half a giant, mother." Said Rhaenyra, who was seated to her left, picking daintily at a plate of syrup figs and soft cheese studded with apricots. She looked magnificent; the tailors had spent a year of their lives creating her gowns for the celebrations. A gown had been commissioned in traditional Meereenese style. It which would usually require her left hand to hold it in place but it was pinned with a clustered pearl brooch, the size of a small feasting platter. The flowing mauve-silver silks sat upon of bodice of deep purple Myrish lace, the same colour of her eyes. Half of her honey-coloured hair was braided close to her head, with the rest hanging in soft curls to her waist. Her crown was a deconstructed version of Dany's own Qartheen crown, the ivory dragon clawed in a band of silver; studded with carved quartz in the likeness of dragon horns.

She had regretted leaving her in the Eighth Kingdom for so long but had been advised that it was imperative to have a Targaryen in Meereen to ensure the old masters knew her presence was felt. At first, Daenerys had wept and cried for her daughter to hold but she knew a Queen could not do as she pleased. She year had sobbed for an entire at the thought of her across the Narrow Sea latched onto a Meereenese wetnurse instead of her own breast. First, Rhaego, next, Rhaenyra.

When Viserra was born, she believed the pain would lessen but it had only gotten worse when she realised what she had been denied. You are my bastard girl, but you are mine and mine alone, she had whispered to Viserra when she came from her streaked, sticky and bloody, wiping thick clots from her silver hair. There was no court to leave her as a political pawn in, nor no benefit in sending her away as a ward. She was not a future Queen, but a daughter, who could steal foods from the kitchen boys and play naked in the sand and curl in the concave of her mother’s stomach at night.

Hizdahr, who had been granted the region to rule as his own like the Starks in the North and Arryns in the Vale, had ruined her trueborn heir. From a beautiful brown bundle with downy golden hair to a spoilt, spiteful creature who raised her voice and stamped her feet; a master without slaves. She had never realised that she had come forth from the womb of a beggar princess who was sold like a bedwarmer, who spent her life dreaming of the safety and comfort of the house with the red door rather the Red Keep. Rhaenyra firmly believed that the Iron Throne was apparently her birthright whether she deserved it or not. The battle for my own birthright has been arduous and bloody, it will not be just given to you, my daughter.

She and Viserra had visited every few moons on dragonback. After a few years, she brought Rhaegal, expecting them to bond. An ill-thought idea, she had cursed herself in hindsight. An idea, born of guilt, of abandoning her child at the demands of her small council. There was no way Rhaegal would accept the daughter who was named after him; for at that time, she was more Harpy than Dragon. Her face, stained with blood and tears, and mucus, was screwed up in a fury she had never seen from a child so young as her fretting servants hoisted her up from dust. Daenerys had felt so ashamed that she had not visited for six moons. Rhaenyra had eventually forgiven her mother but not her sister who had become Rhaegal’s rider mere moments afterwards. Her body bore the scars of that day too. One side of her head always had to be carefully styled, for Rhaegal had sent her sliding across the gravel; scraping the skin of the underside of her head, scarring so badly that no hair would grow there anymore. Like her carefully made-up hair, under her expensive skirts, her ankle which never fully healed, dragged along the floor ungracefully.

Rhaenyra was given another blow when she arrived in Kings Landing after her flowering, expected to be raised up as Princess of Dragonstone, to be refused. “When your mind matures as much as your body, my daughter. I am still not confident that you are a woman grown.” Daenerys had said from the Iron Throne, over her screams.
“I am your heir, not her. It is time you started to treat me as such.” She had shrieked, pointing at Viserra who was little more than a gangly child with scraped knees. Her accent was thick with the melodious tones of Meereen, but she was not singing a pretty song. “My father promised me, you promised me, that when I came to this awful continent, I would have a fief of my own to prepare myself for my reign; not penned up in your court with your bastards and eunuchs and horselords.” She had spat, venomously, to the shock of the lords and ladies of the court. Many of them had sacrificed everything to support her claim but would need much persuasion to support her heir.

Dany sent her on charitable missions, tours of the Seven Kingdoms and ensured that she was present at events to mingle with folk both high and low-born. To give Rhaenyra the appreciation she had deserved, she had changed much in four years. Away from weak Hizdahr, her useless estranged husband, she had flourished. She had certainly matured enough for Dany to trust her with a lordship but work still needed to be done to trust her with the realm. I cannot even trust her to say a kind word to her sister. She noticed her sulking and looking around for a servant to replenish the plate of cheese she had cleared.

“Smile more,” she whispered to her, “all eyes are on you, my daughter.” And they were. Tourneys under Daenerys, first of her name, had her surrounded by common people. The best vantage points were not restricted to the lords and ladies of the court; blacksmiths and butchers and whores and healers lined the standings next to the nobles in their fine garb. They were watched closely, though, by cloaks White and Gold and Black.

Rhaenyra bared her pearl-white teeth like a dragon she was becoming, her purple eyes glittering. She has developed a sense of humour, at least. She smoothed her skirts, and gently tapped her silk-slippered feet on the floor. “I was surprised to not see Viserra in the melee.”
“The day is still young, my princess.” Piped up Lord Tyrion from the lower dais “…and our littlest Princess is always full of surprises, she may be in the joust.”

Dany wouldn't have been surprised. Men from her Queensguard, City Watch and personal household guard were taking part today, along with sons from Great Houses, bannermen of the Crownlands and even hedge knights who believed that the gods were smiling down on them that day.

"Good day, your Grace." Dany felt a wet kiss on her cheek. Before leaping out of her seat, she turned to see Viserra behind them all. One skinny leg straddling the fence, her skirts hitched up to her thighs. The only way of appearing from that direction is to have climbed the scaffolding. Tal Toraq was apparently guarding below, but he must have helped her up. Daenerys shook her head and waved to her seat. She looked so dishevelled, she may as well climbed all of the trees in the realm. She made a half-hearted effort to rearrange her crown, identical to her sisters if it was not for the onyx dragon and the band of gold. Her hair hung loosely in spiralled curls, moulded into shape from her training braids of yesterday. Her dress was equally simple; a traditional Westerosi gown in burnt orange with full sleeves and a laced bodice.

“Where have you been?” called Rhaenyra to her sister, “It’s my name day.”

“Is it? I hadn’t heard.” Viserra sang, neglecting her small throne to Daenerys’ right. Instead, she took a seat next to Tyrion, plunging her hand in a bowl of wine-soured cherries. “Did you hear, my Lord Hand? It’s Princess Rhaenyra’s name day. Should I go and alert all Eight Kingdoms so they know? I don't think they are aware.”

Usually, Tyrion would have smirked, much to Daenerys' dismay. Viserra and Little Lord Lannister were always the best of friends. She spent most of her time as a babe believing him to be a child as well. He used to oblige her, sitting down at her tiny table with her dolls. He was on his best behaviour today, though. 

“Now, now, little princess. Don’t be unkind to your sister. She has fulfilled her mother’s wish of becoming more accustomed to Westerosi society and has done a magnificent job. You should be proud of her.”

"Lord Tyrion is right. We are all extremely proud of you, Rhaenyra.""We are." smiled Viserra, genuinely, with red-stained teeth. A sweet girl however much she keeps me on my toes. She pretends it does not bother her, but all she wants is her sister's approval. Had she been the same when Viserys had treated her with such disdain? She could not remember her girlhood anymore. She had to grow so quickly.

The horns bellowed and the cheers started, against the backdrop of the Targaryen banners whipping backwards and forth in the wind. First, the Gold Cloaks took to the tiltyard, parading by with their namesake swinging behind them.

"Commander Hoster Blackwood, of Raventree Hall and the City Watch." called the crier, as all seven foot of the rider passed out before him. Her ears pricked up when she heard Hos' name. The third son of House Blackwood in the Riverlands and her own blood although they could not look more different. The gangly green boy who always had his beaked nose in a book had thrived since he arrived at her court. He was skilled with both lance and sword but had long pretended otherwise so his father would leave the most arduous work to his brothers. His keen mind was what made her appoint him to the office of Commander of the Gold Cloaks in his thirtieth year. Brains mattered more than brawn when it came to a city's defence, and Hos had an extensive knowledge of the city that had been nurtured back in his library when he was a boy in Raventree Hall. She waved to him eagerly, and he bowed back mid-trot.

"Ser Emyl Redwyne, of the Arbor and the City Watch of King’s Landing. Jasen Flowers, of the City Watch of King's Landing. Ser Galladon Storm of the City Watch of King’s Landing.”

"That's him!" Squealed Rhaenyra, clutching at Daenerys' arm. "The giant, he won the melee." Galladon Storm, a bastard from the Stormlands. She had never heard of him, nor heard Hos speak of him either. He seemed just as tall as his commander on horseback but was wearing beautiful blue plate with a winged helm. The only sign of his allegiance was his cloak raining off his wide shoulders.

"If he had entertained you so, I suggest you go to the barracks later and congratulate him on his win. Perhaps with some ale, or some pear cider. Some foodstuff for a feast, even."

"They're winos down there, your Grace." Shouted Viserra, still chomping through the bowl of cherries. Not even a half-hour had passed, but she had freckled her gown with stains. "Take some Dornish Sour Red, Rhae. They'll all adore you."

"How do you know?" Inquired Daenerys innocently, knowing full-well her youngest daughter enjoyed numerous excursions outside the Red Keep. 

"Maybe, I will." Stated Rhaenyra pouting, she fixed her hair, as she did multiple times a day to ensure that her scars were completely covered. She stared straight ahead as the Gold Cloaks did their final lap around the tiltyard before making way for the Black.

"Either way, don't show up with twelve cloaks 'protecting' you, they may take it the wrong way. It's not the Wall. There are no rapers and thieves in the City Watch." Rhaenyra rolled her eyes to that.

"Not anymore," sighed Tyrion. "You didn't have the pleasure of knowing Janos Slynt. He ended up on the Wall, funnily enough."

"Blue Rat, Russell Merryweather, Ser Humphrey Hightower, Rhaegar Brune, Steffon Boggs, Ser Lyonel Brune..." bellowed the crier as Dany's household guard trotted passed, in identical black enamelled armour with red inlay and dragonhead helms. The crowds cheered, Viserra and Rhaenyra making up most of the squeals as they rode in perfect formation. Viserys was right about that, the men of Crackclaw Point were good dragonmen. They may not have been sewing banners, praying for their return, but they were there when they needed her. She remembered how she had landed there with her fleet, how they had put their swords to the ground when they saw the red dragon flying; and how they had raised them for her after she declared war on Cersei Lannister.

"Lord Commander Loras Tyrell, of the Queensguard." Gods, this crier has the most irksome of voices. Never again.

The Knight of Flowers was the only member that she had permitted to compete, the rest she had commanded to continue to fulfil their duty. The Tyrells had bent the knee immediately after Margaery was returned with an Honour Guard to Highgarden after she had taken the city. When his health had improved, Loras had pledged his sword to Daenerys for the honourable way she had dealt with both his house and his kin. Burned and scarred from his time as a Lannister dog, he was still extremely comely, his eyes still molten gold. He was lucky that he had been gravely injured at a time where he was full of strength and youth; his experience would have killed older men within the night. His forget-me-knot encrusted armour became more flamboyant with each year, but his famous living cloak of flowers had been substituted for his Queensguard white. The common people cheered as he trotted rings around the yard, still gallantly passing flowers to maidens fair.

Others passed out too, some whose names she did should know but did not and some she had never seen before. She noted that she was still shunned by the Lords of the Westerlands, even though near-two decades had passed. She did not care for them, as long as her hate continued to burn, but she hoped that they would be the ones to come begging. They would be wise to see Rhae as a new era and put the feud to rest for their own sake.

“I know what you are thinking.” Tyrion always knew what she was thinking.

“They won’t come.”

“Who won’t come?”

“The Houses of the Westerlands, great and lesser. They will continue to send their tithes to you and abide by the laws of the Iron Throne, but please expect no love, not even after all this time.” He was drinking, strangely. He had become a more temperate man in years past; it was once strange to see him without a wineskin, now it is strange to see him with one.

“I don’t wish to speak of this anymore,” Dany said blankly. She did not even like to think about it. She had tried her best to be a patient Queen, never foolishly running into action, but it was difficult when she was so consumed by hate. The feud with the Lords of the Westerlands ancient liege would never end, for she did not truly want it to. She had not forgiven and she would not forget.

“As you wish, you Grace.” Her eyes remained focused on Rhaenyra, willing her to clap and react appropriately for all to see. Being loved by most makes a reign much easier, she had thought. That was what she had wished for her daughter, especially as throughout her reign, both West and East she had been hated by some. I will roll over in my grave if another Usurper took the dragon’s throne once more. Rhaenyra was now all dragon, despite how many cursed her mixed-blood. Her own father would not have accepted her either, not more than he hadn’t accepted the baby Rhaenys. It would have been his loss to dismiss my Rhae, she thought. Wipe away the oils and arrogance of Old Ghis and she is the Dragon’s daughter. She was steel draped in satin, and her stubborn nature would serve her well once she channelled it appropriately. Right now, she was, clapping diligently. Her bastard sister howled coarsely and waved without a second thought, beating the tables much to Tyrion’s delight.

“I think we are in for a marvellous day, your Grace.” He leant back, winking his black eye.

“I will feel cheated if it is anything less.” She said inspecting the riders who passed out in front of her, from the grim Northmen in their melancholy hues to the Dornish in their scaled, red armour mounted on graceful sand steeds.

The tourney got off to a catastrophic start, with a hedge knight and the Reach bastard watchman dismounting each other simultaneously and one green Northman charging whilst forgetting to pick up his joust before opting to charge. The first jouster to be known to Dany to be called up was another one of the Northmen, the Lady Paramount's brother Rickon Stark, in soot-grey boiled leather with a wolf head helm. He had brought along his nephew and sister’s heir, Robb, as a squire; a beautiful boy with milk-white skin and closely cropped red hair. A bookish lad, she had been told, when enquiring of potential matches for her daughters. Lady Sansa was vehemently against her babes heading South, which Dany believed was understandable given the stories of her own youth. Either way, the boy seemed his element in the yard too, as he passed the joust up to his Uncle.

A grey ghost on horseback, the only colour came from Rickon Stark’s auburn hair, braided down his back like a Dothraki horselord. His opponent was Ser Russell Merryweather, mounted on a gleaming white mare. The two men charged, and Dany could see the premature grin flash across Merryweather’s half-helmed face when his lance made contact with Stark’s shield, only for it to splinter, allowing Lord Stark to strike him off horseback and into the dust. He howled upon his victory, kicking dust clouds around the yard. That is why they call him the Wild Wolf.

The two commanders, both Gold and White had been drawn next, much to Dany’s dismay. The day of jousting would be less interesting with one of them gone in the first rounds. She did not have much love for the sport, but as she told Rhaenyra, it was important to feign a degree of enthusiasm. Hos lifted up helm to pull a face at her, knowing he would quickly be knocked off like a straw-stuffed doll by the Knight of Flowers. An excellent commander of her watchmen he was, but he wasn’t a seasoned jouster. When the time came, he picked himself up from the dust with a cheery grin and rubbed the neck of Tyrell’s mare. The crowd cheered for him and he bowed with feigned extravagance, some even threw white roses and gillyflowers.

“The City Watch has come a long way for the Commander to receive applause like that, your Grace. The common people never usually have much love for the enforcers of the law.” Daenerys said nothing, continuing to smile sweetly as she gripped her throne. Praise was what she lived for. I am not my father, I took what was with mine with fire and blood and I shall keep it.

Boggs went on to defeat one of the Brunes, her brother’s namesake whilst the Bastard from Stormlands managed to unhorse Blue Rat after collecting a replacement lance from his own bronze-skinned squire. Unsteady on horseback, that was certain, but Dany winced at the thought of being on the receiving end of his lance. After only four jousts, the tiltyard was beginning to look battered. Dany clapped her hands and nodded to some tourney stewards who were waiting with a large cart of earth and a spade. They replenished the ground and patted it over gently before giving the signal that they were ready to start the lists once more.

Trystane Martell did not go down as easily as the Brune boy, who left Boggs the Blackcloak in a cloud of dust and splinters after striking the back of his horse. The Wild Wolf took down Ser Emyl, Lord Paxter's third son, on his second charge; tearing his Gold Cloak from his back. She couldn't help but like the man as he jubilantly waved the heavy gold cloth like a flag, so fearing disloyalty raised her cup of Arbor Gold to the Arbor knight. Next, her Lord Commander crushed the remaining Brune whilst the bastard boy in the blue plate managed to awkwardly dismount Ser Humphrey on his fourth or fifth attempt, with much ineptitude on both sides of the tiltyard.

The boy in the blue plate did not have much of a rest, for he was called up immediately afterwards. Dany watched him tenderly muss the hair of his young squire, a gentle iron giant. She felt sorry for him upon hearing he would face Rickon Stark.

"At least he won the melee. A great victory," said the Crown Princess.

"He may win this," pouted the smallest. "Wait and see!"

One blue, one grey; they faced off at either end of the field. The grey wolf, easily much more skilled, made his horse dance into a charge whilst the blue seemed late to the mark. The bastard boy had two things on his side, though, speed and strength. After four charges, his shield had deflected each one of Stark's blows and there was a brief interlude whilst replacement lances with fetched. On the fifth, Ser Storm was late with his shield but managed to splinter that lance with his shoulder. At that point, Stark had ripped off his helm, shouting expletives and curses at his opponent. Young Rickard threw him up another lance for the sixth attempt which would be the last. The Blue Bastard clung onto his charger for dear life, taking another one of Rickon's lances to his shoulder but this time he seemed to think quickly. The boy acted by quickly jabbing Stark as they crossed in the centre of the tiltyard, causing him to course under the horse's belly, still attached to the saddle. The horse dragged him ten yards whilst everyone in the yard, except the Northmen, cheered for the unlikely lad.

The stewards announced that there were now only three possible champions, much to the Northmen's dismay. "Ser Loras Tyrell, Ser Trystane Martell and Ser Galladon Storm." wailed the awful crier once more upon hearing the results. The crowd roared for the famous sons of the Tourney, with a chant of "Storm, Storm, Storm!" coming from a stands inhabited solely by off-duty Gold Cloaks. Dany turned to see Commander Blackwood seated much lower down in the stands doing the same.

"Why couldn't you have had me in the Stormlands?" Inquired Viserra in a tone that to outsiders would suggest she was completely serious "Viserra Storm. I like it. I'd be like Argella the Storm Queen. Or even the Reach! Viserra Flowers sounds rather quaint."

"You'd have been a Waters if some had had their way. I did not allow it."

"Waters," she sighed, putting her head in her hands "That makes me think of piss and cisterns and drains."

"Well, it's good that I didn't allow it," Chirped Dany "Now, please would you-"

The Queen was interrupted by the crier, calling "Ser Trystane Martell and Ser Loras Tyrell." The crowds squealed in delight, with the Sunspear and Highgarden parties leading the cheers. Ser Trystane was a comely man, approaching his thirtieth year, with a lithe body and long black hair as straight as a poker. His red armour glowed so much in the midday sun it appeared to burn and his strong arms juggled his joust from left to right. Dany eagerly looked to Rhaenyra for her reaction and was pleased to see her gripping her skirts with her deep purple eyes shining. Unbeknownst to Rhaenyra, there was a reason that Ser Trystane was not wed at his age. The Dornish would soon have their pact. She would not have a chance to be won over by his prowess this round, for Loras' horse, spooked. The mare's awkward bolting caused the Lord Commander to drop his shield, leaving his shoulder exposed. The horse was so determined there was no way of reining it back; Trystane managed to topple him over like a spilt cup of goat's milk much for the crowd's dismay. Boos and curses filled the air as the crier announced Martell to be the victor.

Enough. Dany arose, prompting everyone in attendance to do the same. With a wave of her arms, they sat back down.

“To allow the potential champions time to rest before the final event of the day. We will resume in an hour.” Her voice rang through the standings and pavilions and a steward leapt to light a tall hour candle in front of her, placing frosted bell-jar over the flame to protect it from the harsh winds. Raucous laughter went up in the stands as the people made their way down from the standings to replenish their cups and to collect skewered beef and peppers from the food stands. Loras Tyrell was never unhorsed, even by those younger and spritelier than him. It was most unfortunate that his horse was spooked by something or other.

That leaves the Wild Wolf and the Blue Bastard... Jousting was not her favourite pursuit but she was excited by the prospect of this particular list.

“Commander Blackwood,” she called down, beckoning him over with a soft white hand. “Who is your boy? I heard he won the melee and now I have just seen him find himself the final.”

“Beginner's luck." He laughed heartedly, nodding to her Queensguard as he made his way to the dais. "He's usually rather abhorrent on horseback but appears to be clutching onto those reins like he clutches onto his cudgel in the streets. He's Galladon Storm, you Grace. The natural son of Lord Selwyn of Tarth. A wonderful find of your Hand. Thieves seem to piss their breeches in fear when they see him coming if you'll forgive my course language, your Grace.” He clapped Lord Tyrion on one shoulder, causing him to wince.

It was not the coarse language that irked her. “My Hand?”

“Lord Tyrion did not mention? He is familiar with the old Stormlord, set him up with me after finding the boy wandering around Eel Alley.”

“Eel Alley?” Dany arched an eyebrow, raising a goblet of wine to her lips. “My Lord Hand, please don’t tell what you were up to there.”

“My lips are sealed, your Grace.” Undoubtedly drinking, thought Dany. She had watched him drain three wineskins in a few hours.

“Anyway, nice lad. I’ll be cheering for him. A bit slow, but resourceful and diligent. Very pretty too, you’ll see that once he has his helm off, princesses.” He waggled his bushy eyebrows comically and they both giggled in response, even Rhae, who was usually surly even within earshot of the wittiest jape.

“Bit of a Lannister look, if you think about it actually. All gold curls and cheekbones.” Cersei Lannister's head had been pretty, thought Dany. She had forced herself to look upon it once justice had been served. The mass of blood-soaked, buttery curls, the creamy skin and the small, perfect mouth would have one sat on the long neck of a beautiful woman. The eyes, though, just as dead as they had looked in life. She had nightmares about those eyes; cold and hard and unrelenting, as green and cool as polished jade. Dany poured herself another cup of Arbor Gold to distract herself, despite having one near full and a serving girl to her far right.

“Are you sure he’s not yours, Lord Tyrion?” Jested Viserra.

“Please don’t even terrify me with that thought, my princess,” said Blackwood in mock-fear. “One Lannister is enough for the realm, I’ve never forgiven the Kingslayer for what he put my father through, taking me hostage when I was a lad-”

“Are you forgetting the part where he gave your father a signed declaration, permitting your father to come and collect you, Commander Blackwood?” His mismatched eyes bulged in his head. Tyrion played the part of the trusted advisor well, and she did indeed trust him, but she could not forget he had lion’s heart. In his many years of service, she could count a mere three occasions where he had leapt to his vile brother’s defence in public. Three too many, though. I will not tolerate a fourth. Not on Rhaenyra’s name day, not any day. She did not have to say anything, for her look said it all. Lord Tyrion raked his fingers through his hair and hopped off his seat.

“I apologise, your Grace. Too much wine and this sun appears to be addling my mind. If you will excuse me." He was gone, into the bustling crowds.

“You shouldn’t be angry with him, mother.” Rhaenyra looked up at her, her amethyst eyes glittering. “Blood ties run just as deep as blood feuds, us Targaryens know how powerful the latter can be.” Us Targaryens. That near-softened her heart, recalling the time she insolently referred to herself as Rhaenyra zo Loraq much to Hizdahr’s delight. Viserra rose then curtsied for her, her eyes blue and wide.

“Thank you, Rhae. Tyrion does not mean harm." She arose and whirled to her mother. "He has been most loyal to you, to us, for years.” She turned and embraced her sister who sat there stiffly as if she was merely a statue carved in her likeness. “I’m going to find him, from the amount he was drinking I would lay coin on the chance that he may not feel well.” She did not wait to be given leave, pushing her way past white-armoured Ser Egbert Crabb in a whirlwind of orange silks.

On the other side of the dais, Hos Blackwood stood there blankly; waiting to be dismissed. He bowed his head awkwardly, his smile weakened.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that, Commander.” Dany placed down her cup and stared up at him.

“I fear I may have caused it, your Grace.” He shuffled. “I should know better than to mention that name in your presence-"

“Nonsense! I do not fear a name, especially a name that has been near-eradicated from the realm.” She leant over and grasped his arm, her delicate hands melting around his bronzed gauntlets. “My Hand, however reliable he is, can forget what era we are in. I give you leave, thank you for your efforts today, Commander.”

“Commander Blackwood,” piped up Rhaenyra, causing him to turn as if she screamed for help. She very rarely spoke of her own initiative. 

“Thank you for the hard work of you and your men for my name day festivities, I feel much safer with the knowledge that you are protecting us all.” He bowed graciously.

“It is an honour to protect you, my princess.” He stuttered, fully aware of the weight of her compliment, before taking his leave.

“That was good of you, my daughter.”

“I’m trying,” she looked over, her stare hard. “I know you don’t think I am, but I only wish to please you, Your Grace."

"Keep trying my little Queen, one day they will love you way I do."

Chapter Text

He could feel the blood pumping through his limbs; thick and heavy, causing his heart to beat fast. He had beaten the Wild Wolf through his strength alone. Despite lacking in experience, Galladon was stronger than his Northern opponent. He managed to withstand five lances to the right shoulder before cunningly taking Rickon Stark down. His shoulder told the tale true too. After his armour was removed, his skin was clearly throbbing and purple. A bleeding circle had appeared from his chest, a momento of Rickon Stark’s last tilt.

Arron Uller looked on, his face twisted into a grimace. “Does that hurt?”

“Of course it bloody hurts.” Snapped Galladon, pressing his index finger down, watching the blood drain from the violet area of skin. “Ow…”

Arron whimpered as his master peered into the looking glass “Shall I dress it?”

“No, just undress me.” He tapped his gauntlets. “I want some time to breathe without clunking around.” When he had put on his armour that morning, it was the first time he had worn every single piece. He had felt like a knight, more than he ever had before. His vows to take it off had not lasted long though. It was a hot, dry and dusty day; his legs felt like two gammon joints broiling away in a blue enamelled pot.

 Rows of pavilions were put up that morning, lining the back of the standings. Galladon was naturally assigned to the Gold Cloaks’ pavilion; a tent of pure gold with olive edging. It was empty, except for Galladon and his young squire; his competing brothers now in the stand with the rest after being knocked out in early rounds. There was a feasting table, but it consisted solely of greasy capon and pissy ale, with a queer cake that was more bread than pudding. It seemed they were woefully underfunded compared to the Black Cloaks, whose decadent pavilion interior Galladon had looked upon whilst seeking a barrel of sand for Arron to use to scour his mail undercoat. His Dornish charge, ceremoniously dressed in the gold and red flames of House Uller, lifted the plate and mail from him with much difficulty. It was understandable. Tyrion's gift was of superior quality, and heavier than anything Galladon had laid eyes on before.

“How many lances did you take?” he said incredulously, thumbing Galladon’s shoulder.

“Five last round,” said Galladon wincingly, feeling the Dornish lad’s light touch “and each one hurt more than the last.”

“You’re facing Martell next as well, Ser Galladon. Best rest yourself, you must be grateful the Queen has called hiatus.”

“Grateful? It’s an hour, not a moon. I only beat Rickon Stark because of his hot temper getting the better of him. I am in the final list by chance.”

“Perhaps grateful is not the word, Ser. but there must be a certain amount of gratitude that you are not facing Ser Loras.” said the boy earnestly.

Arron had told it true. Ser Loras would have knocked him into the dust without a second thought for his health or wellbeing, the man was a seasoned tourneyman. He would be in his gleaming white tent, laughing with glee at the thought of facing the Bastard of the Stormlands. His mother had beat him once, in a melee, so he had heard. At Bitterbridge, during the War of the Five Kings. Lord Selwyn liked telling that story.

As Arron lifted off Galladon’s gauntlets, a slither of fabric worked its way down his arm until it just graced his wrist. He reached down and touched the thin strand of orange ribbon, and thought of the girl with the silver hair and radiant smile. The Lady. She was most definitely a Lady, there was no question about that. He had been looking for her with the stableboy and kitchen girls, but she was nowhere to be seen. It was only when he looked up to see Tyrion’s reaction to a win that he spotted her; seated to the left of his Uncle, smirking with delight. A noble at the very least, she could even be a Princess at the most. The Queen had two daughters after all. More fool him, there was no way a kitchen girl would have sounded so highborn.

 Tyrion. He had fretted so much about the silver-haired girl that he had forgotten about his generous benefactor. Would he be happy that his armour was being used right away? He did not know. He knew he was going to take part in the melee, but that was a smaller event that the Queen did not even watch. There was no time to let him know that he was taking part in the joust, parading himself for all to see, as the Queen’s Hand had been far too busy to see him in the past day. Galladon wound the ribbon around his fingers with thought as Arron poured him a horn of ale. Perhaps he’ll find my spontaneity and rashness charming. Apparently, my sire would not untie a knot when he could slice it in two.

 As Arron handed his master the ale with his quick, sun-speckled hands, a delicate white one snaked its way around the silken cloth of the pavilion.

“Hello?” sang a voice. Who is…

“Who goes there?” Called Galladon. The voice did not answer, the owner of the voice just showed herself. Serra. He did not get the best look at her from the yard, and he was thankful the gods had blessed him with the sight now. Her braids from the day previous had been let down, leaving her with a cloud of silver curls to the small of her back. Her practical garb had been swapped for long robes of burnt orange satin, embellished with golden dragons flying up her skirts. Her dainty collar bone and the tops of her small breasts were exposed, a glowing pendant of amber dangling pendulously between then. She smirked at him knowingly, a strange black-gold headpiece tilting at her head.

The Dornish boy dropped to his knees, his face clasped well to his legs before looking to Galladon and saying “What are you doing?”. Galladon did nothing but stand there blankly, twiddling the ribbon in his large hands. The silver girl smirked at him, her lightning-blue eyes filled with promise.

“Well fought, Ser Galladon.” She pulled the curtain behind her.

“Thank you, my lady.” Stumbled Galladon, drinking her in. Her heart-shaped face, cloud of silver curls and small, perfect breasts, hoisted up to her swanlike neck.

“My lady?” Mumbled Arron Uller in shock, bent over so low that one ear was shoved into a skinny thigh.

“Arise, Lord Uller.” Said Serra, without missing a beat, sending his discomfort. They know each other? The Dornish lad stood, smoothing his red and yellow flamed surcoat. Who is she to tell him to rise?

“Thank you, my Princess.” He said eagerly, dusting himself, shooting daggers at his master. The Princess said nothing, just wandered over to the feasting table where she grabbed an entire capon. She bit into it with such force that the grease ran down her chin. Princess?  She wiped her mouth, not daintily, not princesslike at all.

“Did you see me in the standings, Ser Galladon?” She managed to savage the carcass with her perfect teeth whilst maintaining a sense of decorum. Arron Uller stood there dumbstruck, looking to Serra then Galladon. Back and forth, back and forth.

 “Serra,” said Galladon meekly trying his best to not sound desperate. He had dreamt of this silver girl whether she was born low or high. “I could not see you at all.” He lied.

“You sweet boy,” she threw down the carcass and clapped her hands together to free them of grease before approaching him, feeling the orange silk that lay limply in his hands “I fear you were not looking hard enough. Or perhaps high enough.” She eyeballed him, batting her large sapphires as one hand gently stroked his face. He studied her headpiece; casing a black dragon on a band of gold. Princess Viserra. He knew her, he should have known. He had heard songs of her spirit and beauty. He knew all of his of brothers, apart from Blackwood, would rather she sat the Iron Throne than her foreign sister. Bastard-born or not.

“I’m sorry if I tricked you.”

“Why did you, my…princess?” The words sounded strange on his tongue, but he could not think of a more fitting term for her. She was the fairest woman he had ever seen. Without thinking, he reached out to thumb her headpiece, feeling its sharp edges. A crown. She smiled warmly and reached to touch him too. His eyes wandered to Arron Uller, his face a picture as he watched Princess Viserra’s hands coil around his master’s wide back.

“I wish I could cite something from the Book of the Crone, that says we must not judge on outside appearances or something of that ilk, but I don’t have a reason. I was not teaching you a lesson, I just did not want to tell the complete truth.”

“That is understandable, my princess. It must be hard for you.” He stumbled over his words, knowing that he spoke with much risk. He could feel himself stiffen with every touch of her creeping hand.

“Hard for me?” She repeated, playfully. Galladon blushed.

“I didn’t mean, I just meant…..you must have so many duties, expectations. I do not blame you for wanting to be someone else.” She stopped laughing and looked up at him. “-my princess.” He added quickly.

She was too small in stature to plant a kiss on him, so threw herself into his arms. What is she doing? Galladon’s worries quelled as she planted tiny kisses all over his face and neck, nuzzling into his chest. He had soon forgotten that Arron Uller awkwardly looked upon them both. climbed back down his huge frame but did not stop when her tiny feet reached the floor. She continued to move down, down, down. He looked at her, clasping her silver head incredulously as she detached his remaining leg plate expertly and moved up towards his underclothes. “Lord Uller?” She looked over to his aghast squire “Could you get your master some water? He has a thirst.” The boy nodded dumbly and was gone in a whirl of curtains. Galladon could imagine that his face would be one of shock, but it was not Arron he was looking at. Viserra did not look out for him either, only Galladon. Her eyes bore into him, blue on green, before she steadily bobbed her head down. She left more kisses on his golden-downed stomach as she coursed down his body, one pretty, soft hand stroking his Stark-bestowed bruise.

“What are you-” he was about to gasp 'doing', but he couldn’t speak anymore. She had swiftly unlaced his underclothes and had took him in her mouth. If he had thought she had glanced at him wickedly before, he hadn’t seen anything yet. Her head bobbed furiously up and down as he extended one hand to cradle her silver curls and the other to support her delicate neck as she worked her mouth around his throbbing cock.

“Gods, Serra, Viserra, Princess.” He murmured, her lips still around him “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me-“

“You don’t even know me.” Said she, taking him in her hand, gazing up at him. How does she still manage to look so sweet?

She did not have to clasp him for much longer, within the minute he had spent himself on her breastbone. She laughed and stood up briskly, combing her fingers through her silver spirals.

“Sorry.” He gasped, stroking her hair. His cock still stood upright, wanting him to feel her on top of him, but continued she fixed her hair and wipe his seed from her skin.

“Don’t apologise, sweetli-” she tried to say, huskily, before another unexpected visitor entered the pavilion.

“What in the gods is going on here?” Said a booming voice. Galladon quickly hoisted Viserra up by the underarms and brought her close to preserve his modesty. She smirked as the little Queen’s Hand sternly looked upon them both, his small frame casting a large shadow on the pavilion floor. He was surprised when instead of jumping away, she pulled him closer, cackling with delight.

“My Lord Hand!” She cried. “I was just coming to congratulate our finalist on his success.”

“Your usual reward, Princess.” Galladon clasped his fist, irate of his Uncle questioning Serra’s honour but all she did was laugh. She detached from him, pulling up her gown to ensure the tops of her perfect breasts were covered and smoothed her hair. Galladon himself turned towards the gold-curtained wall, lacing up his breeches and trying them in a double knot before facing his Uncle.

“How is Rhae?” She laughed, sauntering towards the Queen’s Hand, wiping her mouth. It is as if she wants to antagonise him.  “Has she set her Black Cloaks on a lusty tourney-goer yet?”

“Don’t worry about Rhae,” he said coldly, but not unkindly. “You would do best to get back to your mother. It is important that you are together. Please, cover yourself. You've only made a half-hearted effort to.” He looked away, sharply.

“Together…” she mimicked. How does she not have shame? I have it in buckets

“I hope to see you soon, Ser Galladon.”

“Likewise, my lady, my Princess…” He said stuttering before his voice trailed off. He was fully aware of Lord Tyrion’s mismatched eyes boring into him. Serra was soon gone, and replaced by her was a panicked Arron waving his hands and hopping foot to foot like a frightened bird.

“I tried to stop him Ser, I-”

“A squire trying to stop the Hand of the Queen, nonsense.” growled Lord Tyrion “Leave us.” Arron gazed up at Ser Galladon who shook his head meekly, running a hand through his mane of gold. 

“Go, Arron.”

Only when the boy was gone did Lord Tyrion speak once more. Until then, he looked at the boy with a cold, unrelenting stare.

“Do you call this ‘not drawing attention’ to yourself?” He said blankly. His face was impassive, but his eyes appeared to drift of their own accord.

“I’m not the only officer to compete in Rhaenyra’s tourney.”

“No, but you’re the only one to look as you do, winning like you do and sticking yourself into a Princess, as you do.” Galladon screwed his face up in response to that, feeling like he had shamed himself and Serra. Viserra.

“Is she really a Princess?” Said the golden boy, afraid of the answer. He knew the answer but was not a stranger to getting things wrong.

“She’s Queen Daenerys’ second daughter, Viserra of King’s Landing, now Viserra Targaryen. Daughter of the Queen and a Tyroshi sellsword. A legitimised bastard, therefore a Princess of the Iron Throne. Where did you meet her?”

“In the yard,” gasped Galladon “She said her name was Serra, nothing about being a Princess. It was only when Arron Uller said, I-…I-” His words became jumbled, like when he tried to read a book or tome. His Uncle sighed deeply.

“She likes to play games. Do not think of yourself too harshly. Its just terrible luck that she took you as a pawn.” A pawn? To be expected, I am not a player yet.

 Galladon immediately felt stupid, pulling on his undershirt and mail once more to distract himself, wincing as it made contact with his skin. Serra’s kisses were softer. Tyrion sensed the boy’s awkwardness and waddled over to the table to pour himself a cup of pissy ale. His face did not appear angry anymore. It was more defeated. He shook his head to himself.

“Don’t be angry with yourself Ser Galladon. It is I who did not adequately prepare you for this-”

“I didn’t anticipate getting sucked off by Princesses or being in the final of a tourney.” Groaned Galladon coarsely, readjusting his breeches for a final time. “I thought I was just here getting to know you better, getting to know my father better. I haven’t gone seeking attention, it has just come to me.”

“Attention came to Jaime.” Galladon thought he heard Tyrion, before briskly following up with “Have you got to know your father better?”

“Yes,” said Galladon “he defended you when Cersei was unkind, he took you riding and bought you the prettiest mare in the realm for your third and twentieth birthday. I would not have known that if I did not come here. I would be back in Tarth or Storm’s End, feeling like the ungodly spillings of an oathbreaker.”

Tyrion laughed, draining his horn of ale. “I like your turn of phrase. You’re quite poetic for such a lumbering lad.”

“My fath-Lord Selwyn kept a singer. Floris and Elaena learned all of the words to the songs, all I could do was listen.” he braved a smile despite the situation which only cracked when Lord Tyrion clasped the cage of his head with one hand as if he was in pain.

“My Lord Hand?” Uncle? Called Galladon, worried he was feeling pain. He walked towards him, but took care to make sure he was properly laced, still mortified on what Uncle Tyrion had walked in on.

“I feel like I have failed you by keeping you here. I should have sent you back to Tarth.” His speech came out quick and garbled, Galladon soon realised that the Queen’s Hand was drunk. If he was sober he would have been angry at me for longer. “Daenerys is no longer the breaker of chains, but the creator for you and I. And dragons and their dragonmen are absolutely everywhere. Everywhere. Did you know that it is treason to even dye a silk of over two yards crimson without her prior permission? If you did, she’d known about it. She has her eyes everywhere.”

“Uncle, I-” Tyrion looked at him brightly, as if he wished to hear that word. A moon of teas and tarts and meetings and Galladon had not so much as uttered it.

“I could not even marry, did you know that? I don’t think anyone knows that. They just believe me to shun tradition, opting for wenches rather than wives.” He collapsed on a mismatched pile of cushions, that Ser Emyl had squealed like a pig on hours before as the maester of the games tended to him.

He exhaled deeply and scratched his shaggy head, a mass of white and black and grey. “I am Warden of the West, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Lord of Casterly Rock, however much they hate me, but I’m forbidden for furthering my line. The Dragon Queen has told me bluntly that any of my own ‘spillings’ will not be eligible to inherit.”

Is this why he welcomed me so? “Did you ever want to marry, Uncle?”

“I did marry twice. First for love, the second for duty. I would have married a third but it was not possible then. It is definitely not possible now.” His eyes grew wild as his heavy head craned upright. “You know not to murmur this to anyone, definitely not your lady love.” He belched.

“My lady love?”

“Don’t play the fool, Gally. Has anyone ever called you that?” My sister, my aunt? Tyrion laughed to himself. “Continue your dalliance with Princess Viserra all you wish. She is most fair, and I know how difficult it is to forgo the desires of that snake between your legs. Just remember that you are not the first and you are definitely not the only. She’s a popular princess, I’ll give her that. Daenerys does not guard her the same way as she does Rhaenyra. The girl has more freedom than me.”

“But what if she finds out-”

“How would she find out without you telling her?” The dwarf raised an eyebrow. “As long as you continue to tell yourself and everyone else that you are the bastard of Lord Selwyn, there shouldn’t be a problem.

There was a moment where the two very different men looked at each other. They were of the same blood but could have been strangers.

“She seems kind.” Said Galladon after some time.

"Oh, she is kind, my dear boy. She is my sweetling, the closest thing to a daughter as I will ever have and I adore her. Clever and sweet with a quick wit, but do not go becoming enamoured with her. Even if you were not a secret Lannister, it would end in heartbreak all the same. I grew up watching my brother love someone deeply unsuitable, I shall not watch you, Galladon." Galladon shuddered, knowing what Tyrion was referring to. The dwarf shook his head and muttered to himself something that Galladon could not hear.

"I say carry on, but just remember this; never meet her in the Red Keep, or go along with any of her particularly daring plans that would end with even more attention brought to you. Her Grace may start asking questions then. She tolerates the loves of her daughter for as long as she is unawares, I have seen five or six freeriders be exiled from the capital from being caught in her company this very year.”

Am I the seventh, eighth or ninth? Or more? Galladon awkwardly shuffled from foot to foot.

“I won’t, she may not even want to see me again.” His eyes wandered to his own hour lamp. “I’m due back in the yard shortly.”

“Indeed,” said Tyrion, hoisting himself up. “You are aware that you won’t get another mount or plate so fine when Martell takes that from you?” Galladon hadn’t thought about that. The rules of the lists stated that losing jouster had to surrender all of his armour as well as his steed. That was not a bad thing, though. The thought of losing Thunder and his beautiful armour made him feel ill, but it did mean he had a handful of horses and a pile of armour to collect from his opponents who fell.

“I don’t intend on him taking it.” He said cockily but he did not believe himself. Tyrion did not either.

“I’d prepare yourself for the prospect, Galladon. The field has been weak so far. The Vale is not in attendance, for a start. Her Black Cloaks are not jousters, Tyrell has gone and the Northmen that came down were useless. Rickon Stark allowed his temper to get the best of him, but that won’t happen with Martell. He is as fearless as his Uncle was, but as clever as his Father. The man is half a sand-steed himself. Also, he is Princess Rhaenyra’s champion. If it the tourney ends with no result except a pile of shattered lances, the Queen will give the victory to him.”

“Well, then do you have any counsel for me?” Stuttered Galladon, Tyrion laughed an almighty laugh.

“Counsel? Don’t fall off your steed, that is the best I can give you.”

Galladon called Uller back in to dress him, the vomit rising in his throat. Tyrion excused himself after giving the squire a purse of gold for attending to the ‘good officers of the City Watch of King’s Landing’ so well. Galladon could vouch for Arron as a trustworthy lad, but the Ullers were still dragonmen. Ensuring his silence was a sensible thing to do, but Arron was still offended despite taking the coin all the same.

“Why would I want to bring Princess Viserra into disrepute? Or you?” He said as he combed out his master's curls, trying them into a knot with a piece of leather. Galladon shrugged, clutching his helm on his lap, stroking the wave metalwork.

“Why was he here anyway?”

“Looking for the Princess,” said Galladon quickly. You’re becoming more accustomed to this lying business, Lannister. Storm. Lannister. “He tried every pavilion in person. He did not want gossip to start by sending the Black Cloaks to find her."

“I still can’t believe that you did not know who she was.” The squire took the helm from his knight and placed it on his head, his voice was dripping in insolence, but Galladon did not blame him. He clasped the helm with his wide hands, ensuring that it was in place.

Galladon made his way back onto the yard, clutching Thunder’s reins himself. The stallion gently trotted next to him, looking nervous himself. Galladon rubbed his neck reassuringly, but could not help but fear for the beast himself. It was not uncommon for animals to be wounded or maimed or even killed as part of the games of men.

He could see Trystane Martell at the far end of the tiltyard, clad in red. His helm was under his arm, and his other waved to the crowds. He certainly looks more confident than I. Others had their confidence in Galladon, however. Ser Emyl, Robert and even Commander Blackwood were in the stands, surrounded by other Gold Cloaks who were not due to patrol that day. They had ceremoniously wore their gold mail and cloaks despite the temperature being near unbearable. Galladon could feel the sweat beading under his helm. There had been a cool breeze earlier, but now it had gone, leaving nothing but stifling heat that hung around in the air like a bad smell.

“Storm, Storm, Storm!” Called his golden brothers, whooping and cheering. He passed the reins to Arron and approached them. At that point, Galladon was thankful making friends and acquaintances came so easily to him. He would have vomited in his helm without them there. Did my mother get such a warm reception at tourneys? Probably not. Even her victory against Ser Loras had been contested by everyone except the youngest Stag.

“I’m looking forward to you going arse over tit, Ser Storm!” Called Robert, raising a horn of ale to him.

“I’m looking forward to all of the arse and tits I’ll get when I win.” Ha. Galladon retorted, much to everyone’s delight.

“Aye, well fought, lad! Nothing to say to that.” He raised his horn higher before draining it in one, messy gulp. They were an unruly lot, all of them, but well-meaning. Lord Willas had served well as Master of Laws to weed out the crooked ones.

“Arse and tits? Priorities, Ser Galladon.” Ser Emyl barged his way to the front, one side of his head had been taken over by a throbbing lump. One of his brothers had clumsily bandaged it, but it was oozing a yellow liquid through the cloth. “You’ll be getting the wineskins in before any of that.”

“Of course, but are you sure you’re alright to do so?” He leant forward and clutched his calloused hand whilst pointing at the lump.

“This? Looks worse than it is.” But Galladon could see him wince. “So have you seen that wench of yours yet?” Ser Emyl gestured to the ribbon, which had been restored to Galladon’s shoulder.

“Not yet," he lied. "The day is young.” He clapped him on the shoulder, his breastplate clinking against the wooden railings. Arron tugged at him as the horns began to blow. “See you all at the Headless Queen later?” Galladon called, beginning to make his way back to Thunder. He did not wait to hear the response, but from the cheers, he assumed it was a ‘yes’.

It was nearly time. He pulled himself on top of Thunder, forcing his feet into the stirrups. He wished there was a way to nail his feet to them. Whilst he flustered, the Learned Spear, danced on his sand-steed, clasping the hands of maidens fair as he rode up and down the standings. Galladon trotted himself into position, Arron Uller sprinting alongside him to hand him a lance.

“Are you forgetting this, Ser?”

“Of course not, I-”

“Good luck, Ser Galladon. Lord Trystane is one of my liege lords, but I hope you are triumphant.”

“I doubt that is going to happen.”

“He’s easily more experienced, more reactive and more skilled on horseback- but he shattered his right shoulder when falconing at Hellholt a few years past if I remember correctly. He was not maimed, but it never grew back quite as strong.” The boy said breezily as he led Thunder and Galladon to their starting positions. He looked up, his eyes wide and brows furrowed. Right shoulder. Disastrous falconry. Never grew back as strong. Right shoulder. “You know what I’m trying to-”

“I know.”

“Lord Trystane Martell of Dorne and Ser Galladon Storm of Tarth and the City Watch of King's landing!” Wailed the crier, his nasal voice scraping through the air like a sword on stone. “Who will be champion?”

“Go, Arron.” He leant down to muss his hair. “Thank you.”

“You must win, Ser Galladon. Your Queen of Love and Beauty is counting on you.” He pointed to the royal enclosure as he backed away, where Princess Viserra was stood clapping. She winked at him, before taking her seat next to her mother and sister. She was not the only one. Everyone apart from the rest of the royal family and immediate court were on their feet. Cheering and howling and whistling. Some shouted Martell, but some voices, not even cloaked in Gold, shouted Storm.

Trystane Martell’s fearsome steed whinnied, kicking up her front legs. Her rider had pulled on his helm now; red and intricate with a garland of sunburst around the crown of his head. The way he tossed his lance from hand to hand made Galladon want to flee. What shattered shoulder? I see no weakness. But he could see Lord Arron Uller from the standings, nodding.

No, I can’t flee. I am born of Young Lion and the Warrior-Maid of Tarth. The truest knights who ever did live. The blood of the old kings of Tarth and the Lions of the Rock runs through my veins. A lion is not afraid of anything, he told himself. Then the horns sounded, and they were off. Trystane Martell was first to charge, a wave of dust and dirt under his steed’s hooves. Galladon did not even have enough time to position his lance as they crossed, so focussed on holding on for his life with his right hand. Trystane’s lance coursed along his breastplate, splinting at the shoulder, causing Galladon to scream on impact. I am a lion, he repeated. A Lion of Casterly Rock.

Trystane caught another lance and lifted his visor to examine his opponent. His eyes were black and defiant, but they seemed to smile on him pitifully at the same time. The horns sounded again for the second tilt and the visor was down. Again, Martell was the first to charge whilst Galladon flustered. Once again, he could not jab his opponent in time; Martell was too quick. This time, the Dornish lance struck him in the groin, splintering with force. Galladon stayed mounted but was far from fortunate. Trystane Martell had left him some gifts; a studded row of wooden stakes where it had met the join between his leg plate and faulds. Galladon wanted to vomit with the pain, as he unsteadily halted Thunder. He wavered on top of his mount, trying to both calm his horse as well as his own nerves.

“Does Ser Storm wish to continue?” Called the master of games, his voice dripping with concern. I am a lion.

“Yes…” he called through his helm, his voice sounding more of a miaow than a roar.

“You’re supposed to hit him, Storm!” Called a voice, probably Robert’s. “Seven bloody hells! It’s the point of the games!” It was hot, so hot. He felt wetness slick from his leg, but he daren’t look down at it.

“Quiten down, Robert. Ser Galladon? Are you alright? You needn’t continue. You’ve done us all proud.” Said a voice with the twang of the Riverlands. Galladon nodded, but he didn’t know what direction he was nodding in. The world through his visor seemed like a blurred tapestry; shapes and lines and colours but no detail to be seen.

“Third tilt.” Wailed the crier. Again, Trystane’s steed was the first to bolt but this time he missed. Galladon hoped that it looked vaguely tactical to both the crowds and Queen, but it was, in fact, well-timed sway. His shield dropped to the floor, for it was taking all of his strength to hold himself up as blood pumped from his leg. It was if the joint had its own heart. He forced himself to lift his visor and focus his vision. There was one main splinter, about as thick as his cudgel, surrounded by a cluster of toothpicks. The pale of the wood was now stained crimson. It tricked down his saddle, drenching Thunder’s hide. He was pleased he was black as the hour of the bat, otherwise, his poor stallion would have an almighty stain.

“Ser Galladon,” called the master of games, from his bureau, this time more sharply. “Do you wish to continue?”

“Mother, your Grace, please put a stop to this.” Wailed a voice. A girl's voice.

“I wish to continue,” Galladon said, his throat dry. He wrenched off his helm, shaking out his sweat-wet curls. Lord Trystane had done the same, he was surrounded by House Martell men, deep in conversation. They looked over to Ser Galladon fearfully.

“I wish to continue.” This time he roared. The master of games nodded, but Galladon knew him to be unsure of his judgement.

“Proceed,” he nodded to the crier.

Helm on, steady yourself, feet in, make sure you attempt to land a blow this time. The mood was now far from jubilant. He could see Viserra sobbing angrily in the royal enclosure, held by Tyrion, all of the colour drained from his face. The Queen and Princess Rhaenyra sat silently, their faces plastered with concern like half of the tourney goers. The rest were arguing with the master of games, demanding he put a stop to it. Others called to the Queen but she did not respond.

Galladon studied the crowd, until his eyes fell on an absurdly large woman whose face was neither anger or discomfort. She smiled warmly. Her face soft compared to the mail and plate she was clad in. A lady-knight? Did she compete? If his eyes were the sea, hers were the colour of summer skies. Her face was framed with thick, yellow hair; grazing against one cheek scarred and one cheek freckled. She nodded her head, and at that moment Galladon could feel both fear and pain melt away; his vision sharpened and he clasped the reins, ignoring the more furious pumping of blood from his groin.

“Fourth tilt.” Go.

The Lord of Sunspear and the Bastard from the Stormlands set off at the same time. Galladon positioned his lance, gritted his teeth and screamed as he charged. He hadn’t screamed like this since his last night on Tarth. His left gripped the lance, his right clung onto both reins. He stuck out his lance like it was a part of his arm and closed his eyes. He did not fear falling anymore.

Why am I still mounted? He asked himself after some time. His eyes were still fused closed, his breath heavy. The tiltyard had erupted with noise and he did not know why. He could still feel his lance in-hand, familiar as the cudgel he used on patrol.

“Storm, Storm, Storm, Storm, Storm!” Why do they call my name? He opened his eyes and dropped his lance, to see frenzied tourney-goers throwing both flowers and pennies. He spun Thunder around to see Trystane Martell, dented in the dirt, as his ferocious steed whinnied and galloped of her own accord.

“You did it! You bloody did it!”

“Well fought, Ser Galladon!”

“Better get your leg fixed mate, the wenches aren’t going to fuck themselves!”

“Gods, Robert, he’s going to bleed out, forget the bloody wenches.”

I am a lion. This time he truly believed it, but all he could think of was the maid in mail with the yellow hair and the scarred face. He galloped down to the far end of the yard where he had seen her, ignoring the fanfare around him and the Dornish lord flailing on the floor like a trapped serpent. She wasn’t there. Where is she?

The yard fell silent, and everyone was seated once more. Galladon continued to search the stands for the woman, wishing to tell her how her smile had eased him. He felt weaker not seeing her.

“Ser,” hushed a woman in a pink-slashed gown. “The Queen..” She nodded, her face pained.

Galladon jolted around to see the Silver Queen standing. He gulped, the weight of her stare heavy upon him.

“Approach, Ser Galladon Storm of Tarth and the City Watch of King’s Landing.” He trotted towards her, raining blood on the ground below. Gasps rose up from the crowd, but not from Queen Daenerys.

“That was well fought. I haven’t seen such a dramatic tourney final in years.”

“Thank you, your Grace.” She gazed upon him, a mature Viserra with lilac eyes.

“I believe our champion needs to see a maester, your Grace.” said his Viserra, her own eyes misty.

“Imminently, my daughter. I have four waiting below.” Galladon’s eyes scanned down, she did. Grey-clad, holding bolts of fabric, they seemed ready to spring into action. Queen Daenerys' own eyes continued to bore into him. “He must crown his Queen first.” My Queen?

Desperate to avert her gaze, he looked the other way. The girl on the right was the infamous Princess Harpy. She was beautiful in a way that Galladon had never seen before. She was the blood of both Old Ghis and Old Valyria and if her mother and sister were moonlight then she was a sunbeam. Her skin was glossy amber and her hair more gold than their silver. Her eyes were the deepest, darkest purple, nearly red. They were filled with disappointment. Viserra, still the fairest in Galladon’s eyes, stood up and whispered something to her, but Rhaenyra kept starting straight ahead towards the Blue Bastard of Tarth.

The Queen sat back down in between the two of them and only then did Galladon allow himself a proper look at her. She was draped in iridescent robes of pink, purple and pearly green. Her silver-gold hair was coiled intricately on her head and she wore a small and non-ostentatious crown of jade fashioned to look like a dragon’s wing. She squeezed her eldest daughter’s hand and whispered to her as well. Princess Rhaenyra shuddered at whatever her mother had said and looked down into her purple skirts.

The master of games stepped out onto the yard and approached Galladon, his walk towards him taking what seemed like an eternity. All Galladon could do was wait, as more blood flowed from his leg like a slashed wineskin. His plate did not protect him from Trystane’s blow nor did it protect him from the hundreds, if not thousands, of eyes piercing through him. In the master of games’ hands was a pillow of deep purple silk, cradling a crown of white roses. He passed it to Galladon, who took the delicate floral crown in his armour-clad hands. It was not just white roses, he could see now. Deep red dragon’s breath, lady’s lace and small, dusky gillyflowers studded the headpiece. Galladon knew what he was going to do with it. He knew what he had to do with it.

He balanced the crown on the edge of his lance and rode closer to the royal enclosure, unsteady on his saddle. He extended his lance outwards; placing the garland in the lap of Princess Rhaenyra. She looked up, touched; her face a picture of surprise and delight, before it contorted into horror.

“Ser? Ser?” She leapt up, petals cascading to the floor in her haste “Help him!” The yellow-haired woman appeared over the Meereenese princess’ shoulder, her blue eyes filled with hurt. What happened? What has hurt you so? He tried to call to her, but his voice was not working. Neither were his arms or legs, his awkwardly large torso swaying off the side of his horse.

“Don’t just stand there, listen to your Crown Princess!” snarled Tyrion, who had sprinted down to the lower dais. There was a sense of panic and dread as the tiltyard erupted into screams, but they were not screams of jubilation.

All ten and six stone of Galladon came crashing to the ground. The hot earth licked at his cheek whilst princesses screamed, maidens cried and Gold Cloaks shouted. He closed his eyes, the ground as comfortable as the finest featherbed, as he drifted onwards into the dark.

Chapter Text

The maesters had flocked to him, like a group of frightened grey pigeons as soon as he and Rhaenyra had spurred them on. Grand Maester Sarella, who had opted to sit with the party from Sunspear rather than the rest of the small council, had thrown herself over the stands at the far end of the yard, sprinting down to where the boy lay. She was as coated in grit, dust and dirt as her old bastard name had suggested. Her cousin, the trueborn Trystane, was stomping around, his dented helm in hand, whilst his own men endeavoured to pull him back from the spectacle. It was not displeasure at losing to a newcomer, but guilt at maiming one. He was a good man. Politics aside, he couldn’t have thought of anyone better for his Myrcella. Perhaps his sister would have still sat on her stolen throne if the pact had remained. Tyrion put thoughts of his niece aside and raced to his nephew.

“His leg must be above his heart,” spat Sarella, collapsing into the dirt besides him. “Hurry.” She held out her outstretched hands whilst a lesser maester poured a pail of water over them. Her charge then dropped the pail as all four pairs of hands were needed to strip the boy of plate and hoist the deadweight of his leg in the air. Sarella placed one of her own hands on his plateless chest, the fingers of the other against his neck. Unhelmed in the fall, sweat had soaked through his curls; turning gold into straw.

“His heart beats fast, but I can’t feel it moving his blood along.”

“What does that mean?” Gasped Tyrion. Grand Maester Sarella, for a woman in her thirtieth years was most brilliant; particularly in the healing arts. Since she was appointed, not one lady of the court had died in childbirth; in turn, her teachings had spared many the realm over. Whether she could save this boy had yet to be seen; he already looked dead to Tyrion’s eye, as much as he curbed the thought in his head.

 “It means his body is in shock. There is not enough blood.” That was clear to see. The removal of the plate had shown everyone the extent of the damage. Rhaenyra, who was not a stranger to the fighting pits of Meereen, had stood to excuse herself and a sobbing Viserra. The maesters were now more red than grey; looking like they had been on the battlefield as opposed to a Princess’ nameday tourney. The viscous fluid, red and hot, bloomed beneath Galladon Lannister; as if all seven hells were opening from below. The boy was completely unawares of the damage but looked absolutely anything but at peace. Sweat continued to pour out of him and he grew paler with each passing second, the bottom half of his leg growing as mottled as a dye house worker’s hand once someone had pulled it from his sealskin boot.

 They had removed the chunks of joust and stacked the gaping wound high with cloth, the blood spluttering like a blocked faucet below the fabric. “A tourniquet, Grand Maester? Do you need more cloth?” Choked Tyrion, his voice mimicking the stilted blood flow. Daenerys had banned him from wearing any hue of red, but she couldn’t stop the flow of blood from replicating the colour of his House. His silver doublet was now as red as any wine or berry or drunkard’s face.

“No. We’d lose the leg, most definitely.” Tyrion shuddered as his nephew’s blood erupted hot and sticky over his hands, but he could not back away. Sarella did not take her eyes off the stack of cloth, her skilled hands applying a gentle pressure to the top of the pile from where the blood had escaped. Lose the leg? Gods, if Jaime was here to hear that. He would have grabbed the male maester by the scruff of his neck, and beaten him bloody with his stump.

“Are you not more concerned with the man losing his life?” Said Maester Jyena, another woman-maester, with a flat face and wide brown eyes.

“If I cannot save the life without a severe maiming, I would rather not save it. How would a bastard-born knight live without his leg?” He is not bastard-born, he can’t be, Tyrion wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. She looked around, her face placid in the midst of the chaos around her. The Black Cloaks were restraining the Gold from entering the field, a fight breaking out between a few. Thunder, his gift to the boy, galloped around the yard, scattering squires and stewards. Viserra’s sobbing was still audible, even from behind the stands whilst Tal Toraq and her sister tried to calm her. The people of King’s Landing had grown fearful as well. Twenty years ago they would have watched on with glee, drinking in the excitement, but with Daenerys banning most bloodsports, the mood had changed. The crowds remained still; ladies clutching their lords and  septons comforting whores. The Queen, however, looked on. She hadn’t moved, resembling a statue of pearlescent marble. Strange, thought Tyrion. She didn’t even want to view the melee earlier, why is this suddenly so interesting?

“Forget the leg, save the boy.” He demanded, clutching Sarella’s arm. She shook him away.

“I will try and save both. The possibility of survival is the same, whether I tie the limb or stitch wherever the blood may escape from. I am choosing the latter.” She nodded her head at her associates, firing towards them; “I require a needle and thread, I need to stitch this before all blood flows from him.”

“Some boiling wine for the area, Grand Maester, surely?” Said one gormless grey pigeon whose name Tyrion did not know. He was keeping Galladon’s leg elevated from the floor. A feeble boy, who struggled under the weight of it, he’d have even been useless at stacking tomes at the Citadel.

“You question me? Do you have time to boil a pail of wine? There is no time for cleanliness.”

“Thread and a needle, for the Grand Maester!” Called Maester Jyena, who caught and threaded the small, silver tools from another before passing them to her superior.

 Indeed, Grand Maester Sarella was most brilliant, but it was the first time he had seen her looking so ill. Was it the crowds? Or was it his stare? You let this cub die and I will ensure you are sent to serve until your death, in a crumbling castle in an unforgiving climate, Sand. Her whole torso was now on top of the cloth, one hand clasping the threaded needle. Her maesters looked at her expectantly, but she hesitated. Her brow was furrowed as she bent down her closely-cropped black head to look from his leg to her thread. Tyrion then saw her dilemma. Once she lifted the pressure from off of the wound, there was no putting the horse back in the stable. The boy could bleed out before she could so much as bend down to make her first stitch.

 She looked up, gathering her maesters closely and spoke with such hushed urgency that Tyrion could neither hear nor comprehend what she was saying. They appeared to count, from five to nought, before Sarella lifted the cloth from the wound. It spurted from the boy like a cracked cask, spraying the faces of those who tended him. I lost my niece, my nephew, my wife, my brother. Not this boy, not another nephew. Was this punishment? The future of his house gone, to punish the sins of the past? Our sins. My sins.

 At that moment, two of the maesters plunged their hands into his wound, Tyrion vomited down his front at the sound. Sarella then bolted towards it; thread in hand, a monocle on her eye, working like the finest tailor. Tyrion used one hand to scrape the chunks of half-digested venison and cherries whilst clenching a first with the other. Please, he prayed, please. The singers had called him The Last Lion, but for once, he did not want the singers to tell the truth. He closed his eyes, for Grand Maester Sarella’s hands deep in his nephew’s wound was a sight he did not want to see any more; but all he could see when he closed them was Jaime. I’ve failed him. The boy had told him the lengths that his brother had gone to keep him safe, but Tyrion had kept him selfishly in sight. In everyone’s sight, even the Queen’s. She studied the sight before her; the golden giant cast out on the ground, pecked to death by the fretting, grey birds, her eyes two chips of quartz.

 He had heard Sarella’s robes graze against the ground as she stood up when he decided it was time to gingerly glance of over. The gash was still weeping blood but without the ferocity of before. Sarella wiped her hands on her robes and wiped her brow, leaving a sticky trail where her slender, brown hand was not completely clean. Her red-streaked face was both concern and confusion when she realised that Tyrion Lannister was weeping like a child. He hadn’t wept for his father, nor his sister, not even his niece and nephew or kinder kinsmen, but this boy had made him weep for them all.

“All we can do is wait, my Lord Hand. I’ve either stitched up the flow well-enough, or the boy simply has no more blood to lose.” Sarella looked over to the Queen and nodded, who in turn waved over four Black Cloaks who clutched a wooden panel over their shoulders, with a stiff-looking straw mattress over the top. They hoisted the boy onto it with difficulty, but he did not stir.

“Where do you want him?” Said Steffon Boggs, a bandy-legged guard with a sunburned, peeling nose.

“Back to the barracks, I’d imagine.”

“No, no.” Interrupted Tyrion, blinking the tears from his eyes, looking down to ensure he was free of obvious flakes of vomit and mucus. “Take the boy to my chambers.”

“Your chambers?” Some of the members of the crowd standing nearby whispered.

“Yes,” He looked around and cleared his throat “the boy deserves to be comfortable.”

“As you wish, my Lord Hand.” Said the Grand Maester, who looked to the Queen for reassurance. She waved her hand dismissively, not even looking to Tyrion, before nodding to her steward to bring her litter to the foot of the dais. The day had gone on longer than expected, her Grace needing time to rest before the feasts of that night. “Daughters?” She looked to them for them. “Where are the princesses?”

 As Galladon was carried out towards the Tower of the Hand, Tal Toraq appeared from the side of the standings, with Rhaenyra in his arm and Viserra stomping angrily next to him. If he thought he had seen her dishevelled on two occasions that day, nothing could match the third. Her hair was wild, her powder smeared, her sunset bodice stained with the wet of her tears. She was hurting, but she was as ferocious as the beasts who adorned her skirts.

 “What have I just witnessed, mother?” Wept Viserra, racing past Tal Toraq, to catch up with Queen Daernerys who had began her ascent into her litter. “You disgrace our name! The Dragon is meant to protect! He was one of your officers, dedicated keeping this city safe and you’ve killed him. Murdered, so Rhaenyra could have the eyes of the realm on her, like a starring mummer on Visenya’s Hill.” She blew her nose audibly on her own hand. Her creamy skin now had a deathly pallor and and her blue eyes red. Her two Essosi handmaidens had shuffled towards her, standing either side like guards; one comforting her, the eldest trying to gently discourage her. She batted them off furiously, looking around her to the crowds as if she was calling her audience. She wishes to draw attention to herself. And how could she not? Her wails had been heard from the Arbor to the lands of the Northern clans.

“And you, you!” She pointed her finger at Rhaenyra, who was now following behind her mother, Tal Toraq helping her up the steps. Viserra’s outstretched arm was streaked with her eye charcoal. “You’re taking your leave too?”

“My place is with the Queen.” She said calmly, regally. Daenerys was anything but calm and he predicted that she would soon do something that was anything but regal; her eyes flashed fire, her tone barbed. She thought well of herself, her composure usually most queenly in public but the act was beginning to wear thin. He had been tied by blood to the first Mad Queen, then tied by duty to the second.

“You can stop your own mummer’s play, Viserra. I’ve killed no-one. The risks are made clear to all entrants when they join the lists.”

“You have!” She spluttered “All entrants are supposed to be attended to by a maester upon grave injury, you allowed this madness to carry on.” That was enough. Daenerys edged Rhaenyra into the litter before walking the four steps to the ground to slap Viserra across her face, leaving a red mark on her cheekbone. A gasp, and some braven boos rippled through the crowd. Even Lord Willas pushed himself up with his crutch, distaste showing in his face. She should know better to chastise her daughters in public, let alone the beloved Fair Viserra. But the defiance of both her daughter and the tourney-goers did not make her back down.

“You would be all out of tears if you reduced yourself to this each time one of your scratching posts got into a scrap.” She shook her head and turned around to study the grounds, her stare quashing the whispers. “Guards, take Princess Viserra back to her chambers. Do not let her out of your sight.” She ducked her silver-gold head into her silk vault. With haste, Princess Viserra the Fair, the Dragon’s Daughter and Delight of King’s Landing was dragged off, shrieking and kicking over the shoulder of Ser Egbert Crabb, losing a jewelled slipper in the process. The Black Cloaks, who up until then, had been fending off the Gold from approaching their brother, dropped their arms and circled the white knight and the littlest Princess to escort her back to the Red Keep. She continued to kick and scream like an unwilling salt wife carried back to Pyke, causing the crowd to hiss like cats.

“You know this boy?” Said Sarella. She handed one of her associates a cooled cloth who then placed it to Galladon’s brow. He was laying in Tyrion’s own bed. She immediately clasped her skilled hands to take the chill off of them. After the Queen had taken her leave, Tyrion had taken his own. He had not left the boy’s side, not even to change from his vomit-stained clothes. Jaime had done the same when he had his red-spots, even attempting to read a slim volume on Daemon the Dragonknight to lift his spirits. He was such a terrible reader than a younger, particularly insolent Tyrion had asked him to stop his clunky, spoken prose. He would have given anything to hear that voice now. Would he have forgiven him, for sitting idly as the Queen’s justice had taken their sweet sister’s head off with an arakh? Perhaps he would have done, he thought, as he gazed upon the boy who was now more tarnished copper than gold. Cersei was not on his mind when this boy was made and Cersei would have arranged an accident for this boy if she had lived to know his existence.

"I am familiar with the boy’s father. You could say he is my favourite Gold Cloak. Just don’t tell Hos that his crown has been stolen by this green boy.” He forced himself to smile. He was fully aware both the crown and court were confused with his outburst earlier. Even Sarella had looked at him queerly in the tiltyard, but in hindsight, the Queen had looked the most queer of all.

“You can tell the boy’s father that his chances are better but the leg may be lost still. He will need to be watched closely.” Lord Selwyn. He would have to tell Lord Selwyn. He had been more a father to Galladon than Jaime had the chance. A better man than Robert, no doubt. He imagined that Jaime would feel a great deal better about how this secret child was raised. “Don’t fear, little lion.” He whispered breathlessly, not loud enough to for the Grand Maester to hear. “I would have had all of their legs if they had so much as lost one of yours.” That is not even a jest. He went to touch the boy’s hand, but knew that he couldn’t. He stole it back as if he had absent-mindedly placed it near a steaming kettle.

“My Lord Hand,” said the Grand Maester, her voice hushed. “I know you are concerned for the boy, but you do yourself no-good watching over him like this.” She reached into her sleeve, pulling out a vial of milk of the poppy. Milk of the poppy that dear Dany has not earmarked for herself?

“He needs that more than me.”

“He sleeps. The boy is not in pain, I have seen to that. A thimbleful, nothing more, just to give yourself some rest for a few hours. I will send someone to wake you if he stirs, but that may not even be for days yet.” She placed the vial on a nearby table and raised a hand to the boy’s cheek. “Fantastic breeding.” She muttered, collecting her vials and instruments into a sack of red leather that was held out by her grey pigeon.

“What?” Said Tyrion sharply.

“I said, ‘fantastic breeding’. The boy is built like an aurochs, that is why he lasted so long. A man half the size of him would have been dead by the third tilt.”

“Lord Selwyn probably put a bastard on a sturdy Ibbenese maid, no doubt. The choice and variety that comes having both an easterly and westerly port as part of your lands.” Sarella smiled warmly, the apples of her cheeks bobbing as if they were being cleaned in freshwater. She took her sack from the maester’s hand and nodded to him.

“We must see some colour return to him by morning. Send for me at once if there is a mere suggestion of festering in this leg. There may be an infection within.” She curtsied to Tyrion. “Rest, my Lord Hand. If his physical condition worsens, you will feel better with your mind being sharp.” He relented, waddling over to the table where the vial lay. He rolled it around in his hands, hoping for peace.

He did not get peace. The ghosts came that night, as they did so often. There were deep in the crevices of Casterly Rock; full of secret tunnels and ravines and sandy trenches. He was soaked to his skin, water gracing his neck. Every time he had this dream, he would check to see if he had pissed himself in the morning. The golden shadows of his distant cousins, aunts, uncles and kinsmen looked upon him from high, like mountain lions surveying the lands of their pride. Each of them held torches, but they never used them to make the descent down to him. They just stood there, like grim and morbid statues in the Hall of Heroes, their hate burning like the flames. His father and sister stood at the forefront, her children cowering around her skirts, bearing the scars of life. Joffrey’s face and throat were as black as sin, Myrcella’s own gangrenous and rancid from her belated infection and little Tommen was bloody and bruised, his face as dented as a tourney knight’s helm from where his own mother’s henchman had thrown him from the Red Keep. She cradled all of them, undeterred by their respective maimings.

“Where is Jaime, sweet sister?” He bellowed to her. She would not hurt him, none of them could. They could haunt him, drive him mad, but he would not be ripped to shreds by the golden ghosts. He would wake up soon, piss-free and frightened, weeping for his brother.

“I told it true.” Her face was ethereal and earnest, calmer than he had ever seen her in life. “He left me.”

“He is not with us.” Said his Lord Father, his whiskers near-aflame from his torch. “Another will join us soon.” Tywin Lannister never smiled, but Tyrion could see the faintest shadow of one creeping up his face. If he had lived to see Galladon spring forth from Jaime’s loins, he would have cartwheeled from Rock to Keep like Moon Boy, thumping a pig’s bladder as he went.

“Who will join you?” But they did not respond. “Who will join you?” He repeated, louder. “Are you going to kill this son?” said a voice behind him. Tyrion turned and saw him there; as white as the snow lacing the Mountains of the Moon. Water came up to his waist, but he stood there as still as he had guarded the King’s chambers in life. “Jaime!” He looked a great deal better than the last time they had met. He had two hands now and his mane tumbled around his shoulders with health. “I did not kill your son, it was a lie, I wanted to hurt you, for my wife, for Tysha, I hated Joffrey but I would have never-” Jaime did not interrupt him, but Tyrion’s voice trailed off all of the same. Instead, Jaime turned his back on him, his cloak floating on top of the water like a lotus flower. “Jaime! Jaime!” He called, his voice breaking with hopelessness, as the cavern waters began to rise before it swallowed him whole.

“Jaime!” he woke up crying, as he had predicted. He had slept on his soft furnishings in his solar after giving his chambers to his ailing nephew, his self-sacrifice giving him a stiff neck. He sat bolt-upright and saw he was not alone but his guest was not his golden brother. I am surrounded by dragons, not lions now. Her crown was askew, and her pearl-coloured underrobe hung limply from one shoulder, looking as her daughter did in the Gold Cloaks’ pavilion. She approached his bureau, the curve of her back casting a shadow on the wall. One hand coiled around her goblet as she turned around to face him. “Jaime?” She repeated, sickened. “I think you were having a nightmare, Tyrion Lannister.” The Lannister was as barbed as a rose, as loaded as a full trebuchet. She looked to him for a reaction, but he said nothing.

Her hand crept around his papers and ornaments like a wandering spider, before it set about to knocking over the pieces of his ivory and jade cyvasse board one by one. Queen Daenerys’ lips were as blue as cornflower.

“I require your counsel, my Lord Hand.” The elephant fell. Tyrion rubbed his temple and hoisted himself off of the cushions. I have woken the dragon but I do not know why. He pulled a robe around his sleeping clothes to keep out the chill of the evening, but his thoughts flashed to Galladon instead of the drop in temperature. Was he well? Is there colour to him? Has his leg began to-

He stopped his thoughts. “How can I advise you, your Grace?” He said dutifully.

“I fear someone may be betraying me.” Down went the castle. He did not like this at all.

“Who, your Grace?”

“Someone very close to me.” Another elephant.

“How do you think that they are deceiving you?”

“I have known this person for more than half my life. They have known wars and maiming; they have sat by my side, holding my hands as slaves-all-but-in-name battle each other to the death; they saw me birth both of my daughters; they watched a maester butcher a dying Ser Barristan in an attempt to save his life. Most of all, they have sat through countless tourneys; watching men young and old take a joust to the throat, heart or gut without concern.” The light horse fell, as did its heavy brother.

“It sounds like this person has a stomach of Valyrian steel.” He could not prevent it from sounding tart, but Daenerys did not rise to it.

“Oh yes,” The rabble fell “that is why I was most confused when he screamed for a maester with such urgency when the golden boy of today fell from his horse. Perhaps at that moment, he just wanted to support the pleas of his Crown Princess, but that would not explain the tears in his eyes. Or how he had not left the boy unattended without much persuasion.” Sarella. A rare lapse in judgement on his part. It was Queen Daenerys who gave her her livelihood. She who unshackled the bookish women of Westeros so they too could wear the chains of a maester. Sickeningly loyal, it was stupid of him to fawn over the boy in her presence. Even if she was a simple Dornish maid with full breasts and a saucy tongue, it was foolish of him. The Dornishmen were dragonmen; hence why he paid that little squire off before he could go running to Ulwyck Uller.

“It was a most dramatic set of tilts. Any man could become swept up in the emotion of that day.” He said blankly.

“True, true.” Down went the crossbow, a chip of jade cast across the desk from where it had splintered upon its fall. “But there was also the possibility that this person may have some sort of vested interest in that young knight. In fact, I heard he is good friends with the father of that boy.”

“Would that not explain it?”

“It would do. Which is why I have just sent a raven to the father’s liege.” Lady Shireen Baratheon, the Grey Stag. “I’d imagine she would be best suited to confirming any friendship.” I’d like to see her help you. The Stormlords detest you as much as the West. You burned their farmer’s crops and their farmer’s boys black before Stannis’  child bent the knee. He remembered watching the girl do it as he mounted Viserion. There was steel in that child’s eyes that could not be tempered even if Daenerys had taken half of her lands and vassals.

“I’d imagine you are right, your Grace.” She collapsed all of the pieces, rendering him inaudible. The only piece standing was the ivory dragon. If a lion existed aboard a cyvasse table, she would have thrown it in the fire. She wiped her mouth and examined the blue kisses she had left on her own wrist.

“Oh my little Lord of Lannister, I hope I am not right, for his sake and yours.” She knelt to meet him, eye-to-eye. “I’ll be asking the boy of his relationship with you when he arises.” She left him, leaving Tyrion bewildered. He picked up the jade dragon and cast it into the corner of the room, with rage.

Ascending to his chambers, he burst into the room where Galladon lay resting. “Leave us.” He rasped to the maester. “But…my Lord Hand, Grand Maester Sarella said tha-” The lad looked scared, Tyrion wondered how crazed he must have looked. “I only ask a minute or two.” He relented. “You can wait outside.” The boy did as he was bid, Tyrion made sure they door was definitely closed before he approached the boy. Jaime, he is nearly all Jaime. Even in mind they were similar, all swagger and charm, but Galladon’s nature was sweeter. Was this what Jaime would have been like, without Cersei? Tyrion knew he could not blame her completely. Their father had done a decent job of ruining him as well.

“It was my affection for you that has woken the dragon, not your short, misplaced affection for her dragonspawn.” He sighed and stroked his matted hair. “She’ll come for you when you awake, boy. I’d stay sleeping for as long as possible.” It was not a jest. For as long as Galladon slept, she could not question him; and erratic as Daenerys could be, he did not believe any harm would come to him without trial. He hoped Galladon would hear him, but the boy stayed still. Some colour had returned to his cheeks at least. A good sign, according to Sarella. It meant his blood flowed once more. He was not out of the woods yet though, rosy cheeks meant nothing if it was accompanied by a green, rotting leg. He planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead and left him in peace, not before pulling on a pair of chestnut riding boots and a thick cloak of forest green.

Viserion was where he thought he would be, although he was partial to a nighttime hunt. He shone as bright as all of the gold in Casterly Rock, his snoring head poking out from his lair that Tyrion had built for him when he resurrected the Hand’s Tower like a red priest. It was built into the main turret, accessible only from the Hand’s own chambers. One curve of it remained open to the elements, allowing the beast to take flight when he wished. Tyrion scanned his cream and golden scales with pride, for he was never not-awed in his presence. He had wept when he had been told he would never have a dragon and wept with joy when one bowed his head to him during the Second Siege of Meereen. He strode up to the beast, smoothing its head-scales until it began to purr and click. Duty or family, he cackled to himself, recalling the Tully words. But what choice would bring me the most honour? It depended who judged him. Viserion’s eyes opened, two burning suns that seemed to stare into his soul. You know I am dithering with the possibility of betraying your dear mother, don’t you? The great, golden beast looked grieved, but dipped his head so his snout just touched his rider’s feet.

He made his choice and mounted Viserion, who knew exactly where he wished to go.

Chapter Text

She did not know how long she had been sobbing, she just knew that it hadn’t stopped. Her handmaidens looked at each other, unaware of what to do. The younger whispering, “Shall we tell the Queen?” and the elder sharply replying “Don’t be dense, Olys. The Queen is fully aware.” They had washed and scrubbed her in her preferred scalding water, the heat still rising off her skin as she was bundled into her sleeping robes. Viserra could tell that both of them were in ill moods as her own behaviour had prevented them from going to the feast themselves, but they were highborn girls who knew their courtesies.

“Shall we do your hair, my princess? I can braid it for you, as you like it.” Said a thin-smiled Laenor, who kneeled at her feet. “Just brush it.” She said, with disinterest, so they did. They walked her over the brazier and combed it through with spiceflower oil until it gleamed like newly polished silver. After they were certain that she would not get a chill of the head, they helped her into bed, Olys bringing over a large candle and a stack of books so she could read. She opted for A Song of Ice and Fire: The wars for the Iron Throne, and eventual wars for the Dawn, by Maester Tarly. She had studied it with her own maester and read it a half-hundred times herself after she had learned her letters, numbers and histories. Jon Stark was the hero of her youth; a half-dragon, legitimised bastard like herself. She felt sad that she had never met him, but knew her mother felt even sadder.

She couldn’t concentrate. The feasts were probably over by now, but the revellers continued to frolic. The spikes below Viserra’s chambers, on the highest floor of Maegor’s Holdfast, couldn’t even keep out the noise. The clatters and laughter of tomfoolery rang through her ears until it hurt. She cast her tome to the foot of her bed and bent the pillow over both her ears, thinking of Galladon. She felt foolish for mourning him so publicly, for her handmaidens had reassured her that the boy lived after fetching water for her bath. She wasn’t the only one; on her way out she had seen a handful of ladies weeping for him in the stands clutching their dainty silk handkerchiefs. They probably looked a great deal more princess-like than I did, but I was the one who had him. She shuddered, remembering how soft her lips had been against the hard angles of his body; but there was a gentleness to him too. She barely knew the boy, but it was plain to see that he was fairer than most girls and kinder than most men. When I came to him, he still treated me as princess in the maidenvault. He was wroth when Lord Tyrion insulted me. There had been others, many others, but no men like him. Some of her other nightly consorts would take her for a tavern wench instead of the dragon with just one spill of their seed. He would speak words as soft as silk when we were done, I’m sure of it…

Her door swung open; causing her to clasp her sheets close. Olys stood there, red-faced and bumbling. “Ser Humfrey Hightower wishes to treat with you, my princess. I have told him that you are not entertaining visitors. That is is forbidden by your Queen Mother.”

“And did Ser Humfrey listen?” She swung her legs out of bed and brushed her long hair over one shoulder. Ser bloody Humfrey. Just as I was thinking of better men.

“No.” Laenor frowned, joining her colleague in the doorframe. “He is refusing to. He was quite insistent that he had matters of great urgency to discuss with you.” Viserra caught both of her handmaidens exchanging a look. Matters of great urgency. They saw the men come and go, but she could still have them whipped for casting judgement. Not that she cared. “Girls of high enough birth don’t need to worry about maidenheads” The Princess of Dorne had told her, much to mother’s disdain, when they had travelled to Sunspear for her second wedding. “Save that for the daughters of lesser lords, not Queens. Men won’t care about pinching you between your legs if it means that they no longer have to pinch pennies and favours from others.”

“Tell him to go away. I am not in the mood to treat with anyone.”

“I have, my princess, I-“ Olys looked at her mercifully, as if to say ‘don’t make me go out there again.’

“Where is my guard? Why is he not chasing him off? Or was that one of my mother’s ramblings?” She laced up her sleeping robes, not wanting him to see even a glimpse of her skin. Humfrey Hightower wouldn’t ever see anything that would usually be covered by her silks and furs ever again.

“He is your guard, Princess Viserra. You were being protected by Ser Rhaegar earlier, but it appears that their duties have changed.” Not without Ser Humfrey’s involvement, I would imagine. She relented, hoping that his arrival may bring news of Ser Galladon. Apart from hearing that the boy’s demise did not occur in the tourney grounds, she knew nothing else of what came of him after Trystane Martell embedded half a tourney joust in his groin. “Bring him in.” Laenor and Olys obliged, disappearing for a moment, then coming back with Ser Humfrey. As if they were his own handmaidens, he waved them away; as if they were frightened birds, they scattered.

“What do you want, Ser Humfrey?” She sighed to him, exasperated, as he came swaggering towards her. He was unhelmed, just wearing his coal-coloured armour and magnificent cloak of red-edged black. Even in her sadness, Viserra could see it was a marvellous contrast to his skin. The Hightowers were not unlike the dragonlords in their appearance; his hair was silver silk compared to Galladon’s golden tangle. She used to wish he would lose himself and plant a bastard in her belly, with his lilac eyes and that silver hair of theirs. At this moment, Princess Viserra could not think of anything worse.

“Nothing, from the look of you.” He said brazenly, grabbing a plum from her platter. The way he gazed upon her made it clear that he did not pay her a visit for fruit. “You look most sombre. ” He sat down beside her, juice running down his chin. He outreached his hand to graze the top of her thigh, but she batted it away.

“Is your moon blood on you? I best take my leave.”

“I would prefer it if you took it.” She took the book she had been reading and placed it on her shelf. All of the the gallant men like Jon Stark lost in the Battle for the Dawn and the gods found it amusing to leave the likes of Humfrey Hightower. The more he eyeballed her, the more she detested him.

“I think you may have found something you preferred more.” He wiped his chin. “You were having it off with that bastard boy, Ser Galladon, weren’t you? Everyone saw you howling like a woods witch.”

She slapped him.

“Not as good as your Mother throws a clout, as everyone saw today.” He stopped to lick the blood from his mouth. “…But you are, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know the boy.” A truth. She had known him but two nights since she saw the golden giant dancing around with his strange, red sword in the courtyard. Nothing could reasonably explain why she was still drawn to him past sense.

“Hasn’t stopped you before, has it?” He stood up and pulled her close, as tiny as a straw doll in his grip, and murmured in her ear. “I remember when you hardly knew me. I was stationed outside your lodgings at the Rosby tourney a few years past when you appeared at the door ‘Ooh, Ser Humfrey, I heard a noise! It must be outlaws!’” He mocked. ‘Oooh, Ser Humfrey, come closer, I feel so much safer when you’re closer!’ The Queen would have churned me up for Drogon’s dinner if she knew, but you were worth the risk.” He went to plant a kiss on her lips, but she wiggled free and turned her head. “Are we playing that game? Don’t tease me, princess, I gave Brune good silver to swap duties with me tonight.”

“Good silver? I’m not a whore.”

“Not in name.” She slapped him again.

“Get out.” His face fell, his hands wiggling towards her like krakens.

“A jape! A jape! I fear I came on a bit too strong, princess. I’ve just come from the feasts, I’ve been drinking strongwine, I-, I-” She would not forgive, but doubted Ser Humfrey Hightower would forget himself around her again.

“Out. I don’t want you near me again. If you are ever assigned to me, take your good silver and pay someone else to do it-”

“Princess Viserra-” His icy eyes were solemn but beautiful, and for a moment, Viserra thought the feel of him against her would make her forget the events of the day. If only for a while. No. His face was comely, that was for sure, but it was callow despite him having near twice as many years as her. She snarled at him.

“You interrupt me, Ser Humfrey? You may have been in my bed, but I am still your Princess. You are not my equal, and the Queen does not have to be involved for me to make a feast for dragons of you. Out.”

The door seemed to slam, but footsteps still seemed to linger. “Get out!” She screamed, her voice shrill, but it was not Ser Humfrey Hightower at all. It was not even Olys and Laenor, their shy mousy faces looking towards the floor. It was the Crown Princess who stood there blankly, one painted eyebrow raised. She shook her head angrily, and turned on her heel.  “Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra, wait!” She rubbed her eyes, hoping Ser Humfrey hadn’t spotted her crying before he left. “I did not know it was you, I thought you were someone else.” She rushed towards her and clutched for her hands, kneeling as if she was her Crown Princess and not just her sour sister.

However quick she usually was to take a slight in the worst way possible, Rhaenyra surprised her by turning back. Her face was riddled with bemusement. “Is that why Ser Humfrey Hightower was charging down the halls? Alas, it is not so far from how you usually greet me.” Lies. It is you who shuns me. Now was not the time to fight with her as well. She did not come empty handed, for she was clutching a peace offering; a silver tray of tea and pastries which rattled as she walked over to the bed. Since when does she pour her own tea? Her hair and eyes were wild and she smiled like she had a secret, but from the neck-down she was as regal and immaculate as she had been at the tourney.

“I begged Ser Egbert to escort me back to my chamber, passing yours.” She placed the tray down on a cushion and sat beside her as Humfrey had done. She pulled her knees up like a child. Long legs, and slender. Viserra’s own were squat like mother’s and strong from spending her youth on horseback. “We have some time, he said I could wait here with you whilst he went to chastise Ser Rhaegar. He was supposed to be guarding your door, but there is no one outside.” She ceremoniously poured Viserra a cold cup of what she knew to be persimmon tea, for Hizdhar had famously sent a war galley full of it behind her own ship when she arrived in King’s Landing. She didn’t like it, finding the Meereenese obsession with serving everything cold or iced queer, but sipped it enthusiastically for she didn’t know when Rhaenyra would come for a tea party again. “Do you know where Ser Rhaegar went? Has Ser Humfrey gone to look for him?”

“I haven’t stepped a foot outside my door, Rhae.” A truth. “Why have you come?”

She took a deep breath, peering down into her zo Loraq lilac skirts like a little girl, exactly as she did when she thought the champion would place a flower crown on Viserra’s lap. “I do not think Mother acted fairly today. By striking you, and letting that knight bleed from pillar to post…”

“Far be it from you to question mother.” She used to question Mother, incessantly. Viserra remembered her squawking and shrieking when her mother denied her Dragonstone when she was ten and four.

“I did not question mother, you did. And by questioning mother, you made that situation worse, tenfold. Our litter was heckled all the way up to the Keep.” She looked up from her skirts, her eyes narrowed, so jarringly dark. “That said, I believe she may be questioning herself. She has locked herself in her apartments, no one has seen her since she returned. She did not even come to the feast, but everyone was most kind to me all of the same. They seemed enthusiastic to forget the events of the day.”

“I doubt mother will.” said Viserra sadly.

“She has a good heart-”

“She has a strange mind. You didn’t grow up with her.” Rhaenyra had grown up viewing her mother as the faraway Silver Queen, who freed the slaves and championed the peasants and took what she wanted with fire and blood. She didn’t see the headaches, that could render her infirm for days; or her handmaidens pinning her down as she screamed expletives about the Usurper’s dogs in her sleep long after they rotted in the ground. She did see her take the milk of the poppy regularly, to cure both afflictions, but that did not seem to bother Rhaenyra. Back in Meereen, it was common for the nobles to smoke it in powder form as a means of relaxation.

“Will you ever let me forget that? It was Mother who left me in Meereen, it was no choice of mine.”

“That was not the point I was making. All I meant was that our mother is not always a woman of reason and she is generally on her best behaviour around you. I would bet good coin that she is suckling on a wineskin or vial of poppy juice like a babe at a breast.” Or the stronger substance? The one she uses to make the bad thoughts go away. She had gone to take a sip of her blue-streaked goblet when she was younger and had never seen her mother move so quick to retrieve it. Rhaenyra said nothing. They sat in silence, sipping tea and occasionally glancing over at the other. “Aren’t you going to ask about-”

“Ser Galladon?” She near dropped the cup, and grabbed her sister’s arm.

“So it is true. Another gallant man you have marked as your own.” Maybe he’d prefer her any way. He may have needn’t needed me to tell him that she needed that title more than I. “Don’t worry sister, I need someone who was born…how do the Westerosi say? ‘On the right side of the bedding’?” She laughed and reached out to stroke her hair. She never laughs. She’s never this kind either.

“How is he?”

“Alive, and whole. Grand Maester Sarella told me so. The boy is with Lord Tyrion still.” Relief washed over Viserra like waves against a rock.

“Thank the gods,” Viserra replied “Tyrion is a good man. He serves us, and our people so well.”

“I agree with you, but Mother does not feel the same at present. She was muttering about him all the way to her apartments.”

“Why?” Her sister took a deep breath, and rolled her eyes.

“She seems to think that-” Rhaenyra could not finish, for the doors swung open again with a resounding creak. Gods, who is it now? The last-last High Septon? Florian the Fool? Jaime fucking Lannister, the Kingslayer, here to stab me in the back?

It was none of the absurd figures she had thought of, but Ser Egbert Crabb, the most inept member of the Queensguard by ten leagues. For Viserra, her replacement litter who had dragged her up to the Red Keep. A  widow’s-peaked Ser Rhaegar Brune flapped behind him. “But Ser Egbert, I told you, Ser Humfrey-”, he begged, but was met with a crack across his face. Crabb shook out his gauntlet-clad hand and cleared his throat.

“Princesses.” He bowed. “Princess Rhaenyra, your sister’s guard has been reinstated. It’s time for me now to escort you to your apartments whilst Ser Rhaegar stays here.” He extended the same hand he used to strike the Black Cloak with.

“Escort? Or are you going to haul me over your shoulder like a sack of spices, as you did my sister?”

“No, no, of course not!” He stumbled over his words like he had a mouthful of grapes. “I’m just going to escort you, my princess.” He said feebly. She rolled her eyes and kissed her sister’s cheek. “Do try not to be so insolent, Viserra. I’m sure you’ll be free for spearplay and tavern-hopping in a couple of days. I will try and talk to her.  Kesir sepār īlza, hāedar." This too shall pass, baby sister. Viserra loved it when her sister spoke in High Valyrian, for she sounded like a true dragonlord of Old Valyria, straight out of Galendro's The Fires of the Freehold. Low Valyrian, muddled with Ghiscari loanwords was the most commonly spoken tongue in Slaver's Bay, but the noble children of the Pyramids were taught its higher form.

"Avy jorrāelan, mandia." I love you, older sister. Viserra called back to her, her clumsy Andal tongue tripping over the vowels of her ancestral language. Rhaenyra smiled gently as she was led out of the door, flanked by her white-clad guardian, but did not call anything back in response. Alas, she had been shown more kindness from Rhaenyra in under an hour than she had been offered in the past year. I've gained a jilted lover, but also a benevolent sister. This evening has not ended on the worst possible note. But how was her knight in the blue armour, with the strange sword and the hair like the sun? Had he woken from a sleep? Has his condition worsened?

She found her handmaidens standing awkwardly outside the door of her sleeping chambers, like two comely gargoyles. “Please send for Cabbage.” She commanded, handing them the tray to be cleared. Her tone was flippant, unperturbed by the events that had played out behind her door.

“Cabbage, my princess?” Olys looked at her as if she had sprouted wings. “Oh, Princess Viserra. That’s not a good idea, surely? The Queen will be wroth if she hears we have let you have so many coming and going this evening and-”

“Olys, sweetling, please stop the mummery. 'Comings and goings'? I haven't had an orderly line of sellswords and whores waiting to treat with me. We’ve had two Black Cloaks, one white and the Crown Princess. Not unreasonable visitors for an imprisoned Princess, no? Now, make haste, I need Cabbage now.”

"But what will the guards say?"

"Tell them I'm hungry." Under guard or not, they can't deny a Princess a pomegranate or two.

It took Laenor an hour to find Cabbage, for he was not a vegetable, but a small kitchen boy of seven or eight. Viserra had never pried into his namesake and could only guess that he was named Cabbage for his potent smell.  “Princess Viserra!” He rushed into her room, dropping a platter of fruit on the table and collapsed at her feet. “Everyone is saying that you are in the Black Cells, your Grace.” He was dressed in clothing that befitted a worker of the Red Keep, but still had an air of poverty and misfortune about him, which could be put down to his ill, peaky face. Viserra had been waiting for him by her window, King’s Landing now finally still. The revellers of earlier were now either in their beds, in their lovers or in their own vomit in the gutter.

“Sit.” When she had first told him to sit, he had looked at her as if she had bestowed a great honour upon him. He continued to gaze upon her with deep gratitude even though she sent for him every few days. “I need your help.” She handed him a gold dragon, embossed with her mother’s likeness.

“I’ll do anything, your Grace.”

“‘Your Grace’ is my mother, Cabbage, we’ve been through this. They are really saying that I’m in the Black Cells?” The boy nodded feebly. “They are for thieves and those who commit treason, not princesses who shout too loudly.”

“I beg your pardons, Your Princess.” She gave him a thin smile. Had she committed treason by questioning her mother? Can you even commit treason against your own mother? She’d need to check. “Do you need me to deliver something again?” She shook her head.

“No. I need you to be my eyes and ears.” She took him by the hand and led him towards her window, pointing up the Tower of the Hand. It was a burned and black twisted thing, but apparently, Tyrion didn’t want another. Viserion, her own mount’s golden brother, was in a gentle slumber at the top; but it was not dragon fire that rendered it charred. The Mad Queen Cersei Lannister had roasted it with wildfire when looking for Lord Tyrion after he fled the city. “That’s why I keep it, my princess, as a reminder of how far I’ve come.” After he had told her that, she commissioned her own sigil. The Targaryen three-headed dragon, with feathered crow wings, gold on black. She would have reversed the black and red of House Targaryen, as was the bastard way, but the Citadel had advised that it was historically insensitive.

“The Hand’s Tower? What am I looking for, Princess Viserra?”

“Not just looking. You’ll be listening for any gossip too. Kitchen boys and girls always seem to have the best gossip, I've noticed that.” She took an apple from his offerings around rolled it around in her hand. “Do you know of the champion from earlier?”

“Ser Galladon! Of course, Princess. Everyone is talking about him.”

“What are they saying?

“How he’s the strongest, most gallant knight in the realm and the Dornishman is a trickster like his Uncle was. All of the girls are crying in the kitchen, praying to the Mother for his health.”

“It sounds like they are talking about the right man.” She retrieved the gown she was wearing that day from the back of the chair, and reached into the bodice, pulling out a handful of gold. “If you see any sign of Ser Galladon Storm or hear anything of Ser Galladon Storm, you’ll come to me at once.” She thought for a moment and pushed another gold dragon on him. His hands were so tiny they barely contained them, but so calloused with hard work for a boy so small.

“As quick as you can, do you understand? However small or insignificant, you'll come to me all of the same.” The boy nodded affirmatively.

“I'll always serve you Princess Viserra. I wish you'd be our Queen one day.” She kissed top of his head, his downy hair stuck to flat to it from toiling over the pots of boiling water.

“I can't think of anything bloody worse, my little love. Go. Come to me as soon as you hear word.”

The Bastard Queen Viserra . She laughed as she continued to look out towards Tyrion's mangled tower, where Galladon lay injured. Many wished for her to sit the Iron Throne in place of Rhaenyra, and the prospect was hardly a distant dream. Should her sister die of a chill, without issue or her issue pass by chance or malice, they would come to Viserra to lay a crown upon her silver head. The thought terrified her and she often wished Rhaenyra would start whelping to prevent it from ever happening. All Viserra Targaryen wished for was open, clear skies to fly in; her books, her spear and good wine; and a man to love her. A good man, with enough honour for herself to have some of it too. Had she found him? Mayhaps she had in the gallant Ser Galladon but she still did not know him truly. Ser Humfrey Hightower had shown her that the most gallant and comely creature, of noble birth, who had been anointed by a septon and his seven oils, could still have the manner of a Fleabottom raper.

Alive. Alive, alive, alive, she recalled her sister's words and thanked the Seven, the Red God, the Many-Faced God and even her now-sweet sister’s strange, teated winged god. Clutching the stone of the window's ledge, she saw that the night was now a little less dark and the days maybe not as full of as many terrors as the Red Priests may suggest. I told Ser Humfrey true, I do not know the boy, but I will know him.

Chapter Text

The solitary tower of Storm’s End outreached towards the skies like a great stone first, raised to the air in defiance. One its residents had blown their candle out as they approached, rendering their solitary arch of light as black as all of the others; but Tyrion could only guess at who it might have been. The tower was a rambling height of lords and tradesmen under one conical roof. It could have been the blacksmith in the armoury, a watchman headed to bed or Lady Shireen tending to her own children in their nursery. Once they had touched down on the shores, the tower was the only sight that Tyrion could see for its surrounding fortress walls, edged in battlements, set up on the high cliffs prevented anyone for gazing upon the happenings behind them.

The night was still and calm, a very different night to the one at Storm’s End, long ago, where Luke Velaryon perished at the dragonfire of Vhagar and his rider. Very long ago. A time where dragons thrived and roamed the skies. Now, there were but three across all of the continents and Tyrion Lannister rode one of them. Daenerys, when she was little more than a girl playing kings and queens, could not understand why her child had bowed to him, neither could anyone else. The only reason Tyrion could think of was that the gods had finally listened to his childhood dreams and prayers after years of shunning and scarring him. It was not his place to question the gods, nor his place to question the white dragon he rode.

There was no safe place to land for neither dragon nor ship at Durran’s Point, so Tyrion was forced to land a half-league down the coast. Go, he told Viserion, but he did not have to part his lips to command him. The ferocity of his wings knocked the little man over, but thankfully the white sands were there to cushion him.

It was important that the details of his visit to the Stormlands were kept as clandestine as possible, but it was clear that there was no secret way into castle. He approached the cobbled steps that would carry him up the cliff face and towards the main entrance. On his last visit, he had approached over the main bridge with much fanfare, in a grand litter; embellished with cream dragons on gold silks. Viserion had become his standard for the Lion would fly on garb or castle wall no more. This rule did not just apply for Tyrion. House Grandison in the Stormlands were forced to change their sleeping lion sigil and House Manning even had to remove their sea-lion, despite Tyrion explaining to Daenerys it was a completely different animal that swam in the seas. House Wydman from the Vale, however, were allowed to keep their Lannister lion, solely because it referred to one of their kin crushing a knight of Casterly Rock in a tourney.

There were no horns and heraldry now as he shuffled up the steps to where beach met path. What would he say? He had not thought his plan through, which would have been most unusual for him, but his nephew’s arrival explained away his erratic behaviour. All he could think about was her standing there, hate burning in her purple eyes and her shade-of-the-evening-stained lips pursed tightly. “Oh my little Lord of Lannister, I hope I am not right, for his sake and yours”, she had said, but Tyrion still did not know what she believed. There was no way she could deduce that he was Jaime’s. For all she knew, all of Jaime’s children were dead and the possibility of a secret babe was even a leap too far for a woman as unstable as she. He mentally scratched that idea from his parchment as he hauled himself up the last step. Storm’s End was now more visible, isolated from the mainland by a natural bridge. Along its dense walls, torches illuminated the banners of House Baratheon.  Even with his now ailing eyes, Tyrion could clearly see the sigil; a black stag, on yellow, against a seven-pointed star. Who can blame her for wanting to announce to the realm that Essosi fanaticism ruled here no more? 

Despite having coursed the cliff face where he and Viserion had landed, there was still further to walk. Mayhaps she thinks he could be mine? He pondered as he plodded along, keeping his cloak around him to fend off the chill. It was a possibility. He had done enough whoring in his time, that was no secret from Daenerys. She had made it plain she would not legitimise any of his gets. I have been both blessed and cursed by Daenerys Stormborn. I get my dragon, the Rock and my birthright, but it will die with me. Maybe Viserra would get the Rock as nameday gift before his corpse was cold? The thought of that seemed bring him a bittersweet glee. My Lord father wouldn’t allow me to turn Casterly Rock into my whorehouse, if only he had lived to see a bastard-born Targling turn it into hers.

Does she believe he’s a member of the Lannister diaspora? There were rumours that distant cousins of his from the Lannisport branch had made passage to Essos before the Crown had taken over the southern tip of the Rock. Daenerys had dismissed the whispers, claiming all ships and Lannister kin were accounted for when they had finished securing the West. Nonetheless, the singers loved the idea of sandy-haired outlaws, taking chests of gold and making for the Free Cities. “We’re pointing our nose to the Sunset Sea, farewell to Cersei our Lioness Queen, the Imp’s on a dragon, he’s burning our forts, so we’re on the Last Ship from Lannisport!” sang Tyrion, his tiny voice inaudible over the waves crashing below. Not that I burned anything. I spent the days after landing in Westeros drinking until I was sick, making infrequent visits to the caged Lioness Queen.

“Away and ho, away we go! To Tyrosh, Lys and Myr! The Dragon Queen won’t want us at her court, so we’re on the Last Ship from Lannisport” he sang on, as he stood at the foot of the bridge. The four watchmen at the end, two either side of the great portcullis had noticed him. Tyrion felt for the pin on his chest as he took light, quick steps towards them. He had opted for a smaller trinket that expressed his position for couldn’t bear to wear the weight of another link of hands around his neck again.

“Who goes there?” Called a watchman in a voice that had not yet broken with manhood. Despite being clad in fine plate and leathers of black and ochre, he was such a scrawny thing that Tyrion thought best to be nailed to the ground. A stronger-than-average wind would likely send him coursing towards the rocks below.

“Lord Tyrion Lannister. Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Warden of the West and Hand of the Queen.” Tyrion cleared his throat and kept his head high. “I need to see your liege at once.”

They waved their torches closer to him, hands on swords as they studied him, perhaps expecting him to be travelling, tumbling dwarf. Perhaps that would have been more sensible to claim? There’s no love for Daenerys in the Stormlands, but she may have an eye or two. “That’s him,” one whispered, “definitely him.”

“Open the gates!” Called his superior, shouting up to the skies, the black brick of the walls blending into the black of the night.

Tyrion was led though the gates into the heart of Storm’s End. Small circular towers and outbuildings littered the keep, but he was ushered straight into the great stone fist. A servant girl was waiting, a tiny doll in the great annular foyer with her hands clasped nervously. A reclusive woman, Lady Shireen did not usually receive anyone apart from her Stormlords. His arrival was most-likely novel for everyone involved.

“Is Lady Shireen expecting you, My Lord Hand?” She turned, her head bowed, as she walked him up the spiralling stairs. They arrived one level above, in the feasting hall. The arched dais was empty, but a grand table and chair fitting of his standing had been laid out on the floor of the hall. Hand of the Queen or not, the servants could not seat him at the Lord’s table without the blessing of their liege.

“No, this visit is a surprise. I’d go as far to say that it’s even a surprise to myself.” The servant girl nodded nervously, as if she understood, but she didn’t understand at all. She pulled out the chair, and pushed him in once he had hopped up on the gold velvet seat. In front of him was a carafe of wine, breads black and white, Dornish olives, soft cheese in oil and sugared fruit peel. He daren’t touch any of it, for his stomach was turning and twisting. Why have I come here? Could I not have sent my own raven? Should I have gone to my ‘dear friend’ Lord Selwyn first? He’d have known what to do two moons ago before Galladon; but without Galladon, life would have continued to be as dull and unfruitful as it had been before. Approve funds. Satisfy petitioners. Try not to anger Daenerys. Sleep. Approve funds. Satisfy petitioners. Try not to anger Daenerys. Sleep. Approve funds…

“Please wait, my Lord Hand, I’ll see who I can rouse at this hour. Lady Shireen is still resting in the birthing bed, I do not know if her strength has come back yet.”

“A girl, wasn’t it? I received the declaration.” Not that I paid it much notice, a ten and six year old lad was recently birthed into mine own House.

“Little Lady Argella. A beautiful babe, such an easy temperament from what I have heard.” Let us hope her Mother is the same. “Can I fetch you anything else, my Lord Hand?” Tyrion shook his head graciously as she scurried off to fetch her masters.

What would he say to her? He wasn’t sure. Lady Shireen knew of her boy-commander’s sire, which would make any discussion they had much easier. He could not debate his actions any longer for he had abruptly found himself on the floor. What was…a flat, blunt blow struck him on the back of his legs, then another on the shoulder as he tried to clamber back up using the side of his chair. Then another, this time a blow across his face that sent him twisting around onto his back. He lay there for some time, fearing the consequences if he arose, studying the mural overhead; Elenei, the goddess of the wind and sea, protecting her love from the elements as Storm’s End was built around him. His view of the nubile goddess was soon obstructed by two brown eyes, bearing into him from a lined, plain face.

“Four strikes, M’lord Hand. For Dale, for Allard, for Maric, for Matthos.” Tyrion heard his attacker sheath his sword. “Your trick cost me dearly, m’lord.” Tyrion clutched the side of his face, feeling his skin throb, whatever had hit him still lingered on his skin like a lover’s kiss. He shuffled to his feet and looked the man in the eyes.

“It seems I have left one dragon’s lair for another, Ser Davos Seaworth.”

“The knowledge that it was war is the only reason I beat you with the flat of my blade instead of the sharp of it. I have forgiven the ills committed by friend and foe during the wars, but it won’t mean that I’ll forget.”

“I don’t wish you to forget your dead. I won’t forget mine.”

“Your dead?” He said incredulously, pulling out his sword from scabbard. “My family was taken from me; my eldest sons died of wildfire, my youngest sons of dragonfire. You commanded the death of your own!”

“Stand down, Ser Davos," said a voice that was as calm as still waters, but managed to boom down from the dais above. “For the respect and love you bore for my father and the respect and love you bear for me now, stand down and sheath your sword.”

He hadn’t seen the girl for years, and now she was a woman grown. Her hair was as black and glossy as he remembered, pulled behind her large Florent ears into a thick braid that hung over one shoulder. Her sleeping silks of yellow and cream strained against her engorged womb, which in turn pressed against the table. Ser Davos nodded at his mistress and climbed the steps to join her. He was not the only counsellor in attendance.

There was her link-clad maester to her left, but her bastard-born husband, Lord Edric, sat to her right. Her double-cousin, half fox and half stag. He too had the jutting ears of their mothers and the black hair of their fathers. The Starks had courted Shireen, wanting her to wed the youngest wolf after her Onion Knight had retrieved him from Skagos, but she had opted for her own. Who could blame her? Her dynasty was in tatters, as Tyrion’s was now. Now, she had three sons and a daughter to carry on her lineage, the blood of the Storm Kings running through their veins.

“I apologise for receiving you with a beating, my Lord Hand," she smirked “It was the only gift I could offer Ser Davos to compensate him for arising at this ungodly hour. And if you’re here for what I think you’re here for her, you won’t be running along to darling Dany demanding he loses the other hand.” Ser Davos continued to stare. He must have been near-seventy now, but seemed Tyrion knew for a fact that he was as spritely as her husband. He rubbed his face, knowing he’d soon have bruise to go with his scar.

“So you did receive a raven from the Queen?” Boomed Tyrion, pretending not to be phased by his beating. She held her hand out expectantly for her fresh-faced maester. Boy-commanders, boy-guards and boy-maesters. Is the Stormlands governed and protected by children?! He may have been barely off the breast, but his robes were tired and blood-splattered. He pressed a small parchment into her hand. He, along with the Onion Knight and her Lord husband did not take their eyes off of him. All I intended was a quick word, I find myself publicly beaten and facing her council. Her own eyes, startlingly blue, lifted up from the parchment and onto him.

“I receive lots of ravens. I fail to see how any of them concern you, Lord Tyrion?” She said coyly. Sarcasm dripped from her voice like thick, dark honey as she rolled the paper around in her hand.

“I beg pardons, my lady, but you’re a terrible liar.” Lord Edric stood up, rattling the goblets in front of him.

“How dare you, Imp. How dare you walk into our halls, at this hour, insulting both my Lady wife and my liege-” All it took was a raise of Shireen’s hand to quell him. She tilted her head, a puzzled smile springing across her face, bringing the dead, grey skin to life.

“So the Little Lion chose to roar?”

“You could say that. You could also say I’m pleased that there is someone to take that title from me.”

“You’re funny. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“My sister, multiple times. Although, she stopped singing that song come the end.” She laughed a delicious laugh that belonged in polite response to an unfunny jape at a feast, not when referring to one’s beheaded sister.

“Please sit, my Lord Hand,” she cooed as she beckoned him to her.

“Shireen, what is the Imp talking about?” She whispered something to him that Tyrion could not make out over his own footsteps as he waddled up the dais to sit with Lady Shireen and her council. Whatever was said reduced that council, causing Lord Edric to take his leave with a sour look on his face. Commendably, his ejection did not stop him from courteously begging his pardons to the other men around him. If only Robert could see his get playing the part of the dutiful, comely consort…

“My lady, it is not advisable to keep matters of this magnitude private from a husband. The shame of not-knowing….it can can do a great deal of damage to a man.”

“Maester Karl, the Citadel does not send you hear to advise me on my marriage. However, I can think of some instruction that you could give Lord Edric, if you believe matters between me and my Lord husband to be of such importance?” He blushed and shook his head, “I beg pardons, my lady.” to which she shook her own and turned to Tyrion.

“My Lord husband is claimant to my own title, and the Queen has a strange fondness for bastards. I married him in part to keep him close. It’s not outside the realms of the imagination that one day he may betray me for a legitimisation and my Kingdom, but at least this way, his heirs are mine too.” She shrugged and unscrolled the parchment that she had been toying with. “Queen Daenerys, first of her name, demands that you, Lady Shireen of House Baratheon, treat with her in King’s Landing regarding Ser Galladon Storm of the City Watch of King’s Landing before the moon’s turn.” She tossed it in front of her as if it were on fire. “Demands? My belly is still so big that I am expecting four more whelps to wander out and she calls me to the capital? Seven hells, no, no, no!”

“You speak boldly, my lady," said Tyrion, who had taken a seat at the foot of her table.

“Are you going to tell on me, My Lord Hand?”

“Not if you don’t tell on me. I haven’t told the Queen as much truth as my role demands.”

“How long did it take for you to find out about the boy?”

“All of an hour, my lady," she smirked to her remaining companions.

“Thank goodness our dear Galladon is a better soldier than he is a diplomat or spymaster.”

“His father was the same.”

“Does the Queen know? Am I being summoned to the Capital to be imprisoned as an accessory to treason? Are the Estermonts celebrating already? The turtle has always found it difficult to place second to the stag.”

“No. I’ve fed her and Commander Blackwood a tale of me being acquainted with his Lord Selwyn, hence my special interest in the lad, but Her Grace still has a suspicious mind.”

“I’ve heard tales of her suspicious mind. So what do you wish me to do?”

“Support my story, perhaps a tale of us bonding at your six-and-tenth nameday. I believe that was the last time I was here.”

“It’s been a long time," she whispered to her advisors, before turning back to him. Each of their faces seemed to appear triumphant, as if they had killed his king in cyvasse. “The thing is, my Lord Hand, my council and I are in agreement that we can tell the realm a better story, a more truthful story.”

“Are you suggesting that-”  She interrupted him and pointed a finger in the air.

“How much gold has the Queen drained from Casterly Rock, my Lord Hand?”

“Tyrion, if it please you, my lady.”

“Shireen, if it please you, Tyrion.” She is more jovial than her father. “So, how much gold has the Queen drained from Casterly Rock, Tyrion?”

“In her eyes, she has not drained anything. It is hers. I am not privy to the information down to the last dragon despite being the lord on parchment, but I’d imagine millions. But even without the Rock, her costs are covered by her tithes as it is. The Crown is living in surplus, for the first time in living memory. Forgive me, my lady, I’m not sure I follow…” 

“And she’s sitting on it all, like a greedy dragon hatching an egg. Suppose someone called in that debt?”

“Daenerys does not see it as debt, she sees it as her dues. Blood money for her father, her mother, for Rhaegar, for Elia of Dorne and the children. If anyone attempted to ‘call it in’, I believe she would lay her own dragon eggs*.”

“What of my dues? She stripped me of my ancestral lands, from Summerhall westwards, as a child. She forced that child to bend the knee whilst her fields burned. She left me a coastline to guard, from Wyl to Bronzegate, not a Kingdom.”

“That is exactly why the Westerlands have not revolted at her so-say thievery. They have been humbled, they will not see dragon fire rained down on them.”

“She wouldn’t rain fire on her own," she said firmly. “Tyrion, you’re a very learned man by all accounts; what was the result of the Dance of the Dragons?”

“A victory for the Greens, and King Aegon. Albeit a short victory, as Rhaenyra’s sons would sit the throne anyway and the Decline of the Dragons would follow.”

“Exactly. She could not risk your mount being maimed or killed by its brothers, especially when there are but three in the known world. If someone wishes to call in that debt, I will call in mine. I will call my banners to get it. For myself, and for normal and meaningful rule to be restored in the Westerlands. For their wealth to be theirs once more.” The will of Stannis, the frivolity of Renly, the recklessness of Robert. I heard she was a shy, skulking thing long ago. Loss has made her fearless. 

“I won’t be calling it in, Shireen. I’m the Hand of the Queen, not a rebel leader. I have no wish to overthrow Daenerys, for all her sins.”

“I’m not talking about usurping her throne, I'm talking about removing the West from her direct governance." She raised an eyebrow "...nor am I talking about you.” Galladon?

“You will call your banners to give a gold-laden kingdom to a boy of questionable birth?”

“That boy is my man. He serves on my war council, he helps defend my coast, he squired to my guardian, was fostered with me and was raised in the household of one of my vassals. What sort of leader would I be if I allowed him to be maimed or imprisoned?” Her right side of her face hardened as much as the left.

“Lady Shireen, I don't understand how you've leapt from protecting your bannerman's grandson to discussing treason so plainly. You do remember what happened to your father, didn’t you? When he rebelled against the Crown?”

“How could she forget, Imp?” Ser Davos spat, his face twisting into a cluster of wrinkles. “Queen Daenerys did with her father what you permitted for your whole family.”

“…and she would have taken my mottled head if I proclaimed myself the rightful Queen upon his death. Thank the gods even at ten and one I knew what a foolish decision that would have been. I never wanted her pointy chair," interjected Lady Shireen.

“Your father wanted it for you, my princess. He wished for me to seat you upon it myself.” He still calls her by her title even though she forfeited her right to it. Has anyone ever shown me that loyalty?

“I’m glad you and that mouth of yours weren’t here when Daenerys demanded me to bend the knee. You function only being able to count from one to six, I don’t fancy your suitability for providing me counsel without your head.” Her tone was dismissive, but she reached a hand over her shoulder to clasp his fingerless ones tenderly.

“Lady Shireen, you say you don’t want this ‘pointy chair’, but if that’s the case, then what do you want? I still don’t believe you’d call your banners to reinstate the Lannisters to the Westerlands.”

Shireen looked at him insolently, like she thought him dense. “There is a middle ground, Lord Tyrion. We can fight to better ourselves without scrabbling for the crown. Many gallant men would still have their lives if their lieges just sought that middle ground.” She rose, clutching her belly. “But you’re right, Lord Tyrion, I have other motives. I don’t give an iron bob if Daenerys continued to leech the coffers of the Westerlands, I do have my own interests at heart. The crown's authority is much too high, I have little jurisdiction over the garden she has left me to tend. Levies have also doubled compared to what they supposedly were under King Tommen. I find myself near-penniless, surrounded by dragons, with no allies to demand change. If Galladon assumed control of the Rock, I’d have a common ally to demand change alongside. Things may improve for the better.”

“If Galladon assumes control of the Rock? What makes you think that I wouldn’t want to assume a meaningful rule there myself?”

“With all due respect, Tyrion, no one would follow you into rebellion. They’d suspect some trick. They’d rush to the Marbrands for a new liege before they bowed down to you of their own accord. The son of Jaime Lannister, however…I heard those who did not call him Kingslayer would die for him.” She looked to her maester for approval, who cleared his throat.

“You speak truly, my lady. I have read the accounts myself. Even tomes which portray the Lannisters as heroes are kept in the Citadel for prosperity, even if the Queen burned the rest. With all due respect, my Lord Hand, Ser Jaime was seen as Tywin Lannister’s true heir. Men would follow him to battle and all of the maids in Lannisport wept for a week when they believed him dead. He was always the Young Lion to some, never the Kingslayer.” The breastfed maester tells it true. 

“With all due respect, my lady. As I have expressed categorically, I didn’t come here to plot against my Queen. I'm solely here in the hope that you can sing the pretty song that I have sung to her.”

“I’ll be doing that as well. It may buy us some time, at the very least.” She squeezed her Onion Knight’s hand. “To Tarth, Ser Davos, make Lord Selwyn aware of what we have discussed this night.” Once again, he followed his mistress’ commands, so loyal that he did not even grace Tyrion with a foul look before taking his leave.

“It’s not just for you,” she said almost sourly. “Lord Selwyn is aware that Galladon went to the capital with my blessing. If anything should happen to him, he would most certainly drag Greenstone and Bronzegate into revolt. Come. I doubt you can afford to stay any longer. They'll be wondering where you are.” She arose and outstretched her arm to him. “I will escort you, Lord Tyrion.”

“You don’t have to, my lady. Please stay in the warmth. My ‘litter’ will be collecting me shortly.”

“I want to, Tyrion. I’ve been trapped in my chambers for days. A walk shall do me well.” 

It was only after they had departed the castle gates and were walking along the length of the bridge when Tyrion rose his voice to speak. “Treason aside, I’m still amazed that you have even thought to risk your pretty head being spiked for my nephew.” The winds had risen, as had the sun peeking over the horizon. The salt of the sea clouted them around the jaw.

“Politics, my Lord Hand. I need an ally in these times. And partially guilt, I played a huge role in him being delivered to you. Lord Selwyn was not pleased when he heard that I had given him a horse and supplies. I even promised to reward the boy greatly if he kept his secret.”

“Surely you would have known that pressure would have cracked the lad. He’s a gentle thing.”

“Me sending him to you was not a ploy to start a war, Tyrion. I hoped he would return, but now I doubt that he will without blood being spilt if Daenerys is suspicious of him," she sighed deeply. "If bloodshed is inevitable, I'd rather that blood was spilt to create an alliance between East and West, to raise our Stormlion up to claim his birthright.”

That irked Tyrion, but not as much as it would have done in years past. Casterly Rock was his birthright, but what he had allowed to happen in order to claim it had made the taste of his triumph bittersweet. Is it really mine? He could not marry, could not father children and it would return to the Crown upon his death. He was merely a lion figurehead, until Daenerys decided what to do with the region. He ignored Shireen, not wishing to think of it anymore. Come, he thought, we need to go home now.

“As I said again and again. I didn’t come here to commit treason, Lady Shireen. Are you certain that I can trust you to support my version of events?”

“Have I not made my loyalty to the boy apparent enough? You saw me dismiss Ser Davos to Tarth to make Lord Selwyn awares. The Silver Queen will not see me at King’s Landing until my strength returns, but I will send an envoy at first light singing songs of yours and Selwyn’s long and fruitful friendship. As well as a request for the boy’s return if he is causing her grief. However, I still don’t believe that this will solve your problem. She knows that he is not all he seems no matter what I say.”

“You've made it very clear that you are still hellsbent on dragging that boy into rebellion but I'll have no part in it.” Shireen knelt to his height and clasped him by the shoulders. Her dead, grey face softened and her lips tightened until they were non-existent. It did not take them long to open wide when she heard the beating of Viserion’s wings overhead, looming and loud, sending currents from above that made her skirts dance in the wind.

She looked up, then back to him, her voice raised over the sound of Viserion’s landing. “I won't take any action without your blessing, nor will I allow him to. But if Galladon declares himself Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, you will both have my unwavering support to his claim.” She eyed the dragon nervously as his claws touched the ground yards away from her. Fear filled those blue orbs of hers and she shuffled backwards; she had not seen a dragon since the day she bent the knee.

“You’re forgetting that any claim to the Westerlands will come from Jaime, one of the great villains of Westerosi history, reviled as much as the man that he slew. Daenerys wasn’t able to spike my brother’s head next to Cersei’s, and her followers would love to gift her with his son’s.” Tyrion approached Viserion, his hand outstretched to stoke his scales.

“We would ensure that he was well-protected. Tomorrow, I can send 150 on one of my smaller ships to Casterly Rock with enough supplies to keep them on standby at sea for a year or two. If the time comes, you can use them as you wish.” She called from further away than when he had last glimpsed at her. Lady Shireen spoke fearlessly, but it was clear that Viserion's vast wingspan had made her anything but brave.

“He won't hurt you, my lady. He's more agreeable than Dany's black beast you encountered as a girl. Come, touch him." She anxiously edged closer, one hand on her stomach, the other in front of her. Viserion purred and clicked as she tentatively scratched one tiny scale on his neck.

"You may have inherited your father’s head for strategy, but you seem to have Renly’s affliction of your thoughts running away with you. If you play your part in my scheming and sate the Queen with your tale of mine and Lord Selwyn’s long correspondence, we won’t need to ensure he’s well-protected or Lord of bloody anywhere for he’ll be back at Storm’s End on your war council before the moon is up.” Viserion laid his pale belly flat to the floor, allowing his rider to mount him. 

“Daenerys is never sated. It’s common knowledge. She is more afflicted with her thoughts running away from her than my dear pretender uncle ever was,” Shireen called up to him, as the dragon arose on his legs. “I would prefer Galladon to be back here safely, gods, its a situation much preferable to another war, but if you want to keep your nephew alive, this may be the only option you have. With the 150 men on standby, I can raise near 8000 from my vassals and around 1,000 green boys who you’d need to continue drilling. I’d be able to send them westwards with my fleet to catch them unawares. How many fighting men would you have in the Westerlands?” She had retreated back to her 'safe', position, her arms crossed across her bust.

“Around 12,000 on roll, but I’d imagine some smallfolk would be begging to have a sword in their hands.” Why are you even discussing this? Tyrion rolled his eyes and peered down at her. “Say I was here to discuss treason; aren’t you forgetting the issue of the Reach, sworn to the Crown? You know, that large, vast, fertile patch of land in between you and the Westerlands?”

“Of course not. We’d both be dwarfed compared to the Reach, but sworn-or-not, Lord Willas is a patient man. A victory could be stolen before he calls his own banners. And if he does, his naval defences are awful because he's too reliant on the Westerlands' fleet. Outnumbered or not, I could attack easily from the Mander and fuck him in the arse in the comfort of his own castle.” She stated, matter-of-factly.

Oh, Lady Shireen, what a lady you are. Tyrion spluttered internally, but he did not want to show it. “Your optimism is charming.”

“It helps to have it when you have but one option in front of you. I am but a girl compared to you, Lord Tyrion. Your intellect is staggering and you have proven yourself in both diplomacy and military strategy whereas most men excel in one. My own education was stunted due to shuffling camp to camp with my father at the whims of his Red Woman, but I know war. And I know the mentality of those driven mad with power. If you believe your Silver Queen is going to accept my raven and my envoy whilst a pinch of suspicion lurks in her mind, you’re a fool. Whether he’s a bastard from the Stormlands or a Lannister spy, he’ll look the same on the spikes of Maegor’s Holdfast.”

“Then your envoy better bloody be good, Lady Shireen.” He leant down and rubbed Viserion’s neck. “No one must know that I was here.”

“Not to worry. I set Maester Karl to work once I saw your dragon circling from afar. Storm’s End will be eating raven pie until next winter, it seems.”

Chapter Text

The chair next to him was well-dented, as if someone had been sitting in it for a long-time; the tails of the pale dragons that embellished it misshapen with the buttocks of an anonymous well-wisher. Next to it stood a small table with potions and lotions and vials, methodically laid out from darkest to lightest hues. Curiously, a few yards of bandage flared from the table, woven into an elaborate braid. He picked it up and examined it, before gingerly reaching to his own hair to see if anyone had braided that too. No, but someone had pulled it into a topknot; it was tighter and higher than anything he would have done himself. 

He wasn' t alone though, and his visitor couldn ’ t have tended to him because she wasn ’ t really here. Her portrait had hung in Evenfall Hall for as long as he could remember, and she was dressed in the same blue-ish plate she wore there, with the same yellow braid hanging over the same shoulder. He knew that his addled mind had taken those memories and made them false sights, but that did not make it feel any less true to him.

She shushed him, and reached out to touch his cheek, as any mother would to her wounded son. Galladon had been stripped of his mail, but his arms were slow and clunky.

He mustered up enough strength to meet her, their fingertips kissing as they grazed the other. Huge hands, she had, for a woman, but they still looked small compared to his. The longer they touched, the stronger he felt. “I know who you are, and I know this isn’t real.” He mumbled, his voice now audible, wetness clouding his eyes. Mist clouded the blue lakes of her own eyes. “You must wake soon, sweetling, or you’ll find yourself left with me.” 

“I want to be with you.” He choked. “They could send all of the maesters versed in the healing arts to tend to me, and I wouldn’t wake. I’ll stay sleeping forever if it means that I don’t have to leave you.”

“I left your lord father...” She said sadly, sounding just a girl. She even looked one, not much older than him. “I cried for him every night.”

“I  cried for you too, my lady. I was just unawares that it was you I was crying for.”

“ I don' t want you to be alone. ”

“Alone?” He had Tyrion, and the lads at the barracks. He had Lord Selwyn, and his lady wife. He had Elaena and Floris. He had his liege lady and the rest of her council, and the men down in Storm's End. He may even have Viserra, even if she would hate him if she found out who he really was. I have deceived her. “It’s impossible for me to be alone.” He guffawed, despite his worries.

“You sound like him.” Her hands crept up into his hair, stroking his matted curls. “Did you learn what you desired? ”

“I have learned what you've just said; I sound like him. I act like him. I look exactly as he did at ten and six.” His voice fell quiet once more. “What if I dishonour myself like him?”

“Just because no one is there to witness the honour present does not mean that it did not exist in the first place.” She sighed. “There was much honour in him, much honour in the treasons that he committed. Lord Selwyn has told you so, as has Lord Tyrion.”

“They would say that, to save their own.” He chewed his lip.“ Why did you love him, my lady? Lord Tyrion had no choice.” She blushed in response, her eyes welling up with tears.

“Did the singers ever sing you the song of The Perfect Knight? ”

Galladon smiled. His namesake. “Galladon of Morne.”

“Ser Galladon was the perfect knight. The Maiden saw his chivalry, and honour, and fell in love with him. She gave him a magic sword, the Just Maid, as a symbol of her love. The light misting in her eye turned to a downpour; a fat, salty tear ran down her ruined cheek.“ No foe's shield or sword could hope to deflect its blows, but the Perfect Knight would only withdraw it from its scabbard thrice- ”

“Because he thought it unfair on mortal man.” He reached out to touch her, but he couldn't. She withdrew her large paw of a hand from his hair and continued, but Galladon couldn't hear her. “He was your Maiden and you were the knight, wasn't he?” but she couldn't hear him either. Her lips kept moving, casting whispers across the bed until she was gone. “Mother, I can't hear you, don't leave me!” But he knew it was pointless. She was never really there.

He woke up crying for his mother; tangled in the sheets with one leg feeling aflame.

“You’re dreaming, Galladon. It’s all a dream.” Soothed a voice, but it was a man’s voice.

“Where did she go?” He shuffled himself up straight, jerking his hips in such a way that a bolt of pain shot from his groin to toe. She wasn’t there. In her place was Commander Blackwood, peering down on him from the curve of his hooked nose. He wasn't in plate nor cloak today, but was finely dressed in his house colours; he wore black breeches and shiny high boots, with a doublet of scarlet. Ravens surrounded a twisted, white weirwood perched on his breast. “Not you, I don't want you, where is she? ” Galladon ignored the pain and went to get out of bed, his head furrier than any hangover he had ever known.

“Princess Viserra just left, Ser Galladon. I suggested that she went to rest her eyes and bathe. She ’ s been her assisting the maesters for four nights, ever since she was released from her gaol.” Viserra? Gaol? His mind was still racing. He saw her vividly, without her silks and furs. Her silver hair cascading down the curve of her back and her shoulders, tickling her small breasts. How old was she? Will she be wed soon? Was she older than him? He wasn't sure. He'd ask when her nameday was. I 'll buy her a pretty palfrey. No, a whole field of them. White, like her hair nearly is. Her hair is so beautiful, I want to live in it. He shook his head, cursing himself for getting distracted. Lady Brienne, Mother, where did you go?

“No, no, I wasn't talking about her, my mother, I …” He rolled out of bed, collapsing onto the floor. His left leg caught in the sheets, twisting it so much he feared it may detach from the rest of his body. With difficulty, he managed to shake himself free, curling up in a ball at the bedside; his bad leg stuck out at an odd, angle.

“And he’s gone again!” Hooted Hoster Blackwood, attempting to make some light of the situation. “Come on, my lad, back into bed, you’re high as a bloody kite.“ Maester!” he barked to the open door behind him, causing one of them to scurry in, chains clinking around his neck.

The two men attempted to hoist him back into bed, but he made no effort to make their toil any easier. Their hands felt strange on his skin so he shook them off. “No, I want my mother! ” He wailed. The maester and the Commander spoke over him as if he wasn’t there at all. “His mother? How long has this madness been going on for?” said one. “Most nights he calls for her, it has never been this terrible though. The Princess Viserra was so concerned she sent a raven to the boy's father, Lord Selwyn, offering to fly and bring his mother here.” “… and?” “She's with the gods. Probably why the poor boy is so tormented.”

Galladon felt something cold press on his face, and moisture trickling down into the folds of his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He parted his lips greedily, realising how parched his throat was. The maester was sponging him with an iced cloth. He opened his eyes, still feeling out of sorts. “Your mother isn't here, lad.” Said a voice coming from his feet. Riverlands twang. Blackwood. He opened his eyes and took the arm that Blackwood extended out to him, pulling himself up using the side of the bed as an anchor. It was only when they helped him to stand that he noticed the pale sheets and quilts were stained like the morning after a lowborn girl's wedding.

He was naked from the waist down, save for the endless ribbons of bandages which were foul smelling and stained. Blackwood eased him back into bed, handing him the furs, but Galladon's eyes centred on a black, congealed flower; blooming underneath the white bandages. “Cover yourself, lad. No need to look at that. That's the maester's job.”

“What …” He gasped. His throat was very dry. He needed water.

“ Happened? You won the tourney! Everyone is claiming first-time luck, but if you ask me, I reckon you were telling tales about not being a seasoned jouster. You seemed confident enough on a horse to me. Anyway, Lord Trystane Martell left your prize a few inches from your stones; a foot of splintered joust where your leg meets groin. You lost a lot of blood."

“But, my mother…” Galladon went to get out of bed, but Blackwood stopped him.

“No, we're not snoozing on the floor, Storm. Stay as you are. The Hand's Chambers are nicer than what you are used to, I can't comprehend why you're so desperate to remove yourself from them.” Scoffed Blackwood.

“We’ll need to change your bandages.” The maester peeled the sheets back; the breeze from the window chilled the sweat on his skin, making him feel cold all over.  Galladon did not recognise the maester's voice, nor could he attempt to peer upon his face; his features were blurred and muddled. Commander Blackwood began to look a swirl of red and black and white himself.

“I don’t feel right.” Galladon coughed, not knowing where to look, for the room seemed to move around him.

“You've drank a whole field of poppies over the past five days, Ser Galladon. That, combined with your blood loss can make both mind and man act in a peculiar manner. ” Five days? He had lost all track of time. He had awoken a couple of times, he knew that, but had only been awake long enough for someone to feed him spoonfuls of ground, dark meat before giving him more milk of the poppy. The maester set to unravelling the ribbons of bandages, exposing a slash in his thigh that had been hastily closed with thread. The blood had seeped into the web of stitching, the silken fibres saturated with putrid-smelling pus, but the maester beamed down on him. “Wonderful."

“Wonderful?” Commander Blackwood raised an eyebrow. Galladon could see, even in his light-headedness, why he spoke with such cynicism. The smell of blood filled the room with such potency that they could have all been in a slaughterhouse rather than a bed chamber. “It doesn't look very wonderful to me.”

“Don't look at the gore, Commander Blackwood.” The maester said, excitement in his voice. “Look at the toes! The ankle! A normal hue! More blood has been produced and it is travelling around the body, as it should ” He leaned forward, and clasped Galladon's shoulder. “ I think we're out of the woods now, Ser Galladon. You'll be back defending the city in no time at all, with both legs. You'll be a speckle uncertain at first, we’ll see about getting you a crutch or-”

Someone interrupted him. “My mother, she was here, I thought …” Galladon heard someone say. “She was going to tell me about my father.”

“Does she visit you often? ”

“No, no, she doesn't. She died, died, birthing me, but..” said the voice again. Who is that? Galladon looked around and just saw Hoster Blackwood smiling earnestly. “I knew it was her, she wasn't real, not really, but she was here, she was going to tell me about my father.”

“Your father is a good man. His health was not the best last time I saw him, I hope the years have been kind.” Hoster Blackwood pulled his stool closer, sending creaks across the floorboards. It was only when Commander Blackwood continued to look at him expectantly, as if waiting for a response, that Galladon realised that the voice was actually his own. The words continued to tumble out like vomit.

“He isn't my father. ” He could feel his face darkening no matter how he tried to stop himself.“ My father was the best sword hand in the realm, the greatest, in the realm … . ” Stop. Talking. A small voice inside wanted him to grab the nearby needle and thread from the maester's table and sew his lips shut but his vocal cords wanted to talk into the night. He had that giddy fervent feeling that you only felt after too many wineskins. “You don’t understand, Commander.” He slurred, clutching at his head.“ I need to know that he was good. It can't be true, it can't. Tyrion told me was, but he is the only one who has. She loved him, she loved him so much.”

“It’s the milk of the poppy talking, Commander Blackwood.” The maester laughed sheepishly, clutching the side of the bed and speaking over Galladon's bruised and battered body as if he was a cadaver. “As I said, he’s been supping on sustained, large doses. A few drops for a maiden user will swiftly send them into blissful slumber; continued use will have the sharpest of minds seeing snarks and grumpkins tumble around their chambers. We’ll need to start weaning him off of it, for an addiction to the milk of the poppy is not a pretty sight. ”

“Don’t we know.” Chuckled Blackwood, but it was a thin laugh and the maester daren't laugh himself.  He just fumbled around in his sleeves for a vial of a chalky, white liquid. He handed it to the commander.

“Sweetsleep. Well, goats milk laced with sweetsleep. Could you make sure he drinks it, Commander Blackwood? He's a big lad, so if it doesn't send him off promptly then a drop of milk of the poppy, but no more than that.” Another vial, white too, but more bridal satin than chalkstone.“ I need to fetch some more bandages and have them heat a poultice in the kitchens. The littlest Princess has been playing handmaiden with my supplies.” He sighed, rolling his eyes. Blackwood took the sweetsleep from him and rolled it around in his hands, studying Galladon's features. The maester hurried out the door, leaving Galladon alone with Hoster Blackwood's stare. The weight of his dark eyes could not even sharpen Galladon's mind, but he knew that he did not like how he looked upon him.

“Who did your mother love, so much?” His voice broke; laced with both mockery and fear.

“My father. ”

“ Which one? You' ve just said that your father isn' t your father?"

Galladon thought for a while, and listened to the small voice within him that told him to stop singing his secrets for all and sundry to hear. “I need some cool air, Commander Blackwood.” He said, through gritted teeth, as he went to get out of bed once more, despite feeling unsteadiness in his feet and lightness in his head. Hoster Blackwood grabbed his closest limb, and strong-armed him back into the featherbed, demonstrating a greater strength than his bandy frame suggested.

“Ser Galladon, you need to be still. You’ll only bring yourself greater injury, here, drink this, to calm you.” He pushed Galladon's head to the pillow, and after the pain shooting through his neck came a cold vial pressed to his lips. You mustn’t say, you mustn’t say. You have said too much. Don't soil father's cloak any more. Your mind is not sharp, but they died for you, remember that they died for you. It clinked against his perfect teeth, Galladon's head feeling even lighter and lighter as a familiar fluid filled his mouth. This is not sweetsleep. The maester told him to give me sweetsleep.   “Not milk of the poppy, I don't want it.” Galladon choked and tried to sit himself up, but an expansive hand pressed down on his chest.

“Ser Galladon, who did your mother love so much? Who did Lord Tyrion tell you about? Who did you need to know was good?” Commander Blackwood repeated each question until the substance stopped flowing, the tone of his voice hushed and grave, but to Galladon, it sounded leagues away. His furs had become his father's white cloak and a golden man outstretched a hand to him.

I am a lion. I am a lion. I am a- “You’re mumbling boy, more clearly, I need to know who you are talking about.” His mind went soft, and his body betrayed him; letting the milk of the poppy that he was holding in his mouth course down his throat. He smiled thinly at the golden man who wasn’t really there at all, and said a name.

Chapter Text

Ships, in spite of their heavy anchors, rocked backwards and forward against the tide. A narrow clipper, Storm Queen, had just departed; their crew looked like grey rats compared to the flamboyant Tyroshi parrots who littered the bows of the other vessels. He was a flamboyant Tyroshi to the outside eye, he supposed. He wore breeches of fuchsia, soft blue boots and a shirt stained every colour he had ever dyed. His beard and mane, once gold, were green; he had set to that as soon as he got off the boat from Oldtown.

Thunderstorms had left the air smelling clean and damp and it lingered around the man's throat like freshly washed hair. Both sin and spice seemed gone from the city and so was the red dust of the streets, washed away with the rain. It continued to fall as the man trod his familiar path to his workplace; the whores had taken cover inside instead of touting trade on the harbour and the man who sold peppers stuffed with saltfish wasn't in his usual place. Not everyone had sought shelter inside, despite the early hour, children played in the fountains; they relished the sight of the raindrops on the water as they squawked and shrieked in Tyroshi Valyrian.

He had often thought about whether he'd  got a child on his wench-wife. He knew he was capable, and he'd  spent himself a half-hundred times in her before they parted. Stronger than the Cleganes, that whelp would have been, hopefully with a great deal more wits and looks. Sometimes he'd  imagine it as a little girl. They could have trained her with sword all same. I could have held them too. I wasn' t allowed to hold the others. Those thoughts had died along with her after he had heard the two Reachmen speak of her passing. He was melancholy when he heard of Myrcella and Tommen’s passing, but the prospect of Lady Brienne dying at the hands of the Crown with his seed quickening in her womb filled him with rage. In the first few years, he occasionally found himself at the port seeking passage back West. I'll go to Tarth. I'll see her father. I'll  tell him that I loved his daughter and she was the purest, sweetest creature I did meet, But he never managed to step on the ship. Then I'll go to King's Landing, I'll  feign begging mercy, and slay the Dragon Queen like I did her mad old father. Brienne had once told him to live and take revenge, and he had done for ten and six years despite not having anything to live for and no hope of revenge. She' d be wroth if he hadn't. No, not wroth. Cersei would be wroth, Brienne would be disappointed. The latter was much worse.

She had once feared disappointing him herself. Nightfall was licking up the horizon ahead, and the twilight ahead was just as silent as she. Brienne hadn't looked at him since Pennytree. “Was it the Hound who bit you, my lady?” he had called in a gentle voice, despite rage bubbling up within him. If he did, I'd set the host's whole fucking pack of dogs on him. She didn't reply, and if anything, picked up her speed as they trotted along the Trident. “Joff did prefer him rabid.” The jape was poison to say, but he'd hoped that it would provoke her. He kicked his spurs into Glory and cantered in front of her, turning sharply to cut off her path. The bay mare that he had given her whinnied. “My lady, our boring, reticent journeys don't usually end up too well for me …” he waved his golden hand. Goldenhand the Just. They'll definitely call me that when we both deliver Sansa Stark to the North. She halted her horse, gripping her reins tightly as she stared into the horse's dark mane. “Wench” He sang mischievously, bringing his grey stallion closer to her own mount so their necks could graze. “We’re both fulfilling our oath to Catelyn Stark, it's a happy day, a day of jubilation! I thought you’d be so pleased.” He pulled his glove off with his teeth and reached out to clasp her white knuckles. She flinched and looked up at him like he had struck her. That was when he realised her homely face was stained with tears and anguish.

He hadn't got any more words out of her. They trotted on for a league or so, his reins unsteadily wrapped around his golden hand whilst the other clasped hers. She kept sobbing but had warmed to his touch. Her thick fingers lapped at his, giving them kisses. After some time, they came across a cave just off the path, built into the valleys that overlooked the river. “The waters were higher, long ago.” He shouted back to her, his voice echoing as he inspected it by the last glimmers of sunlight. “The Trident probably passed right across here, wearing it out of the rock...” His voice had trailed off. He was talking nonsense. Tyrion would probably know. Or that bookish Blackwood boy he had just delivered to camp. He'd ask him when he returned.

"My lady …” He extended his hand to help her off of her mare, she took it anxiously as if he'd remove it as soon as she put her trust in him. Once on the ground, she held back her tears long enough to remove her packs and tie her mare to a low-hanging tree that graced the entrance of the cave. From his own, he pulled out some soft sleeping furs. Then took her by the hand once more to sit her down. He had wrapped them around her and gently rested her head against the most comfortable looking rock he could find. A ring of reddened skin banded around her neck like one of Cersei's ruby chokers. Rope? He reached out to touch her.

“Ser Jaime, ” Lady Brienne murmured, flinching again. Her eyes were big and blue and pained.

"So you do have a voice.” He chuckled, studying the weeping bandage on her face. He winced inside; a tiny cat scratch did not lurk under the folds of fabric. She had aged a decade since he last saw her, but she was still a girl. “Come here, my lady wench, let me take a look at that bite.”

“No! ” She pulled back. “I don't want you to see me...”

“Lady Brienne, you’ve washed away my shit and vomit with your ungloved hands, as well as lovingly tended to the stump.” He waved it comically. “Let me. Please.” She pulled down her guarding hands and he pulled away the bandages. It was bad, there was no admitting that, but he looked upon it all of the same. She cleaned and wrapped his handless arm, as it festered with infection. He remembered clearly how bad it had smelled. “Handless and cheekless, that's what they’ll call us.” He stole Tyrion's jape, but she didn't smile.

“You stay there, don't move. I'll build a fire. I can steal sleep in the saddle, but I don't want to you doing that. We'll ride hard at first light.” He turned and left, but she cried after him. She didn't cry ‘stop’ or ‘Ser Jaime’, just the pained cry of a wounded beast.

He couldn't stop her talking then. She told him everything. She told him of her lie; that she had not found the Stark girl after all, but was supposed to be leading him to an engagement with the Brotherhood without Banners and Catelyn Stark alive again. He had not believed her at first, but the girl was no liar. “I-I-I told them that you had changed, that you were not the man you once were, Ser Jaime. ” She had to stop to retch from her tears. “B-but they didn't listen, noose or sword, they said, noose or sword, but I couldn't make that choice. I couldn't do that to you, Ser Jaime. But as I was swinging, I saw that they had my squire and my travelling companion hung up as well and I-”

“Couldn' t do that to them either." He said sharply. "Do these outlaws still have them, or are they going to ambush me after you have lead me where you needed to? ”

She nodded. “They have them, but Ser Jaime, I-I-I haven't lead you to where I needed to. I've lead you North instead, towards Oldstones. I should have taken you South along the Trident, near the Ruby Ford, but I couldn't. ” She curled up, her hands linked tightly in front of her high boots. “I’ve failed my father, I’ve failed Lord Renly, I've failed Lady Catelyn, in both death and life, and now I've failed you. I couldn't restore your honour.” She sobbed. Stupid, soft wench. The sight of her pained him, but he was not wroth.

“We’ll discuss this on the morrow.” He gritted his teeth and went to tie Glory, fearing he had wandered somewhere but found the stallion rubbing noses with Brienne’s mare.

‘I've failed you. I couldn't restore your honour.’ He thought as he built a fire. It was the first time someone had made themselves concerned with regaining his honour rather than pointing out his abundance of dishonour. She had removed her mail whilst he was gone and was shivering now, the flesh around the gaping hole in her cheek appeared to have reddened. It would need dressing again. He had set to cleaning it with a wineskin that he had heated over the fire, despite her pleas to be left alone. He pulled her head closer into his lap; his golden hand gently rising with the swell of her chest and his good hand lapping at the infection with the wine-soaked cloth. She went to get up, but he stopped her. “Stay.” He commanded, unsure of what he was saying or why. She tilted her head up towards him, her pale hair fanning across his thighs and her full lips parted. “Ser Jaime, I do not need to lay on you like this. ” She stumbled over her words, her face turning the same colour as her infected cheek. “It mustn't be comfortable for you, I’m heavy.” Her heart was near-racing out of her tunic, beating against his wrist. He had thought it was the fever at first.

“You're fine.” He threw the cloth into the fire and wiped a stray tear from her eye. Pretty eyes. She stared back as if he had shown her a great kindness. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered, like a kicked hound. “I’m so very sorry, Ser Jaime.”

He continued to hold her into the night, and when he was certain she was asleep he reached down to press a kiss onto her lips. Why? Why did you do that? My place is with the King, and the Queen. Even if she is the Queen of Whores. Her eyes fluttered open and they welled up once more. “No more tears, wench.” He soothed, his fingers were in her hair now. “You'll have no more tears left for when they chop my comely head off.”

“Did you …” She sat up and shook her head. “Fever dreams, ever since the bite, I’ve been-”

His cock stirred and his heart was a flutter. He'd never felt this way before, and it scared him. His love for Cersei was always there, for as long as he could remember. Now he was faced with a great, hulking woman with half her face missing who he once contemplated killing, but would now kill anyone who lay a finger on her. “Is this what you've been dreaming about?” he had asked her, pulling her close. She let him but recoiled when his tongue found his way into her mouth. Tears glazed her face once more.

“Why would you...no one has ever...” She wept, confused. Jaime had been confused too. He was the Lion of Lannister, still gallant, with one hand or two. But then he remembered Red Ronnet. Brienne the Beauty. Sow in silks.

“Because I want to.” He said breathlessly. That was all he could say.

“But the Queen…” She snivelled. Her bleating once enraged him, but now wanted to hold her, like the way he had held Cersei all his life.

“Fuck the Queen. She sent for me, I burned the raven. I' ve no interest in her schemes anymore. ”

“But she’s the fairest woman in the realm, I have heard …” her voice trailed off. Her eyes dropped down, looking down the sheath of her sword. The sword he had given her. Oathkeeper.

He tilted her chin up. “And you’re the fairest of heart. More beautiful in ways she wouldn’t understand, and a truer knight than I ever was and ever will be. ” He stroked her torn cheek. “You haven’t failed me. You could never fail me.” Her hands found his way to his and she pulled them down but didn’t let them go. She looked scared, and for a moment Jaime felt as lecherous as Lord Bracken with his camp followers until she nodded.

“I-I did dream of you.” She looked at the cave floor again, scuffing her boots against the jagged edges. “I cried for you to come and get me. Like you did before.”

She would cry out for him again that night, as he took her maidenhead by the firelight. He felt a green boy himself, only ever knowing Cersei's touch. He kissed her small, freckled breasts that sat on top of the vast expanse of her strong chest and stroked the curve of her waist. She did have a woman’s shape, like when they were together in the bowels of Casterly Rock. She looked frightened again, spread out on the furs as he crouched between her legs. “My lady, I don’t have to, we don’t have to-” he had whispered, feeling as awkward as she. She shook her head and reached up to unstrap his golden hand so she could lay a kiss on his stump. “No, I want to. I only want to lay with you.” She said boldly. She was scared but stubborn. He had used both his hand and mouth on her to make it easier for her, but she still whimpered as he entered her. Not for long though, soon she was wrapping her strong legs around him and leaving trails of kisses down his neck. Ser Jaime, Ser Jaime, Jaime. Her sapphire eyes looked up at him, now rich with want instead of sorrow. He couldn’t help it. He lost himself and spilt his seed inside her, as he pulled her sturdy body against his.

Enough. No more. It pained him to think about it, even after all these years. He hadn’t known a woman since Brienne, nor did he want to. The whores had sung their invitations to him daily, but unless they could beat him in melee, he wasn’t interested.  He squeezed his fist and carried on up the cobbled steps to start his working day. He swung open the doors of the dye house, the clatter they left on the walls momentarily taking his mind off his then soon-to-be wife raking her jagged fingernails down his back. The fumes clouted him in the face as he strode down the bustling walkway. It used to make him cough and splutter and retch, so much so that Broleo, the foreman, had threatened to throw him out. The women had a more pleasant job; using big wooden blocks, engraved with patterns and sigils to cast an elaborate design across blank fabrics. “I could do that.” He had announced, for the foreman to laugh and point at his stump. “No, no, no!” That was all of the Valyrian, Jaime had understood then. His father was thankful enough that he had mastered reading and writing the Common Tongue that he hadn’t pressed his Maester to teach him the less-common ones. Broleo instead set him to work on the dye baths with the other men, some maimed like he. Every day, apart from four leisure days a moon, he would clamber along the rows and rows of baths with an oar in his good hand as the pigment and textile cooked in the burning sun. Sometimes he'd have to lean in, his stump precariously perched on the side as his left churned the fabric up himself. Wool was the worst. Too much grease in the fibres so pigment did not take too easily. Sometimes the old him would come back. This is your life now, my lion of Lannister. Frothing at the mouth with anger when you’re presented with a cask of sheared sheep. He'd think of getting on the boat, to see the Evenstar and to bleed the Dragon Queen like a pig, but then he'd think of Brienne’s words and go away inside once again.

Broleo, the mustard-mutaschioed foreman with a thick neck who had taken him in all of those years ago groaned as Jaime approached him. “You're late, Westerosi.” He announced in the common tongue, rolling his eyes before scanning them up towards Xhallalla, who tended the warehouse. The Summer Islander nimbly retrieved a cask of pigment from the highest shelf and tied it precariously around his back with rope before beginning to scale down the splintered ladder. This is the only instance I will thank the gods for my lack of hand. I do not wish to meet them by climbing up that pile of sticks.

"Easy!" Yelled Broleo in his bastard Valyrian, as he curled his moustache around his finger.  "I am too busy to scrape you off the floor today. ”  There was no need. Xhallalla expertly leapt off the fourth rung whilst clasping the cask to his back. He did feel a sense of envy despite previously shunning the ladders he had to scale. Though filled with dangers; ladders shaking and casks of powders of all hues being dropped on one's head was still preferable to endless coughing and sickness of the lungs that came with boiling the fabric in the dye-baths. I could have done that if I had two hands. His aspirations made him chuckle. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, now reaching to the heavens to obtain the sought-after position of dye-house barrel retriever. His lord father would be so proud.

“Westerosi, come, come! ” Broleo ushered him over, using a silver knife fashioned in the likeness of a horse to lift the top of the cask. “Look!” Jaime peered in to see a full container of crimson pigment, obtained from crushing and drying insects.

“Red? What am I dying?” Not wool, I'm not in the fucking mood for wool.

“Not just red, this is the finest pigment. Vivid. It will not run with the rain or be bleached by the sun. I call this Lannister red, for I used to send bolts of this to Casterly Rock.” The foreman tapped on the side of it with his knuckles, leaving a thick streak of muck along his hand. "Look how thick with dust it is.”

Jaime spluttered into a cough. Like Lannister blood. “What are you dying with it?” He asked in brutal Valyrian, scooping up the powder and watching it fall. He had once watched more expendable men throw Lannister red banners down the walls of Riverrun, along with the twin towers of Frey. If they were dyed here, who would have predicted that this would be the place he'd end up? The foreman scoffed and rolled his eyes, he hated the Dyer when he spoke Valyrian but politely obliged him by answering back in the same tongue.

“Lannister ensigns, for both land and sea.” He smirked. “They won’t be carrying them very far. They’ll get themselves killed again, soon enough.”

“Who?” You'd need a Lannister army and a Lannister navy to have need for Lannister ensigns.

“A couple of Lannister supporters, apparently, claiming the Kingslayer’s son has returned.” The foreman rolled his eyes. Tommen? He saw Jaime’s face and misunderstood it. “You know the one. How long have you been away from Westeros? That cripple who stabbed the old, mad King in the belly. We've had a Mummer's Dragon, I'd imagine this is a Mummer’s Lion. The Dragon Queen has been seeing lions and stags in the shadows for years.” A Mummer's Lion, surely not. He had dithered asking his son whether or not he would choose a father over a throne, but he had never gotten the chance. Now he may be a man grown, a man grown who had chosen both. “No bother to me whether he is some lion's bastard or not. I have the coin, they can do with them what they wish.”

“Where is it going? Are they coming to collect it?” Gushed Jaime, his heart thudding in the cage of his chest. Broleo raised his eyebrows, they were dyed mustard too. “That’s my concern, not yours.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden coin, and bit it. “Away with you, Westerosi. There’s ten stone of wool that requires your attention.”

Tommen. Alive? Did Thoros of Myr lie? Did he lie about Cersei? No, he couldn't  have lied about Cersei. He had seen the plays by the fountain where a golden-haired mummer with a roaring lion at her breast was beheaded by another in green and gold scaled smallclothes. But Tommen. He could be alive, and if he is, he has claimed me.

Chapter Text

Tyrion IV

He found Galladon stood upright by the window that morning, looking out on the ants below in the courtyard. Viserra was with him, as had been ever since she was free to move around the Keep as she pleased. She had all of the grace of a tavern wench despite yesterday’s fine gown and the chunk of amber dangling around her neck on a gold chain. One leg was pulled up to her chest, the other splayed downwards, a jewelled shoe pointing to the floor. She was a sunburst of yellow, orange and gold; her new paramour not as flamboyant, but just as fair.

“You look positively exhausted.” Said Tyrion, through gritted teeth, examining Galladon’s rumpled appearance. He wore a nightshirt of scratchy, white cotton and bandages in place of breeches. Pillow marks lined his face like dry, cracked earth and there were soot-black rings under his eyes but it was still an improvement on days past. He had a constant stream of servant girls bringing broth and iced water unasked, desperate to aid the wounded warrior. Jaime wore dishevelment just as well. Neither wounding or woeful tailoring could tarnish his shine.

Tyrion hadn’t slept much himself and did not look as comely for it. He had slept on a set of cushions below his desk, so uncomfortable that they may as well have been stuffed with nails rather than feathers. He’d taken refuge there as opposed to the soft chairs by the wall for Viserra had kept him up all night with her terrible singing. Her high notes bled through the walls like rain on an ill-thatched roof. Not Seasons of My Love or Two Hearts That Beat As One, but Bessa the Barmaid, A Cask of Ale and a song that Tyrion did not know, but so crude coming out of the mouth of a princess that it even made Tyrion blush. He had heard other things through the stone walls; murmurs and moans and the sound of lips meeting, but he bent his pillow over his ear and forced himself to sleep. He wanted to cut out the nonsense and then, but it would have appeared strange for him to barge through the door. Why should he care who visited Ser Galladon? It was already queer enough that he had put him up in his chambers like a Volantene bedslave.

“Good morning to you too, my Lord Hand.” Said Galladon, a little too friendly for his liking. Viserra was still unawares, he knew, but a boy besotted could do many a foolish thing. For now, all seemed well. Viserra had grown up being told by her mother and her nursemaids that Jaime Lannister would get her if she strayed from her own bed, or snuck extra sweets from the kitchens without asking. He had tried to tell her about his own experiences with his siblings, trying to console her when Rhaenyra was doing something particularly spiteful, but her look of disgust was obvious for all to see. A wild one, she may be, but doing everything but bedding the Kingslayer’s son would be a rebellion too far from her. From the way she was beaming, it was clear Galladon had not shared his secrets with her.

“Lord Tyrion!” Her grin grew wider when she saw him. She was as highly strung as ever, bending to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I’m going to take Ser Galladon to see his guilt-gifts soon. She’s beautiful.” She sang every vowel of the last word like a pretty little songbird, but for once, Tyrion wished he could swat her away like a fly. He had reluctantly told Galladon that he could carry his affair with her, but he didn’t expect it lasting longer than a night. If his nephew had won the tourney without injury, she’d have probably hitched up her skirts after the feasts; leaving scratches on his back and longing in his heart when she left him. And she should have left him, she always did leave them; stealing pleasure and kisses and crude stories to tell her confidants, leaving them nothing but spiceflower oil slick on their skin.

But here she was. With him. “She? Guilt-gifts?” He craned his neck around to face them. On closer inspection, he still did not look exactly well. Less corpselike, but as awkward on his feet as a baby deer on a frozen lake. His face twisted with every tiny movement that his body had had to make. Once they were certain that he would live and all rot had been burned out from the wound, the maesters had discovered a shattered collarbone and four broken fingers on his right hand. They had splinted it into a cloth spade, much to Galladon’s delirious disgust, but he was sober enough to brag that his left worked just as well as his right before slipping off into a deep sleep once more.

“Peace offerings from the Dornish party,” Tyrion told Ser Galladon. “Lord Trystane also promised to ship you up a year’s worth of red upon his return to Plankytown. The ‘she’ is a new steed, waiting for you in the stables.” He saw Galladon’s face fall, for he was fond of the black stallion that he had gifted to him. “Your own horse is fine, the Uller boy has been tending to him, but now you have a second. A sand steed mare, as white as winter. A pretty thing.” He was underselling it. The Dornish mount was an exquisite creature, bred to travel leagues up and down the realm.

“I dreamed of white horses.”

“I’d imagine you had some interesting dreams, Ser Galladon. You were collecting those milk of the poppy vials like I used to wine skins.” Tyrion pushed a half-drunk one to one side to gather the papers that he had forgotten to move to his solar. Plans for the new Sept of Daenerys, for the master constructor. After fifteen long years, the exterior was now complete and work could commence inside. He’d always thought that it would be sweet Cersei to burn the city to the ground, but the charred carcass of Baelor’s sept was all Daenerys and Drogon. It had taken her fifty high septons in fifteen years before she found one too spineless to hold her in contempt.

“I dreamed of you,” he heard Galladon whisper to Viserra. The lad was charming enough to make the girl, who had heard every line from both high lords and hedge knights, blush. “…but then Commander Blackwood popped up in it, queerly enough. He was a most unwelcome visitor.” He reached out to touch her.

Tyrion interjected before their tomfoolery could descend any further. Princess and Ser, a peasant on the street would have called them; one blessed with royal blood, one blessed with seven oils in the light of the seven. Tyrion could see that despite their individual statuses, they were overgrown children with famous names. Was he so light of heart at that age? Probably not. He was too busy disappointing his father.  “You’re not well enough to go be pacing down those stairs yet, Ser Galladon. Lady Shireen sent after you the day before last, begging your urgent return.” Despite the little stag dripping in braggadocio from her locks to her toes, she really must have killed all of her ravens for an envoy had arrived just before supper the day before. A small lad from her child-court, commandeering a cart and horse dressed in the Baratheon colours. He had been adamant that he was to bring Ser Galladon home, but Tyrion had waved him away with a purse of gold for his wasted journey. That had stopped his pleas. As a caution, he had sent an inoffensive raven to Evenfall Hall, asking for a report on the average number Essosi vessels that landed in Tarth on an average day to receive a bemused, shaky reply from Lord Selwyn. Clearly, the boy’s father-in-all-but-blood was fine, so whatever Lady Shireen deemed urgent could wait.

“An urgent return? Is she well? What of it?” Galladon dropped his hand from Viserra’s hair as if he had stuck it into a foundry of molten silver.

“Whatever it is, Ser Galladon,” she sang, retrieving his hand, “I’m sure it is not as urgent as your recovery.” Her song could not soothe his scowls.

“But she may have need of me, I must get a raven to her immediately, I-”

“You’re not going anywhere. I have a duty to Commander Blackwood to ensure you are taking your ailing health seriously. You’re not going to hold your spear very well with your claw hand.”

“Both my hands work the same.” He fired. “Did she seem well?”

“Perfectly fine.” Tyrion lied. “I’d imagine she just wants you back at her court. You’re certainly popular.” He exchanged a look with Viserra, who swung down from her windowsill and clasped his arm.

“Not too popular, I hope, Ser. You’ll have to tell me all about it.” Said Viserra, making him relent. “About that dream, the part before Hos appeared.” Her voice dripped in lust, like spilt red.  He loved the girl like a daughter, but he was very glad he wasn’t her father. Father help the man both unfortunate and fortunate enough to take her as a wife. He cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t you be running along to your mother? I doubt has seen you for days.”

“She does not want to see me,” she groaned, sailing across the tiles to pour herself a glass of wine. Tyrion glanced out to view the morning sun. It was a bit early. “I have tried, my lord, but she’d rather sleep or stare at the wall. She’s so terribly catatonic that did not even bid Rhaenyra goodbye when she left the other day.” Viserra stated that almost sadly. Rhaenyra was the one who arose to comfort her sister, unravelling the edge of her tokar to dry her tears and whispering to her in High Valyrian in her stern but soft voice. Now, she was the Princess of Dragonstone, resigned to her island until her time came. Hopefully, both sisters parted on a better note than the one they met on.

“Is it appropriate to discuss the state of your mother so matter-of-factly, in front of anyone?” Said Tyrion, his voice firm.

She paused as if she was stifling a laugh. “Ser Galladon knows everything, but I have adequate social skills to know when I must take my leave, although, you should really be asking for mine.” She held it out her hand for to Galladon to kiss, and after he obliged her, he bowed; causing him what looked like a great deal of pain. “You’ll sup with me once you find yourself uncrippled, won’t you?” She called, as she walked away. Her hair fanned out behind her in the breeze like moonbeams.

“I’ll be praying to the Mother for a swift recovery.” He turned to see her out of the door, the rotation of his hips making him wince. “Farewell, Princess.” His smile could slash through steel as if it were satin. Jaime’s smile.

Tyrion waited for her footsteps to reduce into whispers down the stairs.“You will not be supping with her.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Galladon groaned insolently as if he had been told to stop climbing a tree.

“You will meet other women who can do interesting things with their mouths and hands.” He gathered the last of his plans and made for the door. “It is not wise to have her in your company so often, if the Queen-“

“If the Queen heard you talking about her daughter like that, what would she say?” He fired back, brows knotted.

“The Queen knows fully well what Viserra does with her…parts, much to her dismay. She may be able to forgive her daughter for her reckless behaviour, but she doesn’t take too kindly when these friends of hers are brazenly paraded in front of her. I don’t want any attention drawn to you, nor do I wish you to do anything impetuous yourself.”

“I don’t intend to.” It was hard to honour his intention to avoid any heedless behaviour given his hot-headed response. He would need to try another tack.

“Galladon, I need to remind you that the vast majority of your dear sire’s various treasons were committed because Cersei’s cunt had something to do with it, one way or another, and I will-”

“Don’t say her name.” His nephew interjected, making a fist with his good hand.

“Oh, alright Ser. Your aunt’s cunt? Is that more palatable for you?” Tyrion could hear his voice begin to rise. “I’d go as far to say that if it wasn’t for your aunt’s cunt, he’d have never have been in this wretched city, in a white cloak, slitting your lady love’s grandsire’s throat.” He saw his face. “Did you forget that inconvenience, little lion?”

Galladon shook his head as if he was trying to force words that he didn't have. “You said, you said, I could carry on with her,” he bleated like a goat.

“I did not expect her to be here at all hours playing the septa. As I’ve said, I can do without the Queen asking questions about where her daughter is. In fact, it would have been very fitting for your own disguise for her to suck your cock just the once before scarpering off; you’d have been like any other watchman.” His nephew’s eyes looked more green than blue by the morning sun and his darkened face made him look a great deal more like Cersei. Or Joff. Tyrion shuddered.

“Don’t continue to disrespect your Princess, Lord Tyrion.” And he had just started to call me Uncle. “She’s second-in-line. She may be your Queen one day.”

“And isn’t that a thrill for you? The little bastard boy from Tarth who grew up to fondle future queens, wield a Valyrian steel sword and learn he is a descendant of a great house. You do not tell me what I can and cannot speak of. Your father, my brother, would be Lord of Casterly Rock now, with a suitable wife and litters of golden-haired brats if he hadn’t chosen Cersei. He’d be alive, and safe, and his honour would be intact. That is how I wish for you to remain, so stop dancing with dragons.”

“She’s nothing like her!” The boy hissed. If he didn’t know how soft he really was, he’d fear him. All near-seven foot of him, but Tyrion knew that Galladon was in no state to be turning over tables. Instead, he gripped the window ledge until his knuckles went white.

Tyrion nodded. He felt unclean slandering her so. Seven hells, he loved the girl but he loved Jaime, not Jaime, Galladon more. “She is nothing like her. She has no interest in power despite being second-in-line to the Iron Throne, she is courteous to everyone regardless of their birth…” Tyrion could have stopped there, but the insolent way the boy continued to look at him made him seethe. “…and she fucks her way through the Crownlands because she wants to, not to curry favour.”

He left Galladon raging, but safe in the knowledge that he was now hobbling about in the manner of the old Grand Maester Pycelle, he did nothing to alter his pace. He would speak to the boy later, kindly. He may even apologise for his tone, even though he did not regret speaking him so sharply. So much of him yearned for Galladon to love him as much as Jaime had done; the same part of him that kept Tyrion awake most nights, whispering kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer. The whispers returned with every step down the stairs he made. He should have sent the boy back to Tarth or Storm’s End or wherever he wanted to go. He’d have married a lesser noblewoman who’d have ignored the stain of bastardy for his capable physique and emerald eyes. He would have been rewarded with a holding of his own eventually, and his children would have grown up with the Baratheon whelps. Until his death, he’d have only feared the sword, not political intrigue. I’ve dragged him into the dragon pit. I may as well have jousted him myself.

He came out to the yard, bustling with life; both the stench of the stables and the scent of herbed bread baking cracked him across the face like a whip. The lithe, gold figure of Hoster Blackwood was only ten paces ahead of him, flanked by stouter watchmen.“The Protector of King’s Landing!” He spluttered as he waddled up to him, trying to distract his thoughts. Kinslayer. “Where may you be hurrying off to this morning? You look like a man with a purpose.” Commander Blackwood turned around, his brows furrowed like thick, black caterpillars.

“I always have a purpose. The meeting of the small council, my Lord Hand.” he peered, his nose making him look like the ravens of his house. He noted Tyrion’s bemusement. “Did no one send for you? It is rather abrupt. I only received word less than a half-hour ago.”

A small council meeting? Tyrion shook his head. “Unfortunately, I did not receive the invitation. I should go to our lovely Queen at haste but I have an engagement with the master constructor down at the Sept of Baelor. Sept of Daenerys, I mean.” He mocked slapping himself in the head. “Do send my apologies and do not fetter yourself with waiting for me. I shan't be long. I doubt they are even inspecting me, considering my raven clearly went down in a storm.”

“Would it be best that you accompanied me anyway, my Lord Hand?” He looked almost shifty, shuffling on his feet, but that was his way. Despite his golden mail and plate, he always did have an air of a maester of the higher mysteries, more suited to toiling over scrolls in a tall, twisted tower. “It seemed urgent. I am surprised you were not awares.”

“That small council two months ago, the one a few hours shy of dawn, seemed urgent too. Until I discovered it was regarding the integrity of Lady Sansa Stark’s loyalty.” He recalled it well, a few nights before the royal party had left for Dragonstone. “What does she mean?!” His silver Queen had shrieked, shaking as she poured over Lady Sansa’s elaborate hand. Mild-mannered Lord Willas had even failed at stifling his harassment, huffing through gritted teeth as he gripped his cane.

“She has reason to not trust the Starks, regardless of her own blood ties.” Hoster said sternly.

“The Lady had very politely declined a tourney invitation because she was six moons with child, not because she had turned her back on the Crown. She even sent her son and heir in her place, and we all know how rarely she lets her wolf-pups stray south of the Neck.” He scoffed, remembering her venom when he pointed that out. In light of that, he wouldn’t make haste. He’d be there until nightfall discussing the intricacies of the stone embroidery on the Maiden’s gown.

Hoster Blackwood exhaled, craning his neck to look Tyrion dead in the eye. “Gods know what has made you so bold of late. Very well. You may not have been invited, but I’ll send your apologies all the same.”

Daenerys II

Daenerys dreamt that she was a ghost. Pale and beautiful, the vibrant tiles of the throne room floor visible through her blurred limbs. She was looking in on herself, sat atop the Iron Throne but it had shunned her. Its angles and edges set to tearing chunks out of her thighs and resting arms until blood gathered at her feet; then wolves and lions and stags and falcons descended upon her to take her throne again. Howling and roaring, charging and pecking, but it was a dragon who got her in the end. A black shadow, not unlike Drogon, with eyes that glinted like slabs of amethyst in the giant cage of its head. It opened fire on her as she screamed; dousing the stags and the wolves, the lions and the falcons, along with her until she was just a pile of blackened bones on a blackened throne.

She woke up shivering as she did so often, her heart pummelling and head pounding. Pulling the covers over her for warmth, she draped them around her like a cloak as she slipped out of bed to pour herself a goblet of shade of the evening. The first time the warlocks of Qarth had forced it upon her, she had seen corpses commandeering ships, dancing shadows and flowers growing from ice gardens but now it did nothing apart from making her see nothing at all. Too much use, her Grand Maesters had told her over the years. The effects of any substance would fade away if everyone took the same doses as she, they had told her. Dany enjoyed the nothingness that came with her own poison. The whispers and pains would fade into the void. Now feeling calmer, she wiped the blue liquid from her lips; viscous and thick. She placed one delicate hand inside her sleeping silks and waited for her heartbeat to slow.

It was morning now. The birds sang and sunlight streamed through the window, casting rainbows around her chambers. Good, she thought. I have slept the whole night through. It rarely happened anymore, her nightmares usually succeeding in keeping herself from slumber. Despite her night of rest, she still felt tired; her joints creaked as she walked back to the bed as if they were coated in rust. She rang for her handmaiden, Minisa, ready her room for the day. A pretty thing with clear blue eyes but a clumsy disposition. No Missandei, that was for sure, but she was loyal and kind of heart. “Your Grace,” she bowed her head as she curtsied, her red braids tickling her face. Immediately, she set herself to clearing away platters of half-eaten food that Daenerys did not remember eating. A lot of stained goblets too, she mused, as she examined her chambers. “How is your health, my Queen?” Asked Minisa sweetly, as she precariously balanced a silver platter of nibbled honey cake on her forearm. “You have been missed at court.” My health? What of my health?

“Missed at court?” She couldn’t help her incredulous tone, even though she knew the girl meant no harm. She was a maid of ten and three, with a flair for the dramatics. Yesterday was her eldest girl’s birthday. Dany had missed the feasts, but now the celebrations could proceed.

“Yes, your Grace. People have been praying to the gods for your health.”

“How long have I been resting?”

“S-six days.” Minisa stuttered, turning as red as her hair.

Six days? It couldn’t have possibly been six days since she entered her apartments. She returned to her chambers last night, to rest. That was last night. The day of the tourney.

“Would you like me to take that to be cleaned, your Grace?” Minisa gestured to the goblet that still lay in Dany’s hand; the crystal now stained sapphire.

“Yes,” she arose and added it to Minisa’s great stack of silverware. “Have some fruit sent up; pomegranates, green apples and some blood oranges.” She was hungry. 

Minisa stood there, dumbstruck; her eyes saucers, peering over her plates. “Now, Minisa?”

“Yes, yes, your Grace.” She spluttered as she near-galloped out the door. Well meaning, but rather useless. Minisa was definitely no Missandei. Her poor, sweet Missandei. She couldn’t save her. Now she only saw her in her nightmares.

A little boy with a pinched face, clutching brass chargers of the fruit she requested, appeared in her chambers. “Were you listening in on my requests, boy?” Daenerys asked him, crossing her arms. “No, your Grace. Lady Minisa fetched me, she has done to draw fresh water for your bath.” Perhaps Minisa told it true. If I can lose six minutes in thought, could I lose six days? He laid the blushing pomegranates, waxy blood oranges and grass-green apples on her side table, before awkwardly bowing and going to take his leave. His path was blocked by a grey-robed Grand Maester Sarella, her cropped black hair glossy from her own bath. “Your Grace,” she curtsied, her face was blank; lacking any song nor story. “Boy,” she cast her dark eyes down to him. “Would you please leave us?” The flickered back to Daenerys as the child darted around her.

“What is it, Grand Maester?” Her eyes were usually so vivid, so expressive; seeing them as blank as pebbles made her uneasy.

“An envoy-of-sorts was found dead on the Kingsroad. Crudely hidden in the bushes, just outside the River Gate. He was finely dressed, with no visible injuries, so the City Watch brought him to me.”

“An envoy-of-sorts?” She yawned, grabbing two blood oranges, offering one to her maester.

Sarella shook her head. “Please, your Grace. I beg pardons, but I must finish or I-”

Dany sauntered over to her bed, taking a seat on her furs and setting to peel an orange. The juice stung the torn skin around her nails. “Carry on.”

“So an envoy-of-sorts was found, he was brought to me. I inspected the corpse and found a dart in the back of his neck, poisoned. Curious, I thought, so I inspected him further.” She held up a piece of rolled parchment. “This was tucked into his smallclothes. “I do not think he was meant to have this on his person. I believe he may have written this himself, for fear he would forget the message to relay. The hand was shaky, littered with errors.”

“A message? What does it say?”

“I believe it best for you to read it yourself, my Queen.” Daenerys gingerly took it, more concerned at touching the crumpled, stained paper than what the contents may be. Her eyes darted over the shaking hand; spidery letters covered the page, each one varying in size to the one next to it.

go to red keep to petishun at midday

say hooded man gave you con and sed to tell queen you did not no him

th imp is hidin the young lions cub. ser galladan storm his sun by the made of tarth hids in yor court queen daenerys. slay him befor he slay you

go home afterwords do not seek th man agen

Her eyes were too tired, and the writing too terrible. “I can’t understand any of this. Gibberish.” She flung it aside. Sarella’s mouth dropped slightly, but no words of protest poured out. “Well, what does it say? Have you deciphered whatever tongue this is?”

“Your Grace, the gist of this parchment is that a disguised man gave this dead boy coin to cry a message to you. The message being that the Young Lion’s son, Ser Galladon Storm, is being hidden at court by the Lord Tyrion himself, and a warning to apprehend him before he does anything untoward.”

Daenerys’ heart, which she had taken measures to calm that morning, began to race. “Who wrote this? Who is the boy who was meant to deliver this?

“Probably no one, your Grace. Since you very graciously sent a maester to each village in the Crownlands, most young smallfolk have a basic knowledge of letters. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone plucked him out of a field in Rosby.”

“Someone?” Dany scorned, not that it mattered. Tyrion couldn’t expect his secret to be kept forever. She was just pleased that someone had tried to confirm her suspicions, whoever they were.

“I do not know,” said Sarella, defiantly. “There is no sigil nor identifying features on the parchment.”

“I knew it! I knew it, I knew it. I put my trust in him and he parades his bastard around my court. This won’t do. This won’t do at all.” A legitimisation for his bastard boy, that is what he wants. He will take advantage of my kind heart like he has taken advantage of my girls. Viserra was always his. She could recall her silver girl and her Nuncle Imp rolling their eyes and making jests that she did not understand.

“I must interject,” Sarella prodded, feebly. Daenerys was not used to this delicate maester, with her blank eyes and blundering words. “Tyrion Lannister was the youngest lion, my Queen, but he wasn’t the Young Lion.” No. Her beating heart raced to a halt.

“Who was?” Daenerys hoped as if the gods would grant her ignorance with another answer. A cousin perhaps. There were lots of Lannister cousins. But she had got all of them.

Sarella paused, her slim, brown hands itching at her grey robe. “Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.” The words arrived in the room like winter after the white raven; expected and inevitable, but cold. So cold. Daenerys heard a thud, looking down to see that her orange had rolled out of her hands. No. It cannot be. It can’t. It just couldn’t. The all-too-familiar pain pulsed in the same place it always did, sending ripples of pain radiating down her body. Her toes curled in her sandals.

“Kingslayer? No,” she frothed, clutching her temple as she collapsed sideways. “No! That’s not possible. Cersei Lannister’s bastards by him perished before I even landed. We found her half-mad on her boy king's throne, then she was executed and-”

“Your Grace, your Grace, please. You need to be calm.” Her Grand Maester kneeled down in front of her, the spilt wine staining her robe crimson. “Cersei must not be the only woman he ever knew. Since this envoy was discovered, I have been asking my own questions. The boy is from Tarth.” Tarth, she knew of it. She had never met the crippled, old stormlord who reigned over it. She knew why now. “Lord Selwyn’s daughter travelled with your father’s murderer during the wars, and I believe she is the ‘Maid of Tarth’ the parchment refers to. I recall Varys’ little birds flitting around that island sometime after the Westerlands War, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she managed to evade them and came back with a lion cub in her belly.” More likely Varys had selective hearing for certain whispers. He swore fealty to her after she scorched the Blackfyre forces, but she couldn’t ever trust him after that. That was how he met his fate. Brute force could quell the quietest, and most clandestine of whispers after all.

“What if there are cubs?” Daenerys mumbled. She could barely hear herself over her own heartbeat. A heartbeat that had started in her throat, and moved up to her ears; its beat as solid and steady as a war drum.

“I beg pardons, my Queen?” Her voice was as gentle as spring rain, dripping into her ear, but her words had been lightning. “I did not understand.”

“What if there are more?” Dany lifted her body as if she had been jerked upwards on an iron chain. She clutched Sarella’s shoulder. “More. What if the Kingslayer has sired more bastards than this Ser Galladon?” The felt the sensation of the flat of a blade striking her temple again and again. Storm, Storm, Storm. Daemon may have been a Blackfyre by name, but he was still a dragon. This boy was still a lion, bastard-born or trueborn. “What if he is still out there?”

Grand Maester Sarella skirted over to the chamber doors, faster than Daenerys had ever witnessed her move, to see if it was closed. She pushed it into its frame softly, before creeping over to her Queen. “I doubt it, your Grace, every rock was overturned.” She kneeled down again, ignoring the lake of wine and clasped Dany’s hand. “There was a ludicrously generous reward,” she soothed “and we certainly set a strong enough example for no one to even consider harbouring him. The Kingslayer is dead. Even in recent years, we’ve feelers put out as far as Asshai. No sign of him. Now, what are we going to do-”

“You are forgetting that someone, in fact, did harbour this boy. Lord Selwyn. He will answer for his crimes.”

“As is your right, your Grace, but I would advise you to focus on the problems in front of us. Lord Tyrion and Ser Galladon.”

“I want their heads on spikes. Both of them. Now.” She stood upright, clutching her temples tighter. They wish me dead. Them both. Tyrion has been waiting and waiting and waiting and when I am but a corpse the lions will come home.

“An understandable choice, but we have further questions to ask. Also, I’m concerned about the boy with the misspelt message who was found dead outside the Gate of the Gods. If his intelligence told it true, and Jaime Lannister’s son is within reach, who didn’t want us to know?”

Daenerys managed to roll her eyes, despite them having been squeezed shut for the duration of their interaction. “Ten years at the Citadel, and you don’t know the answer? Lord Tyrion of course. He didn’t want his nephew to be exposed. Their plan to be exposed. They have a plan. They must. Lord Tyrion has been biding his time until this boy is grown, that’s it, isn’t it? He’s been integrated into my City Watch, parading himself at my tourneys and-” She screamed again. Viserra.

She had near forgotten about Viserra. She remembered how she came back to the Royal Enclosure, the lacing of her dress tangled and hair rumpled, for her to howl like the wolves in the North when the boy tumbled from his horse. She couldn’t blame her. It was in her bastard blood to be so full of lust. She had taken her sellsword father to bed in a similar fashion when she was wed to another. She had long thought her daughter’s dalliances to be harmless. Men would still duel to the death to wed her when the time came, she knew. But now her daughter’s most recent paramour was tied by blood to her father’s killer. A lion appeared in her head, so vivid, that she could see sunlight dance in its majestic mane. He pounced on both her daughters, ripping them into ribbons until their screams fell into silence.

“I think it's best we call a small council, if it please you, your Grace.” Sarella pleaded, gently removing Dany’s hands from her temple and clutching them tenderly. In her grief, Daenerys had the time to note that the Grand Maester had been acting more and more like her Hand of late. Now I know why. She nodded weakly in agreement and staggered to pour herself another goblet of shade of the evening. She wanted to chase the lions away with the sound of the wind whistling in her ears, the smell of her newborn babes and the taste of the rich, pomegranate wine that passed over her tongue in Qarth when she was but a babe in the East herself. Sarella stared blankly as she fumbled with the stopper. She did not approve. No matter. She was here to advise, not dictate, and at this very moment, Daenerys Targaryen had no need for her advice.

Grand Maester Sarella did make herself useful by sending for Minisa to tend to her as she made herself scarce to rouse the rest of the council, with the exception of Tyrion. Daenerys needed a bath, but turned down Minisa's offer of one; fearing the heat would make her retch, so they gently cleaned her face with rosewater instead. She bound her hair in rings of quartz and dressed her in a gown of silver silk, a heavy sash of mother of pearl beading slung around her hips. She wanted to tear it off as soon as Minisa had finished dressing her, the fibres of the fabric nibbling at her skin like locusts. Her crown felt unusually heavy, no matter how she positioned it. She didn't feel a queen; she felt like the little girl, living on the streets of Braavos; wearing sacks instead of silks. Living in fear of the Usurper's dogs, finding her, plucking her up and carrying her away to a place that she wouldn't be found.

Two of her Queensguard, Tal Toraq and Ser Egbert were waiting outside her door when she was ready to depart for the small council chamber, the white cloaks were girdled by two helmed black each side. She couldn’t see who they were, but she was thankful for their presence all the same. Should she be? She commanded them to unhelm, which they obliged despite their obvious bemusement. Blue Rat, Hightower, Merryweather, Boggs. Normal. She couldn’t be too careful. Jaime Lannister’s son was in her city and most likely cunning enough to exchange his gold plate for black. Feeling weak, she gripped the arms of her white knights, hoping their strength would carry her to her council as if she was on horseback.

She had lost more time, finding herself on her council chamber throne mere seconds later. She did not remember spiralling the serpentine steps or passing under the great Tower of the Hand. She was thankful for the latter. They were still up there, after all. Tyrion with his books and his scrolls and his vile nephew bed-ridden. If he was really bed-ridden, that was. No one would suspect a cripple if anything should happen to her.

Her council arrived in trickles, bowing courteously upon their arrival. "My Queen," they all said, but she felt a fraud. Her throne could be snatched from her any minute, he life. Should a Queen's existence be so precarious? She didn't know. She had tried her best to destroy her enemies, but they crawled back like roaches. Ser Loras was first, unhelmed, with his ringlets tumbling about his shoulders; wearing his burns as if they were the finest silk brocade. Then his brother, the lame Lord Willas, immaculately dressed in a doublet the colour of seafoam and tan breeches. Next came the golden Commander Blackwood and the doddery High Septon chasing after him, muttering something most likely irrelevant. Finally, Grand Maester Sarella followed. Her back was as crooked as the High Septon’s as if the weight of the news that she carried was too much to bare. One usually occupied seat lay vacant.

“Where is our Lord Hand?” Lord Willas piped up, noting this detail. He was tapping his cane restlessly, the gold roses of his house entwining the length of it. When Daenerys glared, he bowed his head; resting his cane between withered twigs of his legs. “I apologise your Grace. It is most unlike Lord Tyrion to not be promptly present when an urgent meeting of the small council is called."

Commander Blackwood mopped sweat off face as he placed his helm on the table. “I don’t believe he was invited.” Everyone’s face had contorted into confusion, turning to Dany for guidance.

“Not invited?” Mouthed Ser Loras, his eyebrows dancing on his forehead.

“Why?” The High Septon whimpered, his face the only that remained as light as a spring morning. Dany rolled her eyes. To be expected, she had selected him for his complete lack of interest in intrigue. Tyrion’s absence was certainly felt; the council was now more compact, more personable, with the majority of the seats remaining empty. Traitors had littered them before. A near-empty room was preferable to one full of empty promises.

“What has happened, your Grace?” Lord Willas implored. He had tilted his head down softly, but not before exchanging a look with his brother. Why were they looking at each other? What did they know? She nodded to Sarella, who cleared her throat.

“We intercepted a message from an envoy this morning. A dead envoy, with knowledge that someone did not want us to receive. However, his murderers were unaware that the boy had written the message and hid it on his person.” Daenerys scratched at the back of her hands with every syllable that came pouring out of Sarella’s mouth, she did not think her discomfort was obvious, but her Grand Maester halted her speech. “Your Grace? Would you like to…” Daenerys shook her head.

“This message,” continued Sarella. Lord Commander Loras rested his chiselled face in one of his hands. Such pretty hands. “Something unsavoury about Lord Tyrion, I’m guessing?”

“Bear with me, Lord Commander. It’s hard news to deliver, Lord Tyrion-”

Enough. Enough of the whimpers and whispers. I am a Queen. My life is at risk. “Why so mealy-mouthed, Grand Maester?” Daenerys found herself spitting. “Lord Tyrion has brought his brother’s son, the Kingslayer’s son, to King’s Landing. He’s been flaunted in front of me and my court. I’d even lay coin on him bedding my youngest daughter. He’s been in your barracks, Commander Blackwood, hiding as a City Watchman. Waiting, waiting to…” She could taste the angry tears on her tongue. Blackwood thumped his fist on the table.

“The City Watch? The Kingslayer’s son has been in my unit?” Fire was in his eyes. He was near outraged as she. “Why are we only privy to this information now? What was he planning to do to our Queen? Slay her? Like his vile father did hers?”

“We mustn’t let our passions run away with us, Commander Blackwood.” Lord Willas chewed his lip. “If this is true, who is the boy’s mother? I had never heard of him with any woman but his own sister. Their youngest bastard, the boy-king Tommen, was long dead before our Queen ascended.”

“I’ve heard of him with a woman.” Ser Loras crossed his arms, his white plate clunking as it scratched against his dragon-embellished breastplate.

“The old stormlord, Lord Selwyn’s late daughter, Brienne?” Lord Willas’ voice broke into a nervous laugh. “The one who was accused of killing your Renly? Lord Renly,” he corrected himself. “I know they called her the Kingslayer’s whore, but I’d imagine that was in her wildest dreams.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t pass it off as limerence on her part, dear brother. Yes, she was a seven foot beast of a woman, short a few teeth, running around the realm playing knights and maidens. Homeliest woman I have ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on, but he leapt to her defence when I drew my sword on her like she was Jonquil.”

“Lady Brienne of Tarth is the woman the message names,” said Sarella, solemnly.

Lord Willas collected his thoughts and swivelled his eyes between each member of the council. “He went missing with her, did he not?”

“It was never confirmed!” Piped up the High Septon, attempting to be useful.

“The Lannister host at Pennytree, where I was raised, was the last place they were seen. I grew up with the story.” Blackwood shrugged.

“So the message is plausible?” The High Septon peered around at everyone, his cataracts as cloudy as milk of the poppy.

“Of course it’s plausible.” Spat Daenerys, causing the godly man to recoil. “The envoy was found dead. This secret was meant to be kept.”

“The boy,” said Willas. “I’ve only seen him bruised and bloody. Does he have the look?”

“What did you say on the day of the tourney, Hos?” Dany looked at him expectantly.

“All golden curls and cheekbones.”

“The Lannister Look,” she mocked but then her words tasted bitter in her mouth. "Very pretty too, you’ll see that once he has his helm off, Princesses". That’s what Blackwood had said. To her daughters. Viserra. Rhaenyra. Are they safe?

”Where are my daughters?” She choked, clenching her left fist and scrunching her skirts with her right.

“Princess Rhaenyra is now in Dragonstone, your Grace,” the High Septon looked at her queerly. “She left three days past.”

“I knew that." Did I? "And Viserra?” Dany studied the blank stares. “Is this an elaborate jest?” She directed her fury towards the white knight with the scalded face and the golden eyes. “I have a Lord Commander of the Kingsguard who does not have the faintest idea where the second-in-line to the throne is?” He kept her stare for a few seconds before begging pardons and leaving the council chamber. He returned promptly with three of the four Black Coats that had escorted her to this very room.

“From the horse’s mouth, your Grace.” One for theatrics, Ser Loras waved his hands out to present them. “I would not want to pass on whispers when you could hear the tale yourself, my Queen.”

“A tale they could have told me themselves, on the walk from my chambers to this one.”

“I beg pardons, your Grace. We didn’t think that it was any concern.” Said Ser Russell, pitifully. He’d have been a comely thing, with his Myrish looks, if it was not for his squashed nose.

“You believe my daughter to be of no concern to me?” She turned to Ser Humfrey, the most dependable of the three. “Viserra. Where is she?”

Ser Humfrey Hightower turned the others, visibly chewing the side of his cheek. "She's been at the Tower of the Hand since you permitted her guard to be lifted, she's been tending to Ser Galladon. Hasn't left his side, your Grace.” He said, sourly. Hasn’t left his side. She couldn’t help it. Her stomach was empty, but for the shade of the evening. It rose from her throat and spewed out of her mouth, staining her silver silks. It tasted like blood and soil and rotten flesh as it passed over her tongue and into her lap. The Small Council arose, Lord Willas scavenging in his own breast pocket for a handkerchief and extending it over to her. She snatched it, scraping at her teeth and mouth in a bid to cleanse them.

“When exactly did I permit her guard to be lifted?” She snarled, through the cloth.

“Four days past, your Grace.” The guard chewed his cheek again like it was a particularly flavoursome side of beef. “Princess Rhaenyra came and asked for the guard to be lifted, so she could go and see the maimed knight and…and, you said ‘yes’, your Grace.”

“I did nothing of the sort.” I've lost the past six days. They've fallen like sand through an hourglass.

“I beg your pardons, your Grace, but you must have done.” Said Hoster Blackwood, firmly. He looked up at the table that he had been scratching with his spindly hands. He was seven foot of skinny arms and legs, making the table seem small. “The command came down to Gold from White to not apprehend Princess Viserra if she was seen in the city.” Ser Loras crossed his arms and nodded in affirmation.

“Yes,” said Lord Willas hastily. “Princess Rhaenyra confirmed that you permitted Princess Viserra’s release in passing, just before she headed down to Fleabottom with her guards that morning. She had gone to listen to the begging brothers in Fleabottom, you see, a marvellous idea I told her, demonstrating both an affinity with the poor as well as a sympathy for the Faith…”

Daenerys pursed her lips, licking her teeth clean. “What was previously said, ignore.” She threw the stained handkerchief down on the table, firing her voice towards Commander Blackwood and Ser Loras. “I want them both back at the Red Keep now. Keep them in Rhaenyra’s apartments. Do not tell them why. Just station every man with a black cloak at the door with a ring of gold around Maegor’s Holdfast,” she cried, hurling her instructions at them. “Where is Tyrion?” Perhaps he wasn't in the Hand's tower, perhaps he had just slipped away, knowing he and his vile nephew had been discovered? She’d need to ensure that her Queensguard did not leave her side.

“He’s gone to oversee the reconstruction of your sept, as far as I’m awares.” Blackwood scratched his head.

“And the boy?” Boy. Lionseed. Usurper’s pup. Kingslayer’s by-blow.

“In the Hand’s chambers. He’s on his sixth day of rest.” Said Sarella. Her voice was laced with sympathy, queerly enough.

“I’ll have them both seized.” Daenerys rose, causing everyone present to do the same. The chairs sang in chorus as they scraped the stone floors.

“Your Grace, I would not advise any rash action. If the sender of this raven speaks the truth, it will damage your reputation greatly, that he’s been here all the while and we were unawares.” Pleaded Sarella. My reputation? Your reputation. You’ll be on a boat back to Oldtown before nightfall if he evades us.

“Ser Humfrey. Ser Galladon Storm currently rests in the Tower of the Hand. Seize him. Don’t allow anyone to hinder you.” She turned to Commander Blackwood. “Hoster, my friend. Arrest Tyrion, as quietly as you can. Go.”

“Where shall we take him, your Grace?” Said Ser Humfrey, his voice as oily as roasted goose.

“The Black Cells. Put him in irons.”

“Your Grace, the boy could still die if he does not rest. The trauma was most severe,” beseeched Sarella. So?

“He won’t be any good to you a corpse, your Grace,” Blackwood called from the door, shrugging his plated shoulders. The others looked to her, hungry for a response. Daenerys collected her thoughts. Thoughts of little Rhaenys and Aegon draped in their Lannister cloaks at the Usurper’s feet. “Ser Humfrey, Ser Steffon, Ser Russell? Take the strongest men you have, and move the whole featherbed with him.”

Chapter Text

His Lady had sent for him. He needed to go to her. Gritting his teeth, he threw a long tunic over his head and pulled soft breeches of lambswool over his bandages. The climate seemed pleasing, but he would feel the chill on the way back to Storm’s End, so he did not forget his seal-leather high boots and fur-lined cloak. He retrieved Oathkeeper with a broom that a servant had left by the doorframe; jabbing it under the bed with his good hand until the sword skidded across the floor to save him getting down on his knees. He buckled it on the opposite side of his wound, ensuring that its leather bindings were secure enough to keep the lion pommel covered. He went to leave, but nearly forgot the coin he was owed for geting himself maimed in the first place. 50,000 dragons, 20,000 of those for the melee, had been trustingly left in Lord Tyrion’s solar. After filling his purse with as much as it would hold, he then set to slipping dragons in the lining of his boots and cloak. He shovelled more in his pockets, with a view to stuffing them at the bottom of his saddlebags, wrapped in his father’s cloak with his hard cheese and charcoal bread for the trek. It looked as if nothing had been taken from the chest, but he knew he had more coin in his boots than the average man would earn in a lifetime. Plenty. He’d even be able to buy his sisters and his lady stepmother some jewels on the mainland before setting sail for Tarth. Aunts, he corrected himself, their lady mother. It still sounded queer in his head.

He hobbled down the stairs with difficulty; his leg screamed with every step but he figured he would feel better on horseback. He hoped. He had found little Arron Uller tending to Thunder in the stables, along with the white sand-steed mare that Tyrion and Viserra had spoken of. His guilt-gift, she seemed worth a brush with death. As tall as him, but more slender than his stallion; her pale limbs would surely buckle under heavy armour.

“Ser Galladon!” His dark eyes lit up. “You’re well!”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Arron.” He winced as he limped towards the small boy and the huge mare.

“We thought you would die,” Arron said sadly. “The whole city has been talking of you. The smallfolk said that Princess Rhaenyra bewitched you with Meereenese blood magic because you hesitated in crowning her.”

“I’m afraid it was just a standard maiming.” So his crowning had been in vain? If he had placed that garland in Viserra’s lap as he wished to, the smallfolk would have claimed her sister bewitched him in jealousy. He pitied her. It was a sad existence to be preparing for a reign over people who despised you. Because of her strange foreign father as well. They weren’t dissimilar in that sense, but Rhaenyra wore her sire in her amber skin and the strange gods she prayed to. Galladon had hidden his successfully, and he would carry on doing so. He’d lay all the coin he had on people hating him more than they hated their Queen-to-be. He retrieved his saddle from the racks and laid it across the sand-steed's back, bending down to fasten it under her belly. Pain shot through his shoulder. Thankfully Arron batted his hands away.

“No, no, Ser! Please! You can’t! Your hand!” He flustered, slipping under her like a suckling foal. "They didn't say anything about your hand!"

"This?" Galladon waved the clothed claw of his right hand, rubbing his collar bone with his left. "Four broken fingers. Could have been worse. I could have broken five."

“What are you going to call her?” Arron called out from under her belly, his voice muffled under the cage of her chest. 

“I haven’t had much time to think about it, Arron.” He let the beast sniff him, her pink nose as soft as velvet on his calloused hand. “What do you think I should call her?”

“She’s white, isn’t she? As white as a Queensguard,” he appeared on the opposite side of the mare, patting her on the back. “If she was a stallion, you could have called her Barristan or Arthur or Oswell.” Or Jaime.

“Perhaps. But definitely not Loras, talk of me riding him could be easily misconstrued.” Galladon snorted. 

“Why?”

Galladon tilted his head, handing him his knapsack for the little squire to stow away in his saddlebags. “Nothing. Ready my horse.”

“Where are you going?” Arron lifted the roughspun bag up and down to feel the weight of it. “This is far too much for a morning trot up and down the High Hill, Ser.”

“I'm not going for a morning trot down the High Hill. A longer journey. Back to Storm’s End, maybe back to see my father. You'll take care of Thunder, won't you?”

“Of course I will! But shouldn’t you tell Commander Blackwood about your absence?”

“It’s an emergency.” Not a lie. His Lady had sent for him, after all, with an envoy and a travelling cart. Urgently, Tyrion had said, but he sent her man away all the same. “Send my apologies.”

The little squire nodded piously and set to make sure that his saddle bags were firmly attached. The plumage of his dented blue helm stuck out the side of one, but it would have to do. He'd left the rest of his plate in the armoury, for it was both too heavy to travel with and too awkward for his weak body to wear.  It wasn't really his anyway. His Uncle had bought it for him in order to win his favour, to make him stay. It had worked as well. Arron could have the stallion that had been gifted for the same reason. He had earned his prize money and this sand-steed himself, and that would do him nicely. It would be uncouth to run away with gifts that had been bought to secure his stay.

“What road should I take, Arron?”

“To Storm’s End?” He screwed up his face in thought, making him look like an otter as well as moving like one. “Down the High Hill, turn left down Muddy Way, leave the capital through the Mud Gate then if you trot straight to the end of the fishmarket you’ll hit the Kingsroad. Then just follow that south.”

“Sufficient directions,” Galladon smirked. “One day you’ll be as brawny as you are brilliant.” He ruffled his hair and climbed the ladder to mount the nameless mare. Pain shot up his leg as he swung it over his saddle, not unlike a seam being ripped, but he gritted his teeth. Feeling surprisingly steady, he would be fine if he did not trot too furiously. 

“Have you bid farewell to Lord Tyrion?” Arron peered up at him, unawares of his pain. “He’s been looking after you well, Ser, I have heard.” So he should, he’s my Uncle.

“Yes.” Galladon lied. He did not want to risk of hearing any more about Cersei Lannister's cunt and what she did with it. “He wished me good fortune.”

“I wish you good fortune too, Ser. And I’ll practice every day, I promise. With my left hand too. I want to be able to dual wield two longswords like you can.”

“I won’t be surprised if you can wield with both feet on my return, with enthusiasm like that.” Galladon tossed his hair, trotting out of the stable with the little squire on his hooves.

“Farewell, Ser Galladon,” Arron called after him, his voice wobbled, but he was trying his best to sound a man grown. Galladon feared his voice would break too, so he just turned and clumsily waved goodbye. It was not just sadness for leaving his little squire, but for his little life he had made here. For Tyrion, for Viserra.

Viserra. Her name was a song he'd never tire of singing. She had slept in his featherbed last night; her slender, pale arms wrapped around his shoulders and silvery eyelashes leaving kisses on his face as they fluttered awake. She was what a princess looked like even if she did not act as a princess should, as Tyrion had ungraciously pointed out that morning. It would have been very fitting for your own disguise for her to suck your cock just the once before scarpering off; you’d have been like any other watchman. That had stung much more than his leg; it pained him with every trot of his mare on the descent down Aegon’s High Hill. So what if she had known men? Tyrion had known women, lots of them, and the lads in the City Watch wandered into brothels as casually as they would go to the bakers to buy bread. Why must women be always meek maids? Did my mother ask herself the same question, when the Kingslayer stole into her furs? It felt wrong to think it. Not that his mother cared of social convention. She was probably a better warrior than me.

He had not trotted a half-hour when he came to a jewel merchants along the bend of The Hook. Wrought-iron bars caged the windows, but he could see rings and pendants and anklets of all hues sparkling on velvet pillows inside. He dismounted, with hindrance, tying his mare to the fence outside. I’ll be back. I need to buy guilt-gifts of my own.

“My lord.” The merchant bowed his head as Galladon entered, placing his monocle in the crook of his nose. Galladon had to crane his own neck due to the stubby doorframe. The merchant’s hair was black, shot through with white, like a badger. His hands were as wrinkled as crushed parchment as he fanned them to show off his wares.

“I’m no lord,” Galladon shook his head, blinded by diamonds and rubies and sapphires and emeralds. “I’m looking for something to be sent to the Red Keep.”

“Ambitious wooing for ‘no lord’. A pretty handmaiden caught your eye?” Galladon very nearly laughed. He was a lord, in truth. A great one. Highborn on both sides. The rightful heir to Casterly Rock through his father, the rightful heir to Tarth through his mother. A more-than-suitable match for a younger princess. Not that it would ever happen. If the details of his birth came to light, she'd likely be cheering on the Queen's Justice. 

“Princess Viserra.” He said after some time. 

“I should have known!” The merchant winked as saucily as a whore touting trade. You’d have been like any other watchman. He clenched his fist. “A real beauty. They once called her mother the fairest in the known world, now they say the same of her. I can offer you black diamonds, rubies, I could even fashion something in the likeness of a dragon. A one-of-a-kind piece, truly unique.”

“No, not rubies or diamonds. She wears this particular stone, I’ve forgotten the name of it. It’s like a rock. Browny-orange. I’ve seen it mined in Rainwood, in the Stormlands.”

“Amber?” said the baffled merchant, pulling out a slab of it from under his worktop. “It’s not a fitting stone for a maid of her status.” Galladon could have sworn he smirked at the word ‘maid’ but gritted his teeth. He had enough potential enemies without this irrelevant merchant being added to the list.

“That’s it. She has a necklace, on a gold chain. Could you make a ring to complement it?” The jewel merchant nodded in response, pulling out a parchment and quill from the same space that he had retrieved the amber from. He quickly sketched a ring design, yellow gold with dragons acting as the claw; holding a sphere of amber. “Perfect.” He handed over the necessary coin, including enough for two sapphire pendants for his sisters and a diamond hairnet for the Lady Buckler. He turned to leave but stopped himself. He'd forgotten something.

“Something else?” Called the jeweller, who was occupied with counting his coin. Galladon nodded.

“I’d like something sent to Princess Rhaenyra, as well.” He hoped Viserra wouldn’t find it peculiar, but felt almost responsible for the rumours of her witchery for falling off the horse.

“Princess Rhaenyra?” The jeweller implored, aghast. “She’s now in Dragonstone, have you not heard?”

“I know, I know. I have the coin to pay if you have someone you can send there.” He waved his fat purse.

“Of course I have someone to send there! If properly compensated, I could work through the night and send my lad on the first boat tomorrow.” After negotiating a price, he set to drafting a pendant; white gold on a dainty chain, a dragon with moonstones for eyes and jagged diamonds down its spine.

“No, not a dragon. A harly? Is that it? The Goddess of Ghis?” He could recall the teated, winged creature with the head of a beautiful woman from his schooling. He had begun to learn of the religions and cultures of the known world when he was about ten and two, despite his pleas. "Father, stick a sword in my hand and let me learn in the yard with the other bastard boys. This learning is wasted on me!" but his 'father' wouldn't relent. So he learned of the Many Faced God, the moonsingers of the Jogos Nhai, the Trios in Tyrosh and the Red God too. Their names were strange. They was usually too difficult for Galladon to read off the page and recite them himself, seeing as had struggled to decipher the word 'sword' on his better days.

“Do you mean the harpy?” The jeweller raised his eyebrows, clicking his tongue. 

“Yeah, one of those, those are her gods.”

“She’d do well to forget them and embrace the Seven.”

“They are her father’s gods. Why shouldn’t she embrace him?” If only you could speak the same of your own sire. “King Hizdahr and his harpy were good enough for the Queen." The jeweller held his stare, then shrugged his shoulders theatrically.

“Your coin, my non-lord. Although, I haven’t met any non-lord who has spent as much as you have in less than an hour. Who should I say these pieces are from?” 

“The Wounded Knight,” he said sourly, pouring the agreed coin onto the marble worktop.

Galladon left, his purse lighter, but still sought comfort in the gold rubbing against his toes and clanking about in his cloak. He rubbed his mare’s nose, making her neigh. Viserra was right, she was beautiful. She deserved a pretty name, but he couldn’t think of one right now. His thoughts wandered back to Viserra, as they did so often. She may be creeping up the stairs to tend to him, once she knew Tyrion had gone. She’d wonder where he was, why he didn’t say goodbye. She’d have convinced me to stay. Tyrion was right, no matter how much he had argued with him, he couldn’t be with her. She was a dragon and he was a lion, a secret one at that, who couldn’t risk the Queen taking a special interest in him. He'd already made a right bloody spectacle of himself at the tourney.

After checking to see if the fence he had tied his mare to could bear his weight, he scaled it so he could easier climb onto the beast's back. He had been trying not to think about his leg as he hobbled around the jewel merchants, finding that the more thought he gave it, the more pain it caused him. He couldn’t deny it was throbbing now as he shuffled around, trying to find comfort in the saddle as his feet found the stirrups.

“Have you seen a knight of ten and six, six-and-a-half feet tall, golden hair, travelling on a white horse? Would have had the twang of the Stormlands in his voice to talk to. What was he wearing, boy?” Boomed a voice, that seemed to bounce off the inside of a helm. A smaller cry followed it.

“I-I-I can’t remember. A tunic, brown, I-I-I…”

Galladon’s head turned. Outside The Inn of the Mad Queen, two Gold Cloaks held a smaller boy up by his arms. A skinny boy, with bony brown limbs and hair as black as night. Arron.

“You, you, you?” The taller one taunted. Galladon could not tell who it was. “You helped him escape, that’s who.” He turned to the inkeep he was interrogating.

“Apologies for this mewling little cunt,” he spat on the ground. “Have you seen anyone by that description?” Thankful for his cloak, Galladon pulled it over his head, covering his curls. They were after him. It had to be him. He didn’t know of anyone else with that description. There was definitely no one else that they could accuse Arron of helping escape. 'Escape' was a loaded term as well. What had he done to escape from?

Had Tyrion reported him to the Gold Cloaks for theft? All he had taken was some bread and hard cheese. Everything else was a gift, or his winnings, with he was owed anyway. Perhaps it was a ploy to keep him in King's Landing? He'd have no part in it. He'd done nothing wrong. His place was with his Lady. She was back in Storm's End and that was where he was going. He’d get to the Muddy Way if he followed the Hook around the bend. Then he’d need to leave through the Mud Gate, trot to the far end of the fishmarket and he could then follow the Kingsroad. As fast as his mare could carry him. A lump was in his throat as big as a boulder. Why did they want him, though? What had he done? Had Commander Blackwood discovered he was gone and sent the City Watch after him, for deserting? He knew the Starks used to lop the head off any man who fled the Night's Watch.

He had no more time to ponder, as the Gold Cloaks began to pace closer, dragging poor Arron Uller behind them. A true knight would stop them treating an innocent boy like this. My mother would have intervened. He pulled his cloak over his head and trotted at them, hoping his head was adequately shadowed.

“Leave the boy alone, lads, he's the nephew of Lord Harwen of Hellholt.” He said gruffly, as his horse coursed by. “You’re bringing the City Watch into disrepute.”

“Bringing the City Watch into disrepute! Has he ever met a watchman before? Who is this prick?” Cackled the shorter one after him, clutching his cudgel. A weighty one, he was, a cured sausage would have suited his hammy fists better. "How the fuck does he know who this greasy Dornish cunt is?"

“You, you in the hooded cloak!” Called the other, the one who had been taunting Arron. “Show yourself!”

Galladon pretended not to hear and trotted on, digging his spurs into his mare to pick up her pace.

“Is your cloak caught in your ears, or what?”

Galladon turned his head around, for one last glimpse at Arron. From a distance, he could see that they had left him, the innkeep’s wife comforting outside the inn, besides the pails of water where the horses drank. In leaving Arron, they had freed themselves to pursue Galladon, calling out to passers-by to stop him. He ignored the jeers of the crowd and the men following him to sail through the crowd, his mare and his stature making him taller than them all. Pretend not to hear, plead ignorance. He dug his heels in more, spurring his mare on. I need to get back to the foot of the High Hill. The main roads would be busier, and he’ll find himself easier lost.

He galloped along the length of the Hook, confident he'd left them in the dust. The sellers and merchants were out in full force that day. Those who were not fortunate enough to have their own shop like the jeweller were out selling their wares on rickety tables. With the sellers came their customers; a sea of men, women and children swam under his hooves. Feeling safer, he yanked down his hood; releasing his hair from its leather binding and letting it tumble around his shoulders. It was desperately hot; a dry and burning heat that seemed to suffocate you. He spluttered as he caught his breath, kneading on his collarbone to relieve him of the pain.

“Have you seen a knight of ten and six, six-and-a-half feet tall, golden hair, travelling on a white horse?” implored a voice, but it wasn’t one of the Gold Cloaks from before. Two others were to his right, questioning a wine seller.

"I have now," the wine merchant cackled, pointing. "Behind you!" 

Their eyes met. "That's him alright, Ser Galladon Lannister, the Kingslayer's son!" one called. He did not have time to determine which. They know. I don't know how they know, but they do. Faster. He’d need to go fast. I need to get back to the foot of the High Hill. I can follow the wider roads, to any gate. He daren't turn back to look, but he could hear his two original pursuers call over to the second pair. Now four were on his tail. Four, and a rapidly interested crowd. “You can carry me off with you, Ser! No man is too bad for me, oh no!” called a whore with a grubby face, and pinkish nipples spilling out of her bodice. Faster. I need to get back. Back to the High Hill. The High Hill. Wider roads. The gate. Any gate. His breath was hot and heavy, the rise and fall of his trot may as well been a constant hammer to his groin.

Five figures appeared on the horizon. Gold plate, gold mail, gold cloaks. He turned his horse around, searching for another way. They’ll take me to the Queen. She’ll have my head. My lord father and lady mother died to keep me safe. I can’t betray them so, I can’t. They were closing in now, calling towards each other. “That’s him! That’s him there!” “Have you ever seen a fucker so massive?” “Fence him in, spear the horse if you need to!” Galladon saw an alleyway, in the middle of two butchers, to his left. That was it. It would have been folly to run through them, towards the barracks, gods know if there was another wave of them coming. Another wave he could neither run through nor outrun. He broke his mare into a gallop once more, knocking over a diminutive man clutching a leg of lamb as big as he was.

People were sent scattering as the white sand-steed skated through the narrow street. He willed his mount to go faster, hoping she would be his eyes as he couldn’t help himself from casting glances backwards to see if he was still in pursuit. The City Watch were on foot, he was on horseback. He’d have a natural advantage but he couldn’t be too sure. When his eyes weren’t flickering backwards at the trail of destruction he left in his wake, he was tugging the reins. Left, right, left, right; varying his turnings in a bid to throw them off, hoping the broken pots and shattered stalls wouldn’t be too telltale of his route.

Looking up, he could see that he was in the shadow of Visenya’s Hill, the Sept of Daenerys towering above. He’d come far. Assuming they hadn’t sent the calvary unit towards him, he had a good chance of making his way out of the capital unhindered. What gates were closest? The King’s Gate, or the Lion Gate. Whatever he’d chance on first is the one he would take. He had to get there first. He could feel a wetness on his leg, and for a split-second, he thought he had pissed himself in fear. He was near-relieved to see blood in its place, the toing and froing in the saddle, rupturing his stitches. Ignore it, what good is a leg if you don’t have a head? And if he started to think of his leg, he’d then think of the pain rippling over his shoulder from his cracked collarbone and his fingers…

My fingers. He slowed to a trot, shaking out his bandaged hand. His dressings had been scoured into ribbons from where he had tried to anchor his reins in the groove of his thumb. The streets were so still, so empty; the only noise came from his own ragged breath and the hooves of his mare. Who told? Who could have possibly told? He was so very nearly there now, the great arch of a city gate just visible above the flat-roofed houses. He pressed on, he had to get closer. I can’t be caught. I can’t. They died. They died so I could live. Angry tears were filling his eyes, weighing down his eyelashes with dampness, but he would not let them spill over. He had to be brave. He kept moving despite his body wanting nothing more than to rest. Anywhere. The nightsoil-filled gutter even looked appealing.

“Ser Galladon?” A figure stepped out of the shadows, a golden figure with a familiar voice. Galladon halted his horse and looked up to see Ser Emyl Redwyne at the end of the alley; the Lion Gate framing him in the background as if he was the centre of a portrait. His friend. The wind whistled down the stone corridors, making his golden cloak rustle. His stance was strong, his face stoic. The golden cloth raining off his shoulders may have been flappable, but he was not.

“Is it true?” Ser Emyl shouted down to him, gripping his spear. “What they’re saying, why we’re looking for you.”

“Depends on what they are saying.” Called Galladon, batting his tears away. His voice bounced back and forth between the buildings either side of them, making him realise how jarringly narrow the were.

“They’re saying that you’re the son of Jaime the Kingslayer. That you were brought here to get close to the Queen, to impress her and be raised to the Queensguard. So you could do as your sire did to hers. Is it true?”

Galladon drew his sword with his left hand, the red and smoke swirls of his blade glinting. He peeled away the leather bindings he had fashioned to expose the lion pommel. It roared in his palm, eyes glinting like frozen fire. He looked at it, then to Ser Emyl, then back at the blade.

“Well?” Pleaded Ser Emyl. Galladon’s eyes darted upwards. That's it. I've nothing to lose.

“It’s Ser Jaime. And I’ve no intention of being Ser Galladon the Queenslayer.”

Ser Emyl scoffed. “So you do not deny it?”

“It would be folly to deny what everyone seems to know.” Everyone does know. And now she will have your head. He gripped his sword. Ser Emyl eyed it, from pommel to point, uneasily.

“There’s nowhere to run now, Ser Galladon." His voice was brave. "One blow of this horn and the rest of the Gold Cloaks will be here. We’ve covered all of the roads leading outwards from behind Visenya’s Hill. Yield. You’re not strong enough to fight and I have too much honour to fight a wounded man.” He gestured to a golden horn around his neck. Galladon had worn a similar instrument the other week.

Was he bluffing? He appeared to be on his own. “I'd be strong enough to fight you with every appendage broken and bandaged, Ser Emyl." Galladon hooted. "Let me pass! I know that you don't care about the City fucking Watch. Your father sent you here as a ward, to make a grown man of you ten years too late. You told me plainly yourself. Let me go, and you'll be free to go back to the Arbor singing songs of your own bravery and wed the faires-”

“That does not mean I am craven," Ser Emyl glared. "Nor does it mean that dishonour runs as plainly through my veins as it does yours.” Dishonour. He may as well have grabbed a dagger, stabbed him in the belly and twisted. “Yield.” Ser Emyl said plainly, clutching both spear and cudgel now.

Galladon pretended to ponder the thought. “No,” he said blankly. His heart pounded as his eyes scanned for a way out. He could only turn back. Back meant further away from the gate. Back meant he'd likely ran into those who had given him the chase. He clutched Oathkeeper's hilt, so tight that pain managed to sear through his calluses. Using what little movement he had in his crushed hand, he clutched the reins; screaming silently as every joint in his shattered fingers cringed. Ser Emyl shook his head pitifully and shrugged, making his gold plate rise and fall clumsily on his shoulders.

“If that is the choice you make, Ser.” A smirk danced across his face, the corners of his smile near-reaching his receding hairline.

He raised the horn to his lips, but it never had a chance to meet them. Galladon charged, thinking of the family he knew and the family he didn't have the chance to know; the red sword alive in his grip. Seconds later, Ser Emyl's regulation horn, grandly encrusted with gold leaf, rolled on the cobbles aside his limp body. Alongside that regulation horn and Ser Emyl's limp body, rolled the Arbor knight's severed head. His half-open eyes were glassy and accusatory and his half-open mouth whispered kingslayer. Galladon heaved at the mess he had made on the cobbled streets but managed to swallow most of his vomit. Faint rivers of bile trickled down the corners of his mouth, where his smile usually was.

I am a knight, a man grown and this man on the floor would have seen me dead, he told himself, but it did not make his heart any lighter. Ser Emyl had been the one to show him to his quarters. They had drank and danced together, Ser Emyl even attempting to drag him into various brothels along the Street of Silk. He’d even taught him to hold a tourney joust properly. That was before he knew who you were. He’d have dragged you before the Queen, and offered to swing the sword himself if it pleased her. The vomit rose once more as Galladon noticed Ser Emyl’s spasming hand, still gripping his cudgel but he forced it down again.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, circling his horse around, carefully as to not defile the body of Ser Emyl Redwyne anymore. "You'd have delivered me to the Queen, but I'm still sorry."

His whispers were drowned out by the sound of another horn. Only a street or so away, if his hearing served him well. He did not have the luxury of choice. He sheathed Oathkeeper, hoping the blood-soaked blade would not slow down his next withdrawal and bolted through the Lion Gate; finally letting his angry tears fall from his eyes.

Chapter Text

 “Are you quite alright, sweetling?” Devan nuzzled into her shoulder, kissing both the skin that was white and the skin that was grey.

“I’m fine,” her words were barely audible over the whispers of the winds outside, rattling the window pane. A lie. She was not fine. Shireen closed her eyes, in a fruitless bid to steal a half-hour’s more sleep. It was no use. Her sleeping furs were too stifling, her mind too restless. Devan’s breath, warm and sweet from last night’s cider, breezed over her face whilst his fingers danced in the curve of her back. He’d taken her maidenhead and had stolen into her bed most nights since she was ten and six. There was no point in lying to him. Devan always knew when she told a lie.

“Is it Edric? Should I take my leave?”

Shireen sighed audibly and turned to the man-who-was-not-her-lord-husband, clasping his hand and placing it on her scars. And thank the Seven you’re not. Her husband, Edric, had always been sweet with her, but he was a haughty creature; somewhat churlish to her servants and smallfolk, with ideas above his station. She shook her head.

“What is the hour? If he-”

“I don’t care if he comes to my chambers,” she gripped his hand tighter, pressing it hard into her neck so his gentle touch could seep through the dead skin. “What is he going to do, divorce me?”

“He could,” mused Devan. “You tell near-everyone you meet, he’s a threat to your own claim. I thought that was why you wanted to keep him close, why you wouldn’t wed me instead.”

“You weren’t talking of the threat that mine and my lord husband's severance would pose when you came to me last night.” She laughed lustily but was not in the mood for levities. “He couldn’t if he wanted to. Not even if he knew all of my children could be yours. Not even if he brought a whole company of mummers to Daenerys’ Sept to perform a play on why I’m the most treacherous whore in the Seven Kingdoms.” Devan brought his own hand over hers and smirked. He understood her completely.

The Silver Queen had got through more High Septons than the crannogmen did frogs. It was a matter of time before she chose someone who was already tied to another. To her. Shireen would have loved to have celebrated her aptitude for intrigue, but she had to admit that the Queen's choice of counsellor was purely down to the gods themselves. The new High Septon’s birth name was Allard, known by Shireen as Septon Allard. She’d brought him to Dragonstone to proselytise, cleansing her home of her father’s red god, but he never ended up returning the mainland. He was simple but jovial for a holy man and as loyal to his lady as he was to the Seven. Now he was on the small council with a crystal crown atop his head, still sending his old Lady of Dragonstone whispers of interest. If he was willing to do that, she was certain Edric’s severance petition would be thrown out before the seven septons could consider it. It was enough to make her forget her concerns, the thought of absent-minded, ruddy-faced Allard sat across from the Mad Queen, advising her on matters of state. What a tragedy it was to be so paranoid, but to look for your shadows in the wrong places. Devan saw her smirk, his own eyes wide. “What?”

Her thoughts went to her children, her beautiful children. She’d build her kingdom strong for them to reign when she had the allies and the power she needed. The seed is strong. That was what Jon Arryn had said when he tried to alert the realm of Cersei Lannister’s bastards, or so the singers said. The Baratheon seed was strong. She and Edric looked so very much alike. Handsome in his youth. She was happy to marry him when he returned from across the Narrow Sea, his eyes sapphires against his skin, nut-brown from the Essosi sun. He was stockier, taller, healthier looking than her, but the coal-black hair and the ears of their mothers made them appear eerily similar. Her little Stannis was without a doubt Edric’s, but Orys had the flat, brown eyes of the Seaworths. Thankfully both their mothers were dark of eye, so it was never questioned, but Shireen knew it in her heart. She thought of little Argella, unsure. Blue were her eyes when they were born, but in certain lights, they were beginning to turn. Not that she cared. They were definitely hers, and only her bloodline mattered.

“You’re still wroth,” he murmured, running his hand from her back until his fingers, calloused from cordage, were raking through her hair.

“Of course I’m still wroth.” She admitted, her eyelids heavy. It irked her that he reminded her of it. Her plan foiled by a fussing uncle and literate turnip-picker.

“I’ll have that cart-boy lashed for you.”

She jolted awake. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. The fault is not with him. Lord Tyrion was obligated to send Galladon back to me, and he didn’t. He spoke nothing of a tourney injury to me that would have prevented him from travelling, otherwise, I would not have made the choice that I did. Although,” she paused, pulling the covers up to her collarbone, “...you could have my useless soldiers whipped. They got rid of him quickly when the plot was deemed off, I’ll give them that, but how in the hells did they manage to pick up a peasant boy who knows his letters?” Allard had told her how they had found an ill-written scroll on her turnip boy, who the men had garbed and scrubbed up as if he was a painted whore. On the scroll was the message that that the boy had been silenced for; the song of the little lion that Shireen had written herself, in a bid to get Daenerys to lash out like the angry snake she was.

Galladon wasn’t supposed to be there, she scratched the inside of her palm with her long fingernails. It was the Imp who’d ruined everything. He was compelled to send Galladon back to her, but he didn’t. Her men in Haystack Hall had gone after the turnip-boy when Galladon had failed to return. If only the Imp had sent him back when she demanded. He’d have ended up in the Black Cells and Galladon would have been at the bow of her ships, the banners of the Stormlands behind them as they went to claim Casterly Rock. With the forces of East and West combined, they’d be unstoppable at sea and a force to be reckoned with on land...

The message had made the Queen lash out indeed. Shireen had heard that she was so wroth that she was frothing at the mouth. Her Hand had ended up in the Black Cells, as expected, but the boy with the claim and the famous name was missing. She couldn’t wage her war without him. I must find him. Before the Queen does. Do not tell me I have unveiled him to the realm for nothing...

“I’d more than whip them, Shir. Galladon’s likely dead because of them.”

Dead? The thought made her queasy, but she knew it couldn’t be. “No, he was seen leaving King’s Landing on horseback, any injuries he had wouldn’t have killed him.”

“Riding West, you said?”

“Assuming he stayed on the Goldroad,” she sighed. “He’s too good to return here. He’d fear putting me or his father in danger.” You’ve put him in danger, though, a voice said. A necessary evil, she told herself. For the good of her people, and for a life for him beyond marrying a lesser lord’s seventh daughter, controlling a square league of land and flock of sheep on Tarth. “We’ll wait until he’s resurfaced. It shan't be long.”

“I trust you, my lady. I’ll serve you as well as my father did yours.”

In every way. Shireen didn’t call for her handmaidens for Devan would help her dress for the day. She did not fear being interrupted. Edric hadn’t come into her chamber since before Argella was born, and he wouldn’t again until the maester told them it was safe to make a new child. As it was the day of the Grand Hunt, which she held every quarter, there was no gown for him to lace her into today. Despite her head of worries, she couldn’t help but laugh as Devan raised her black woollen breeches up her legs, his rough hands grazing her thigh. He then helped her shrug into an undershirt and a jerkin of yellow and gold, the stags of her house emblazoned on each breast. He even set to combing through her hair, weaving it into two braids like it was the rope aboard his ship. “Fair as ever,” he kissed her on the top of the head, peering to join her in the silver looking glass.

Her lord husband was waiting for her in the feasting hall. Lord Edric sat tall in the Lady’s seat, looking comely in black and gold. His midnight hair, nearly blue, tumbled about his shoulders. She’d lusted after him, of course, but had already given away her heart when she was a maid. Had he ever loved her? Perhaps. Perhaps only due to the legitimacy that their union had lent to him.

“Where are the babes?” Shireen climbed the stairs, offering her cheek for him to kiss. There was no warmth in his lips, however soft and full they were.

“Stannis is in the yard, Orys and Argella are being readied by their septa.”

“Good, and the cavern?”

“I had them light it in the early hours, alongside checking the murderholes for errant boulders. You wouldn’t want to greet your bannermen with a sinking rowboat.”

“You tell it true, I wouldn’t.” It was the same entrance into the castle that the Onion Knight had taken all those years ago, his foodstuff saving her father and his soldiers, allowing them to hold Storm’s End from the Tyrells. Now it served stormlords instead of smugglers. Visitors from Tarth and Greenmont entered using rowboats, for there was no safe anchorage so close to the bay without a long walk upwards from the stone steps. “You’ve done a marvellous job, husband, overseeing all this,” she admitted. Her banners had been strung high, sheets of woven goldencups draped over the chairs. The petals lit her hand yellow as she hovered it over the flowers, it still brought her as much joy as it had when she was a girl. She’d have to show her boys later.

“My liege,” called a voice behind her. She turned to see Lord Selwyn, the great height of his youth now hunched with age. His eyes were cold and cloudy, and he looked a great deal older than when she had last seen him, although it was mere moons ago. Lord Selwyn looked desperately feeble cast in front of his men; strapping things with ruddy faces. “I fear I’m early, Lady Shireen.“ Always courteous, he bowed to her like she was the Queen that her father wanted her to be. No wonder his Lannister cub had grown up so humble, with such impeccable graces.

“I’m delighted you’re here so early, I can enjoy your company for longer, my lord. I’m sure you’ll be able to put my lord husband to shame in the woods later, I have my eye on a new pelt.”

“A stag, my lady?” The Evenstar asked meekly, resting his hand on his hilt.

“I feel a little doe myself. It would feel so incredibly evil to wear a pelt of stag.”

“Duly noted, my lady, I hope shall fox suffice?”

“Fox would be divine,” she studied his eyes. Worried eyes. He wants words with me, words beyond pleasantries and pelts.

“If you are not too busy, my lady, I have words that I need to have with you. Alone.” But of course. She could see the apple of his throat bobbing in the wrinkled folds of his neck. “Now, if it please you.” Galladon.

“Of course, my lord. I would not task you with climbing the many steps to my solar. Will you walk with me?” He obliged so she took him by the arm and escorted him out of the Hall; leaving her lord husband to liase with her servants and his men to fend for themselves.

Sunlight warmed what was exposed of their skin as they passed from the mouth of the main tower and into the yard. “I know what you wish to talk to me about,” she said forlornly, as her boots squelched into the mud of the courtyard. A summer storm had doused Storm’s End yesterday, and she was pleased to not be in silks. “Your Galladon,” she asked tentatively, wondering what he knew. If he knew anything. “Has he not yet returned home?”

“Two moons he’s been gone now, two,” the words tumbled out, his jitters making him seem both his age and a green boy. “He has never gone north of Bronzegate. No word from him either. I only know he came here before he went to King’s Landing.”

“Lord Selwyn, before we proceed with these words you’ve been wanting, I need to tell you that I know," her voice crept into a whisper. "I know everything. Ser Galladon told me why he left. In case you are wondering why Ser Davos called so late, advising you to claim Lord Tyrion as your friend-”

The Evenstar jolted. “I don’t know what you are referring to," his voice cracked. The milky blue of his eyes wandered into the stable next to them, trying to avert her gaze. "Your Onion Knight, he gave me a letter, told me to memorise and burn it. A charming tale of how me and the Imp became dearest friends. Bizarre. Why he would give that to me, I do not kn-"

“Lord Selwyn, I’ll forgive you for trying to mislead me,” Shireen stopped in her tracks and clutched his arm, narrowing her eyes. “I know all. I know of the Kingslayer and your late daughter, how it wasn’t just that sword that he gave her.”

The man’s face went whiter than she knew possible. “My Lady,” he stuttered, looking towards the floor. “If I’ve brought you dishonour by harbouring him, I sincerely apologise, but...he’s my girl’s boy. My girl's boy. He’s always been her's, never the Kingslayer's, and he’s all I have left of her. I wasn't going to tell him, I wasn't going to tell anyone, but...” His eyes were cloudy with both tears and cataracts. She squeezed his arm, bony under his quilted jacket.

“You’ve brought me no dishonour at all, Lord Selwyn. You wished to keep him safe, and that is understandable. That is what his dear nuncle and I have tried to do. I wished to tell you of our plans myself, but I have been so frail. Hence the lengthy tome of yours and Tyrion's friendship that I had delivered by Ser Davos. The Imp has told the queen that he knows you, and knows him as your bastard, to help to keep him safe. He came to see me, to tell me, just so we were reciting off the same page of the Seven-Pointed Star."

“My Galladon, my boy. How is he, is he well?” Now is a time for half-truths, Shireen. No sense in worrying the old man until he surfaces again. She forced a smile and batted her eyelashes.

“Thank the gods. And he is well? He has his health?”

Shireen bit her lip, hoping it made her look coltish instead of untrustworthy. “I understand he was a bit bashed up in a tourney, the fool thought he’d joust! I’d have thought him crashing into the stands and landing on the Lady Bolling on my nameday would have sworn him off it! Alas, nothing a good Maester can’t fix. And they have the best in the capital, nothing like Maester bloody Karl. He's stitched me up like a badly-bound joint of gammon.”

“Bastard-brave, he is,” he turned to clutch her hands. His were slender, spotted with ridged and jagged fingernails. Hers were plump and pretty, with nails like sugared almonds. “Your words have soothed me so, my lady, but I wish to have him home. He’ll be wanting a wife soon, and a small holdfast with his own people.” I’ll give him more than a small holdfast, thought Shireen, I’ll give him one of the Seven Kingdoms. When I find him.

“Of course,” she said warmly. “As soon as I have word, I’ll seek you. Now, Lord Selwyn, I beg your pardons, but I must be present when the rest of my men arrive. We can talk more of this later.” The Evenstar nodded graciously, allowing himself to be escorted by two of her dishevelled servants that she beckoned over from the kitchen doors.

The last of her island lords was Lord Aemon Estermont of Greenmont, who’d been escorted upwards from the watery cavern by a handful of servants wielding torches. Over the bridge came the parties of Lord Elwood Meadows of Grassy Vale, Lord Ralph Buckler of Bronzegate and Lord Hugh Grandison of Grandview; a blank yellow crest on their shields where their Lord was forced to remove the lion. On a pretty dappled mare trotted Lord Marlon Cafferen of Fawnton, and a gaggle of his household squires, followed shortly behind by the godsawful Red Ronnet Connington; given his lusted-after lordship after bringing his own uncle’s head to the Queen. A turncloak if there ever was one, originally promising that grizzly trophy to the boy-king before him. Not someone she would choose as a bannerman, but Daenerys made that decision for her when she was just a girl. She’d brought her household to his last tourney a few moons past solely with the purpose of watching Galladon smash his helm in with his morningstar. He was so dented come the end that the smith at Griffin’s Roost needed to ply him out of it. He’d not forgotten either. “My liege, how odd to see you alone. Where’s that great, golden hound of yours?”

“Ser Galladon? I see him as more of a lion.” She extended her hand for him to kiss, his copper stubble scratching her. “He’s not currently in my service, so you have nothing to fear, Lord Ronnet.”

“I can’t believe that lumbering oaf would ever leave your side,” his eyes wandered in a way that would have a blushing maid feel uncomfortable.

“Lumbering oaf?” She choked. “Is that jealousy speaking, my lord? You’d be hard-pressed to find a woman, highborn maid or tavern wench, around these parts who’d describe him as such.”

“Do you see me wear a gown?"

“No, but I’d like to,” she smirked, directing a stable lad to tend to the piebald beast he rode. Odious fellow. He can’t bear to look at my scars, but ogles my teats. “Come. You are the last. We’ll break fast before readying the horses to depart.”

In the Great Hall, they dined on mustard seed sausage and bacon; fried eggs and mushrooms roasted with garlic and charcoal bread toasted even blacker on the fire. All whilst sipping on the weakest ale she could find from the cellars. Her stormlords were older, less robust, and she wished everyone to stay upright on their mounts as they combed the far edges of the Rainwood. Without sounding morbid, she was eagerly awaiting the day when their sons and daughters would succeed them. Experience counted for something, but her bannermen were a stubborn lot, old men living in their old world. That was why she surrounded herself with youth, and there was that in abundance. A pretty maid from the fiefs sang merry songs whilst her younger brothers rang bells and hammered on drums behind her. Always invited, bountiful squires came with their lords and were free to sit amongst them. Her own boys were there too, diminutive compared to the household knights besides them, as they begged to see their swords. Everyone was here, old and young, except one.

Devan. Sweet Devan. As soon as she wished for him, he was there; as he always was when she needed him. One of the remaining sons of Seaworth approached the dais, dressed finely in a doublet of silver grey, white breeches and graphite high boots. He bowed before climbing the stairs to coil around her shoulder like a serpent.“News from the capital, my lady,” he whispered. He smelled of the sea, sending chills up her spine and wings fluttering in her stomach. This is who I should have wed.

“Galladon?” She implored, her voice as hushed as his. She looked over to Lord Selwyn, sat beside Lord Estermont, still a broken man despite her words of reassurance earlier and the merriment occurring around him.

“No,” Devan cracked his knuckles. “Still no word of him. Come. Father, you as well,” he called to Ser Davos, sat at the far end of the Lord’s table.

“Edric, sweetling, please continue being a gallant host in my stead,” she reached down to place a kiss on his forehead, akin to how she kissed her children rather than how she kissed Devan. A huff passed from his lips as she turned away, but she did not care. She could not bear it when men grown acted like babes.

They escorted her to her solar, Maester Karl sat atop the table, next to the stained glass window. Sunlight danced a rainbow on the pages of a book directly in front of him, a book that she knew well. The Second Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children by Maester Armen. She'd been a daughter in the last edition, a mother in the current. “No Lord Edric, still?” Her own maester implored. "When will you make him awares, my lady?"

“One might question if all maesters were so keen for the high lords of Westeros to share their business with their lady wives. Somehow, I believe it only works that way if the liege is a liege lady and the man is left to smile for guests,” Shireen derided, having a good mind to send him back where he came from. She could not place exactly when he stopped being hers and became Edric’s. She’d speak to Ser Davos about him later. Taking a seat at the head of her table, she poured herself a glass of wine. Her Onion Knight sat beside her, but his son stayed upright, a delicious grin painted across his face.

“Maester, would you like to have the honour?”

Her disagreeable maester pulled a paper from his sleeve and read aloud. “Queen Daenerys seeks to join House Arryn and Targaryen. She is attempting to broker a marriage between her youngest daughter, the Princess Viserra and Lord Robert’s heir, Artys Arryn.” Maester Karl rolled the parchment back into place and handed it to her. Shireen let her eyes skim over the page.

“She’s scared, Shir. She’s trying to secure another army.” Devan thumped the table in triumph.

“Really?” She snorted. “I wouldn’t have thought this had anything to do with the Knights of the Vale..."

“Oh, of course not. She’d happily marry her spawn to the House that threw her father off the throne with nothing in return!” Devan rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm like honey.

“You both jest?” Ser Davos pounded his first, louder than his son had managed. “This is bad, bad news. If she succeeds, and she drags the Vale into the fold, your plan is dead in the water, Princess. Everything hinges on the realm seeing her as unstable. Them distancing themselves from her.” She won’t. She had heard stories of the famed beauty, Viserra. No wonder her and the Crown Princess had a supposedly tempestuous relationship. She was pleased her own fanatic mother’s womb hadn’t quickened, she would not suffer any competition for the affections of her kingdom. What of Viserra’s personal affections? Her spies had told her there was a large field for those, but everyone was raised up as champion in that particular tourney. 

“She won’t be able to drag the Vale into this,” Shireen said firmly. “The Princess Viserra guards her virtue as well as a dockside whore. He won’t marry his heir to a girl as broken in as she, no matter her title. If we’re lucky, he’ll take it as a personal slight that she was even offered to him.”

“The Queen will hardly admit it. She’ll blame her lack of maidenhead on horse-riding,” the Onion Knight blushed, flapping his stubby hand.

“Dragon-riding,” Shireen corrected. “I think we can stop this union." She turned to her lover. "Devan, how many trade ships do we have available at present?”

“Just the one, I’m afraid to say. Storm Queen is back in Tyrosh, collecting your wares and Godsgrief has a broken sail. Little Doe could set sail within the half-hour, if needs be.”

“I only need one. Devan,” she turned to him, wanting to clutch his hand and cover it in kisses. “You’ll captain Little Doe to Gulltown, with the lustiest, comeliest men you can pick out of my ranks. Purchase fine wine and cheeses for their glorious Lord Paramount and then march on the Eyrie, as quick as you can. Lord Robert will receive you, I'm sure of it. After some drinking and feasting and general debauchery, I want those men of mine to say they have had the little princess every way a woman can be taken.”

“With all due respect, princess,” interjected Ser Davos. “I would be wary of my son starting foul rumours with the stag banner flying over his head. The Queen would not take kindly to these whispers, you may find yourself waging this war before Ser Galladon is even found.”

“It won’t be us she’s wroth with,” she couldn’t help her voice from sounding smug. “She’s not only trying to make this match to gain the forces of the Vale. The Princess is being forced into this union for her mother is sick of the endless queue of hedge knights and lesser lordlings outside her daughter’s door.” Galladon had been one of them, apparently. Shireen had heard that Septon Allard had been praying to the Maiden on Viserra's behalf.

“So, the Queen would assume there is a degree of truth in these whispers?” Maester Karl raised his eyebrows in interest, tapping his long, bony fingers against the table.

“Most definitely,” she looked at Davos expectantly. “Well?”

Ser Davos shrugged. "I can't see Lord Robert being pleased with her being offered if that is the case," he admitted.

“I’ll do it,” Devan announced, without missing a beat. “I’ll set off without haste.”

“Hold on, son." Davos turned to Shireen. "You’re my liege lady and we’ll all do as you bid, my princess,” he said all the right things but his face grew surly and solemn, “…but slandering this girl, this girl who has done nothing to you, it does not sit right with me.”

“I’m not sending Ser Devan there solely to slander her name. Lord Robert has a daughter, doesn’t he?” Shireen had seen the girl when she must have been about ten, on a visit to the Eyrie. A pretty thing, but awfully slight, with a cloud of flame-coloured hair.

“Yes,” said Maester Karl, as he mused through hums as scanned down the page in his tome. “Lady Aemma. Artys’ twin, born moments later. She’d be Lady of the Eyrie if he wasn’t heaved out first.”

“Gods bless the change in succession law. The only civilised accomplishment of our Silver Queen. However, her second-born status makes her rather useful. In these moderns times where a woman is a lawful heir, that’s a daughter you can’t marry off, but if she’s second or third or fourth..."

“Useful?" Ser Davos jumped in. "She’s too old for a betrothal to your Stannis, or Orys, for that matter.” Her Onion Knight never feared to talk to her gruffly, and Shireen was thankful for it.

“You misunderstand, Ser Davos. I’m not talking of my sons. Somewhere after telling tales of Princess Viserra’s vigorous coupling, Ser Devan is going to tell the Lord of the Eyrie all about the gallant little lion who'll be in desperate need of a little wife when he assumes his ancestral seat. A daughter as Lady of Casterly Rock is preferable to his heir marrying a second-born, spoiled, bastard princess.” She necked her wine, unable to stop herself from smiling as she swished the dregs of her Dornish Red around the crystal chalice. I’ll give him a kingdom and a highborn maid. My great, golden hound will be forever indebted to me.

 She was back. Her plan would serve her again, but she’d have to find him, and she would. This is where she had surpassed her father. He saw his power in numbers, in tactics. Her whispers would be her loaded trebuchets, wreaking havoc on what they came heaving down on. Her golden boy, once they found him, of course, would be the figurehead of her ship. His claim, her battering ram, smashing down the Seven Kingdoms as everyone knew them. Their Silver Queen would no longer be able to act in her own interests. East and West would hold her to account. They’d snatch the Crown’s Treasury from her, all 2000 feet of Casterly Rock. Daenerys' Crownlands vassals wouldn’t stand with her when she’d be forced to increase their levies. The thought of it all falling into place gave her that whirling, heady feeling that came with quaffing a horn of strong, dark ale. Shireen couldn’t wait to see that Silver Queen in the burning fields again; now she was a woman grown, and now she would not kneel.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her heavy oaken doors swinging open with such force that she could hear the stone crunch behind them. “Lady Shireen, my lady, I-I…” A little yellow-garbed squire whose name she did not know retched with exertion; his face was red, his breath ragged. “Tarth, it’s Tarth!” He spluttered once again.

“What of it, boy?” Davos asked, rising from the table.

“Fire, it’s burning, you can see Evenfall Hall alight, and flames one-hundred feet high,” he rasped. “Some of us went out to prepare for the hunt and there was this thick black smoke all over the sky...Lord Selwyn’s gone mad, mad, his daughters are there, you see? And his lady wife. Lord Edric is down on the bay trying to stop him from rowing out there. My lady, Sers, please, I beg you, come. Come!” What burns stone? Dragonfire. The snake had well and truly lashed out, and much more violently than she could have ever anticipated.

No, no, no. The Lady of Storm’s End heard her lover yell “seven fucking hells”, but he sounded far away, as if she was hearing him from underwater. The menfolk dashed out of the room, but she was frozen; she couldn't follow them. Only her hands seemed to work, gripping the glass so tight that it shattered. Shards scathed the delicate skin between her fingers. Diamonds embedded themselves into her palm like jewels on a crown. Shireen glanced down at the mess she had made and whimpered. She did not need the streams of red billowing down her sleeves to know that she had blood on her hands.

Chapter Text

He’d been riding along the Goldroad for a fortnight; stealing sleep under roofs, beneath the trees and even in the saddle. At night, Ser Emyl came to him in his golden plate, splattered with blood. “I was supposed to go back to the Arbor to wed a fair maid…” he whispered every night, along with other things. Hateful things. Things about his sire that made him call for his mother, to come and tell him that it wasn't true. It was all lies. She didn't come, and Galladon had stopped trying to defend himself. He took the whispers of "murderer, kingslayer, man without honour" until Emyl's hisses became screams that shook him awake.

He had just left the Riverlands and it seemed like the terrain had changed as soon as he had made the second crossing over the Blackwater Rush. The ground became drier, the greenery less lush and mountains towered towards the skies, so high that the gods could live atop them. He did not know these parts but decided that if he kept travelling westwards, he’d eventually hit water, where he could catch a ship somewhere. He had more than enough coin to buy passage after all. Soon he would ask someone where the nearest port was. He'd been keeping himself to himself. The Goldcloaks had come after him when he was still riding through the Crownlands, but they weren’t particularly thorough. They’d called his name whilst he was nursing a horn of ale at a filthy tavern that seemed to be doubling as a brothel. He was hooded, and even then, Galladon had haphazardly sheared his head the night before, but it was still plainly him. “Have you seen Ser Galladon Storm? A knight of ten and six, six-and-a-half feet tall, golden hair, travelling on a white horse?” they had called, but they closed the tavern door nearly as soon as they had opened it. No one had even asked him to lower his hood. They hadn't come for him since then, and he hadn’t really seen anyone at all. The road was long and empty, the villages he had passed charred and deserted.

The sunset dappled his white mare’s hide as he trotted along, thinking of a name for her. Winter would suit her hue, but the thought of winter filled him with dread. Winter was children dying of chills. Winter was the frost that destroyed the mainland harvest. Winter had brought the ferocious storms, that crashed his boat into the rocks when he was ten. Winter was Lord Selwyn’s sobs as his bannermen pummelled down on his chest to get the water out of his lungs. I was not his to lose, he mused, it suddenly making sense. No, Winter will not do. He liked the idea of a Kingsguard name like Arron had suggested. Not Barristan or Gerold, that wouldn’t suit a girl-horse so fair to look upon. Dayne, mayhaps? She was Dornish, as the Sword of the Morning had been. Dayne certainly had a prettier sound than Arthur.

He’d no time to ponder it any longer for the world suddenly seemed to go black. The ground around him darkened in shadow and a cry filled the air that he had only ever heard from above when he was resting in the Tower of the Hand. Dragons. He swung from his horse and rushed to tie her to a nearby tree. The newly-named Dayne went mad, kicking and whinnying, trying to free herself from her restraints. He went to dive in a bush, so he would not be seen from above. His Uncle? The Queen? Galladon heard a thud on the ground, and when he turned, hand on hilt, it was Viserra who stood, ten paces before him. She looked strange amongst the foliage; dressed in black and red silks, her hair slicked back with so much oil that the silver had turned to murky steel. In her right hand, she held a spear as tall as she. He risked a smile, unawares of what to do, but she did not return it. When she approached, he knew she did not mean to embrace him.

He allowed himself a moment to scan the skies. The wail of the dragon was fainter, but still present. The green beast she rode was flying overhead, but out of sight now. His eyes were drawn back to her, hearing that she had broken into a sprint. “Viserra,” he said, breathlessly, using his left hand to push himself up from the ground to meet her. Her fingers made the spear dance in her hand, the sharp of it pointed towards the skies whilst the blunt end came thrusting down into his neck. The blow knocked him back down, making him gasp and clutch his throat with his splinted fingers.

“Get up!” She screamed, lording over him. “Get up, get up, get up!”

“If you wanted me to stand, knocking me down was slightly counterproductive." He choked as he rose from the ground with the aid of a branch. Impressive. Bigger men than her hadn't got him on his back before.

“It’s not the time for snark, lionseed. I’ve spent the past fortnight flying up and down the Goldroad hoping to come across you. Rhaegal has a hunger from all the leagues we’ve travelled.” She squared up to him, either forgetting or not caring about how small in stature she was compared to his own height. “Because of you, my mother is trying to broker a marriage between me and Artys Arryn.”

Artys Arryn? Galladon knew him. He’d seen him at tourneys before. He was named for the Winged Knight but they had all called him the Wingless instead. A squire of one of the Royces. Four or five years younger, with a weak jaw and his father’s sickly disposition. The gods had played a trick in making the Defenders of the Vale look like they were the ones who needed the defending. “Artys fucking Arryn?” He had the pointy end at his throat now, but he broke into laughter all the same.

“I’m glad you find it so amusing.” Not that he did find it amusing. The thought of her wed to anyone made him seethe. Anyone but you. Would she let him drape a lion cloak on her back, bringing her under his protection? Probably not. She smacked him again, thankfully with the blunted end, causing him to topple backwards and thump his head on the same tree that had helped him to his feet. Definitely not.

He gritted his teeth as he sized up the tiny princess with the long spear, wincing as he rose to his feet for the second time. Tiny she was, five-foot-nothing, but she knew how to wield the weapon that lay in her hands. Turning on her side, as to make herself an even smaller target, she thrust him again, winding him. Galladon knew he could rip the spear out of her hands, throw it fifty feet away and break both of her arms so she’d never pick it up again, but the thought of hurting her sickened him. So he took it, he took her blows, half-batting them away when the bladed end got too close to his face. I’ve deceived her. She deserves this much. She knocked him down five or six more times, by striking him behind the knees, but Galladon pulled himself back up each and every time. Their dance continued until she showed signs of tiring, her breath ragged and blows softer. Enough. He withdrew Oathkeeper from its scabbard and brought it down on her spear with one swift movement. The length of ironwood fell apart in her hands. She threw the pieces to the floor and screamed. It wasn’t a shriek or a wail, like the women’s sobs he had heard before when knights fell at tourneys. It was a battle-cry of anguish and anger, tainted with fear.

“Why did you lie to me?” She is alone, he thought. She had come with neither Goldcloaks nor dragonmen, her only companion the beast in the skies. Why?

“I didn’t lie to you, I simply didn’t tell you the explicit details of my birth.” He sheathed the blade and fell to his knees, to join her where she had collapsed. Her skirts made her look like she was drowning in a puddle of ink.

“It’s still not being truthful.” She shook her head angrily. “I told you of my dear, exiled sire. All I can remember of him is his blue hair, and how I felt in his arms. You…you knew this, but you told me nothing yourself. You kissed me and held me and let me tend to you, all whilst knowing who sired you.”

“You kissed me, you chose me. I didn't court you. You were in my tent, then in my bed...how could I have possibly told you it true?”

"You didn't want me in your tent? You didn't want me in your bed?"

"In my dreams! I didn't come to the capital to try and deceive Targaryen princesses, to enrage their mothers and make them want to tear their lips off when they found out that they'd been kissing the Kingslayer's son. I wouldn't have thought you'd have looked twice at me. I still don't know why you did."

She made a noise that sounded very much like a chortle, despite the fire in her eyes. “It’s of no matter now. Tell me where he is. Your father.”

“Lord Selwyn? I’d imagine he’s at Evenfall Hall.”

“Your real father.”

“You come at me with a spear, threaten to feed me to your dragon and want me to help you find Jaime Lannister?”

“That’s all the more bloody reason to tell me, lionseed. If you bore me any true affection, tell me. Where is he? I’ll bring the Kingslayer’s head to my mother.”

“In an unmarked grave somewhere, I’d imagine.”

“So he is dead? Where? Where did he die?” Viserra begged, her eyes wide.

“I don’t know.” His tone was barbed. “I’ve never bloody met the man. All I know is that my mother came home to Tarth with me in her belly, and I killed her when she was labouring. Lord Selwyn raised me to be his son, not the Kingslayer’s, and-”

She interrupted him, her face suddenly soured. “Why should I trust you, given that you’re the seed of a man withou-”

Galladon clenched his fist. “Man without honour? A man without honour? I’ll show you all I have of your man without honour.” He withdrew his sword and ripped his cloak from under his heavy, hooded one. He threw both of his relics at her feet, wincing at the sight of them on the dirt. “This is what I have, and all I know, of Jaime fucking Lannister. If you’re looking for the Kingslayer, you’ve come to the wrong place.” She flinched as if he had hit her, but he may as well have slapped the disdain from her face. The fire was replaced by a cool, still pool of water. Beautiful, and solemn.

“You didn’t kill your mother,” she said after some time had passed. “Women die in the birthing bed all of the time, if the maester is not as learned as he should be. It’s never the fault of the babe.”

“Don’t talk about my mother." He was not in the mood to return her soft words. "Your own would have spiked her head next to my father’s if they both had lived.” He rushed to pick up his sword and cloak, attaching them both onto his person once again and turning his back to her. “Now, I’m going to keep heading west until I can find a ship to take me somewhere far from here. If you’re going to set that dragon after me, at least have the honour to return this sword to my grandfather. It was my mother’s before it was mine.” He went to fetch Dayne from the tree, limping from the beating her spear had kissed him with.

“Galladon,” she said quietly. He nearly did not hear her over the crunching of his boots against the ground. “I’m not going tell anyone you were here. Or your plans.”

“I’d appreciate that.” He felt his body turn and found his feet wandering back to her, joining her in the meadow where she had landed. The smallfolk have it wrong. It was she who cast her sorcery over me, not her Meereenese sister.

“Where will you go?” Viserra’s own eyes were wary, her lips pouted.

“The Free Cities. Hopefully, I’ll find employ as a sellsword once I’ve mended,” he waved his broken hand. “Mayhaps I’ll go to Tyrosh and find your father.”

She came to him, gently and examined the spade hand, her eyes still wide. “A son of Tyrosh he was, but I doubt he resides there now. He probably has a few more bastards, as he plunders away on the other side of the world. I'd imagine that he's probably forgotten me as much I’ve forgotten him.”

“How would he forget you?”

She raised a hand to his cheek and smiled. Her first smile of this meeting. “For all your father’s sins, you were not one of them.” He appreciatively rubbed his stubble from her fingertips to her wrist. She then took his good hand and placed it on the dragon clasp on her shoulder that held her robes to her body. It was only then that Galladon noticed that she wore a hippocras-hued orb of amber on her ring finger.

“You got it then?”

She nodded. “Whether I hated you or not, it was still beautiful.”

“Do you still hate me?”

“In ways,” she admitted. “But ways that you have no control over. I knew there was an air of something about you, as soon as I met you, but I couldn’t quite place what it was.”

“Oh?” He managed, looking down on her. The clasp on her shoulder was cold in his hand.

“Perhaps it's your blood? House Lannister was certainly accomplished, however vile and ruthless your kinsmen may have been. They say the bloodlines of the Great Houses are potent. Maybe." Viserra bit her lip. "I still can’t place what it is, not really.”

“Try.”

She exhaled, admitting defeat. “You’re a riddle, Galladon. You look like a great, lusty peasant lad but you’re as courteous as the highest of lords. You seem to be the Warrior, but you’re more like the Maiden. You’re soft really, despite your tongue, but I’ve seen you break bones like bread.” Her blue eyes stared up him wise and...and wanting. Was it really though? What did that look like? Galladon tried to remember when she came to him in his pavilion, before his tilt with Trystane Martell. All he could remember was that she smelled of wine and mutiny and that she was the most exquisite creature that he’d ever seen. “And, and-” she went on “-you play the part of little bastard boy lost so well, but you’re the last of a disgraced Great House.” She said nothing for some time, before extending one hand to lay on his chest. “You're so gallant and droll and fair to look upon, but you're his. I'm so sad that that you're his."

“I’m me, not his. And you’re you, not hers. We, we, can belong to each other.” The look in her eyes made Galladon want to take his words back as soon as he said them, but they hung in the air as bold as banners. Viserra went to say something but closed her mouth as soon as her full lips had parted. It was most unlike her to hold her tongue. She nodded down to the clasp, covered by his own massive hand.

“Will you…?”

“Will I what?”

“Unburden me of my robes?” 

“You want to….here?” He looked around. There was not a soul to be seen, not a sound to be heard; the dragon’s cry of before had long faded but they were still in a meadow just off the Goldroad. Goldencups for a featherbed, the lounging branches of a nearby willow for castle walls. She nodded. His heart began to race as he hungrily pulled at the dragon on her shoulder. Eventually she helped him, letting the silks fall into a puddle at her feet. She stepped out of it, closer to him. The evening breeze made all of the downy hairs on her arms and legs dance on her skin, whilst her pale flesh drank in the orange sunset behind her. Viserra raised her arms and clasped his head, stroking the golden stubble that was once tumbling curls. “Your hair, your beautiful hair, what did you do to it?”

“This? I-I made acquaintance with a sheep shearer who needed some practice. It looks uncomely, I know, but you, you, you’re…beautiful,” he stammered as he inhaled all of her. Her hair whipping in the wind; her meagre breasts, mostly nipple, stiffening under his gaze; her tiny waist; her narrow hips and silver mound between her thighs. His eyes scanned back to meet hers. She wanted him. He knew what want looked like now. Despite who he was and who was she, she wanted him. The thought near broke his heart. “I’ve never known a woman, I mean, apart from on the day of the tourney, with you, I…” he stumbled over his words as if his tongue had doubled in size. She shushed him, raising a finger to his lips.

“I’m desperately sorry that I can’t say the same.”

What? To him, she was the maiden made flesh even though he knew full-well that he was not the first. No one has had her like this though, he mused as the breeze made wildflowers dance around her pale limbs. He even loved the silver, wiry hairs on her underarms. Her eyes were pleading, almost sad. Moments, she had steel to his throat, now he wanted nothing more than to take all of her pain away. “Don’t, don’t talk like that,” he forced the words out. “I don’t care about the others, I don’t. Show me, please, I want you to show me.”

She did. Easing him into the grass, her nails seemed to scratch secret messages through his tunic and onto his skin. She took to pulling it gently over his head, methodically pulling its lacing wider and wider to ease any discomfort he was feeling. Galladon ground his teeth, she was doing a poor job. His collarbone seemed to scream with pain with each tug of fabric but he ignored it. At first, he was relieved when she was finished but remembered the gaping wound in his groin. She began to pull off his boots, so she could carefully peel off his breeches and smallclothes. Before long he was naked as his nameday, sprawled in his featherbed of grass. “Are you sure?” Viserra’s voice was barely a whisper.  He hauled himself up to meet her for a kiss, slamming his lips into hers with urgency. He nodded.

“I may never see you again. I want you. I want you. Like I wanted you when you were the girl in the courtyard and how-”

“I wanted you when you were a watchman.” She smiled. He’d live for those smiles. She extended her palm to press him back down to the ground and began to leave a trail of kisses up his leg, even planting one on his bandages. His cock twitched as her curtain of hair glossed over it. Galladon contorted his neck, craning it up to watch her as she lingered over yellow tangle between his legs. She smirked and took him in her mouth again, as she had done before. Steadily and skilfully, she worked up and down the shaft of it, but she did not allow him to spend herself between her lips. Viserra held it in her hand as she climbed on top of him, placing it at her entrance.

“Are you…” Her voice trailed off into nothingness again. She seemed a blushing maid. He nodded feebly as he writhed around under her. His cock was still in her grip, just touching the wetness between her legs. After knowing she was able to proceed, she inhaled deeply; her small, pointed breasts bobbing on her chest. She began lowering herself down on him. “Serra,” he heard himself whimper as he clutched onto her. His good hand held her hip, whilst the splinted one made a home in the curve of her back. What if I cannot please her? He found no resistance inside her, just slick and snug wetness that made him want to cry out when she made the slightest of movements. Soon enough, he was wholly inside her; the hairs between their legs now one bush of silver and gold. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she moaned, as she gently began to pulse up and down on him. One hand found its way onto his thigh for balance whilst the other danced between her legs as if she was trying to find something between the delicate folds. He’d no idea what she was doing, but it seemed to make her toes curl at the side of him. The sight of her, her flushed breasts and pink cheeks, was intoxicating. He was drunk on her touch, her scent and how she felt. Mere moments later he spent his seed inside of her, gripping her shoulders and pulling her close to him so her head could nestle on his chest.

They lay there for some time, but soon his cock came back to her life and he needed her again. She needed him too by the sounds of her murmurs as he rolled her onto her side and eased her leg over his hip. He placed one hand in her hair whilst the other he snaked around her waist, darting it between her sex like she had done as she rode him. He entered her again as he kissed her slender neck and nibbled at her earlobe, only stopping to whisper to her. How bold she was, how fierce she was, how she was a true dragon and how she was his. They reached their peak together, her twisting around to look him in the eye as she came.

Viserra was slight in his arms, her bud-like breasts rising and falling on her ribcage. She did not linger there long, rising jerkily to pick the grass out of her hair. As she bent down to retrieve her robes and the jewelled crimson silk slippers she had left in the puddle of her skirts, he eagerly watched his seed dribble down her thigh. She looked over her shoulder, but not coyly, like he had expected. Her face was as thunderous as the bastard name he had lived with for ten and six years, fat tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Serra…” Galladon reached to touch her, but she sidestepped away from him. “Serra, have I displeased you?” he pleaded after her. She ignored him, pulling her robes up and over her body, yanking her silver hair out from under the silks and over one shoulder.

“You need to be careful,” she spluttered as she retrieved and fiddled with the clasp that had once hidden her body from him.

“I meant what I said. Come with me.”

She pulled a face. “What?”

“We’ll belong to each other. Come with me,” he repeated, standing up to join her, still naked apart from his various bandages and bindings. He didn’t care if anyone saw him. All he cared about was her. Moving so close to her that their toes touched, he raised his hand under her chin, tilting it up to look at him. “We’ll go anywhere. Anywhere you want. The Shadowlands, Tyrosh, Yi-Ti, the jungles of Southyros, wherever. I just wish to be with you.”

She raised a hand to his chest but seemed to retract it as soon as her fingertips brushed against his skin, using it to wipe the tears from her eyes instead. “You’re mad.” She said plainly, using it instead to smooth the wrinkles from the front of her robe.

She strolled into the middle of the meadow. The spring in her step was borne out of the need to beat through the longer grass instead of merriment. “Where are you going?” He called, but she didn’t reply. She was stood there just moments, the saddest and fairest flower in the meadow before the shadow appeared once more across the skies. Rhaegal. The one who was meant for the Crown Princess. It cried as it descended, the beat of its great, green wings rustling both tree and grass alike. The mewling quelled as it found its sister, running its snout up and down her body like a cat or hound would its master. It lowered its back for her to climb on top; her saddle a gap between two jade-gleaming spikes.

“Viserra! Viserra!” He called to her, pushing himself up by his working hand and rushing towards her; unburdened by his limp cock flailing in the breeze. Rhaegal turned to face him, the copper discs of his eyes glinting with the last rays of the day. Galladon’s heart stopped until he realised that the dragon’s eyes were just as sad as its rider.

“Yes?” She said weakly, gripping her chains.

“Is there news of my uncle?”

“He’s been in the Black Cells for nearly a fortnight. They ambushed him at the Sept, just before you left."

“Oh.” It was all he could manage, she nodded waveringly in response. She could barely speak either.

“Farewell, Ser Galladon.” 

“Princess Viserra,” his voice broke as he bowed to her. His dragon princess clicked her tongue and rubbed the beast’s scaled back. Rhaegal purred, its claws scratching at the ground before breaking into a pace that resembled a horse’s gallop. It coursed around the meadow before gaining enough speed to take to the skies, its moss-green wings outstretching to beat against the sun. They were at least thirty feet from left tip to right, sending gusts back towards him, lifting what was left of his hair from his reddened face. He grew sadder as the winds grew weaker, knowing she was further and further away. Back to King’s Landing, back to her mad mother and back to marry Wingless Artys Arryn. Tyrion did say she would leave. She had left the others before him.

I’ve seen a dragon, lost my own maidenhead and I’ve had my heart broken in the same day. He dressed again, feeling the chill. He’d make camp here tonight. I am not like the others, he mused bitterly as he clumsily built a fire for warmth. She’ll change her mind. She’ll fly back. She’s wroth and confused, that’s all. The glow of their lovemaking had worn off now and he could feel bruises forming where she had beaten him earlier. She’ll be back to kiss them, he told himself, but it was impossible to be so cocksure in his own thoughts.

In his saddlebags he had salt beef and a rye loaf that he had bought from an inn a few days past, but he wasn’t hungry. Ignoring the foodstuff, he pulled out a sleeping fur for warmth, bundling it around him. The climate was less forgiving out here, brighter skies by day but cold with it. Soon enough, the mountains of the Westerlands blended into the darkness and his fire was the only light and warmth to be had. Galladon pulled his legs to his chest and waited, waited until the whispers of she’ll come back, she’ll come back, she’ll come back went out like a lamp without oil. He closed his eyes. It would be a hard ride tomorrow.

A woman screamed. Galladon jolted upright. It was morning now. His fire was a lowly pit of ash and steaming embers and his mare calmly grazed in the meadow. Viserra, he thought. He untied Dayne and climbed into the saddle, noting that yesterday’s bruises were paining him more than his leg. I’m getting stronger, or I’m starting to care less. Kicking his mare into movement, he galloped down the stretch of the Goldroad, scouting for where the scream had come from. 

He heard it again, to his right. Circling the horse around, he coursed off the path. As the foliage became thicker, the scream became more urgent. There were other voices, some rasping and dark, some pleading. Before him stood two men in ragged clothes. One was smaller, with bulging eyes and ruddy skin. He had a woman dangling in his hands by her hair but her locks were black instead of silver. It wasn’t his dragon princess. The man's companion waved his sword as if was a butcher's cleaver whilst a balding man in roughspun brown robes cowered in the bosom of a twisted white tree. From a piece of twine on his neck dangled the seven pointed star, carved into wooden beading. A septon? He looked back to the woman, unable to free herself from the shorter man’s grips for fear of being scalped. “I always did want to fuck a septa, Hew,” he cackled, before Hew the Butcher nudged him with a bony elbow.

“Who the fuck are you?” Hew rasped to Galladon. His teeth were jagged and yellow.

“I didn’t know rats could talk in these parts,” Galladon scoffed, darting his eyes to the septon knelt at the roots of the tree. It was only then he had noticed his face was beaten and bloody. “What is happening here, Septon?”

“These men called us off the path, set on us and…” The septon’s voice blended into a splutter as the Butcher kicked him in the stomach. The holy man doubled over onto the floor, wheezing in pain.

“Look, these two are ours. Move on, we don’t want any trouble with you. If you travel north, there’s a village that is-” The septa still squirmed in his grip as the shorter man spoke. Galladon did not give him time to finish, exactly how his friend Huw had treated the septon. After thrusting Oathkeeper into his shoulder, instead of words, thick blood bubbled out of his gaping mouth and down the front of his already stained tunic. The septa squealed as she was released from his dying grasp, rushing to be with her septon. Both of them blanched by the tree, wide-eyed and wild as they studied the two men before them.

 “You, you killed Lester…” Huw stammered, dropping his sword in shock.

“I didn’t have time to get his name, I know yours, though. It’s Huw, is it not?” Hew realised that he had forgotten himself for he scrambled down to pick up his rusted sword again, cutting the air in front of him. Galladon side-stepped, slicing off the hand that wielded the sword. “Gods!” Huw screamed, flailing around with his bloodied stump. “I don’t think the gods take too kindly to those who molest their handmaidens,” Galladon whispered. Oathkeeper painted a line of red ink from ear to ear, finishing him.

Galladon stared at the bodies uneasily. He’d killed a handful of men, at sea, at his liege’s command. Now the bodies were beginning to pile up in front of him. Three in a fortnight. He shuddered as he knelt down to wipe his blade on the grass. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two figures crawl towards him, but it was not the outlaws alive again but the septon and septa.

“We thank you, Ser.” The septon stammered, pulling himself to his feet as he wiped the blood from his nose. He was at least sixty and his joints seemed to creak with age as he moved. “I’m Septon Quenten. My companion is Septa Joyeuse. I fear what might have happened if you didn’t stumble upon us.”

“I fear something has already happened.” Galladon used the dagger in his pocket to cut off a square of his tunic. He fetched some water for the trembling septa before handing the hastily-cut cloth to the septon, who appreciatively wiped his bloodied face. "Septa, my lady? Did they molest you?" She shook her head, as her whole body continued to shake. Galladon turned to Septon Quenten “Is something like this common?” He asked, sheathing his sword. That head-thumping, bastard-brave feeling he only had when he was fighting had subsided now, replaced with a dull ache in his collarbone where he had raised his arm too high. Septon Quenten scoffed.

“All too common, I’m afraid,” the Septon snorted. “Not from 'round these parts then?”

Galladon shook his head. “The liege I serve is good and just. She gelds her rapers, before putting them in iron cages for the crows.”

“No Father’s justice like that here, I’m afraid.”

“Do you have horses?” Galladon asked, looking around.

“Further down the road, we tied them before we strayed into the trees.”

“Well, I wish you good fortune on the road ahead, Septon, Septa.” He wound his reins around his fingers to lead Dayne and began to take his leave on foot. He paused briefly, allowing his eyes to dance over what he had done. Hew and Lester’s bodies had fallen on top each other, making them look like two cavorting lovers on a field of red. These were evil men, dishonourable men, so why did he feel as strange as he had when he had shortened Ser Emyl by a head?

“You’re deadly to watch fight, but you’re not a killer, are you?” said the Septon, lifting his head from his bloodied rag.

“I prefer carousing to killing,” Galladon said flippantly, all whilst not taking his eyes off the corpses.

“Y’know, I’ve met many lads like you along the road: winter babes. You’re either seeds that were carefully planted before a lady wife waved her lord husband off to war, or oats sowed by lovers seeking their own comfort in the midst of chaos.”

“Hopefully you won’t need to meet any more lads like me in this situation again. You and your septa barely escaped with your lives.”

Septon Quenten ignored him. “You’d have grown up in the winter, been trained in sword and lance and morningstar, but then summer comes…” The septon clasped a hand to Galladon’s shoulder and squeezed it, making him grimace in pain. “Summer comes, and you’re men grown but you’ve never been waved off to war like your sires were. You’ve hardened your bodies but you’re still soft. Your hearts are as green as grass."

Galladon tugged his mare. He’d nothing to say to that. “Stay on the Goldroad,” he called back to them as he made his own way there. He could see from afar that his possessions were unmolested; his sleeping fur seemed a living fox curled up at the roots of the tree. He looked over to the meadow, the meadow where he had lain with his dragon princess and his heart lifted at the sight of the long grass dented from the weight of Rhaegal. Viserra? His heart sank once more when he realised that they were from the night just passed.

“Wait, wait! You off back to Lannisport, lad?” Trees rustled and he heard a voice behind him. Septon Quenten. Lannisport?

Galladon jerked his head backwards so abruptly that a nerve squealed in his neck. “Lannisport?” He forced himself to raise an eyebrow. “Why do you think I’m going there?”

“My mother was a Lannett. She gave hair like yours, used to be much longer than yours is, but it was the same colour. Like gold stolen from the sun.” he scratched his flakey, greying scalp. The parts that were not covered in grey were reddened by the sun.

“Your mother was a Lannister?”

“Thank the gods, no. My ancestors were, once, back in the Age of Heroes, before Casterly Rock was filled to the brim. The Lannetts were given their marching orders out of the Rock to go and fend for themselves. Their villages, and the Lanny’s villages and the Lantell’s villages grew into Lannisport. Times have changed, House Lannister is near gone but it’s hard to turn a corner in Lannisport without bumping into a Lanny or Lannett or Lantell.”

“I’m not going to Lannisport,” he said quickly, staring at his feet. His mare’s velvet nose grazed his neck.

“Where are you going? Back to this just liege of yours? Or are you a wandering hedge knight?” Galladon was thankful for the Septon’s leading questions, doubting he’d have the wits to conjure a believable tale himself. I am no Tyrion.

“I don't serve that lady any more. I’m a hedge knight. Seeking employ.”

“Where’s your armour?”

“I lost it, last tourney.”

“Ah.” Septon Quenten clicked his tongue. “So you’re seeking employ, this far west? You’re definitely not a Westerlands boy then. All of our hedge knights are in Dorne, or the Crownlands, finding their riches there. A lord can barely feed his own household, let alone take on more mouths to feed. What is your name, anyway?”

“Ser Gally of-”, he allowed himself to look around feebly, hoping something would jump out at him. “-Greentree.” Greentree? You’re a special type of dense.

“Ser Gally of Greentree,” Septon Quenten repeated it solemnly. “Well, Ser Gally of Greentree, I have employ for you, but no coin.”

“Isn’t employ with no coin called a favour, Septon?”

He chuckled. “You’re sharp, you are.” Galladon had never been called sharp before. “I can pay in honey cake and pheasant. Perhaps a few horns of ale. I’m off back to Ashemark to wed Lord Addam Marbrand’s son to a common girl from Pinkmaiden. I’d be grateful for your protection on our journey ahead, Ser. There are more outlaws around these parts. The Dragon Queen takes her gold and collects her taxes and offers no protection in return.”

“Lord Tyrion is Lord Paramount over this region, no?” Uncle Tyrion, he’s in the Black Cells, because of you.

“Aye, in name, Ser, but he doesn’t do much lording. These are dragonlands here, in truth.”

Galladon thought for a while. “I’m injured at the moment, badly so. Those rapers back there, they probably couldn’t use a knife and fork, let alone swing a sword. If you came across anyone better trained, I don’t think I’d be any good to you.”

“Your presence is enough. I wouldn’t want to tangle with you.” Galladon looked back, back down the roads, back towards the meadows where he had lain with Viserra. How will she find me if I leave? But then he saw Septa Joyeuse appear behind him, still adjusting her head covering, too scared to look him in the eye. My mother would have protected those who could not protect themselves.

“Alright,” he relented. “I’ll ride with you, but to Ashemark, no further. I’ve my own journey to be on.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything more, Ser Gally,” smiled Septon Quenten. “The Mother smiles down on me today. After the morning I’ve had, even a holy man like I needed to be reminded that there were good men left in the world.”

Chapter Text

“You can’t just lock me up every time I displease you.”  The princess’ voice was glass-clear to Daenerys' ears. She’d found her regained senses jarring. Her sight was sharper and even a simple task like a handmaiden lacing her into her bodice felt like a lover’s touch. No more shade of the evening, she’d told herself. Not after that night. The night she landed on the Maidenvault with charred robes and smoke in her hair. The need to see the island that had harboured the lionseed for ten-and-six years had grabbed her at the throat. Your “father” for mine, boy, she whispered, as bathed the roofs and trees below in flame. She’d acted rashly. Her council had emboldened themselves enough to tell her so. Drunk on the bark of the black trees and drunk on rage. The screams below near made her stop, but it wasn't her who was responsible for their plight. Lord Selwyn himself had murdered his smallfolk once he brought that that boy back to his holdfast. Perhaps he’d be there too? She hadn’t expected him to run back to the Stormlands, but it would have been sweet if he had. Daenerys had opted to send her search parties westwards; paying visits to lords who may have knelt to her all those years ago, but were only truly loyal to the lion. They'd harbour him too, I am sure of it. However, she hadn’t heard any word of Ser Galladon yet, so there was still a chance that he might just be a pile of blackened bones in that crumbling castle on Tarth.

Daenerys eyed her girl up and down. “You’ll find that I can. You cannot be trusted anymore, not since your last flight from the Keep. A fortnight you were gone, a fortnight.”

“I had to clear my head. After-”

“Clearing your head, is that what you call it? The Grand Maester found you scurrying around her supplies a couple of fortnights ago. She said it looked like you were trying to brew moon tea, given what you had in your hands. So you could go roaming around to bring more shame to me, no doubt. I should have heeded the counsel I was given when you were just a babe in arms. No name or titles would ever change your nature.”

“I wasn’t-” Viserra stammered over her words as if they were upturned cobbles. It was not in her nature to be so fearful. She was fierce. Fierce like her father had been. He was war and lust and fervent impulse. Her skirts hitched around her waist, dappled with bloodied thumbprints from the man he slew that morning. No wonder the child they made was so wanton.

“You weren’t, what?” Her silver goblet clinked against the pearls of her teeth. Water, plain iced water. A feast was laid out between them, but it was nothing more than decoration for the room. Neither of them could bring themselves to break their fast; eyeing each other warily over plums and peaches and pomegranates.

Viserra’s face stirred. She murmured something or other, then ran her fingers through her hair. It was lank and dirty-looking, not the cloth-of-silver she remembered. She shook her head, greasy tendrils clinging to the angles of her face. “I lied to you. You were right. I wanted to go carousing. I’m a lust-filled, unchaste creature who does not deserve your trueborn name and titles.” Her eyes were wide, and the same hue as the bruise she’d given her. Daenerys softened. It was just as much her fault, although it stung to admit it. She’d given the girl too much freedom, as did everyone else; turning a blind eye when she came back smelling of ale and great, stinking men. Robert Arryn’s rejection of a betrothal between Viserra and his son read anxious, but his intent was bold as banners. Your daughter Viserra is a harlot. Not good enough for our heir. Of course, he hadn’t written that. The term used was ‘a woman grown of experience’, diplomatic, but not a phrase suited to a girl of ten and five. There would be no wedding. No army if Lannister and Baratheon sought to usurp the Dragon's throne once more. Perhaps the Arryns would join them as well like they had done all of those years ago. And the Starks in the North? She shook her head, feeling her head throb with pain, but had nothing on hand to dull it with. Dorne would not follow, they'd told her as much. She'd have to treat with Lady Sansa. She needed the North.

“Viserra, the Kingslayer's son deceived you. I am not punishing you for his lies, but how you acted afterwards…it was unbecoming. And the news from the Vale…” Daenerys had come to her after the betrothal was rejected and Viserra was full of lies of her own.

Her daughter furrowed her whitish brows. “I told you, I don't know what Lord Robert was talking about, I've never-”

She shushed her.  “I don’t want to talk of your escapades any more. We’ve more pressing matters. Shireen Baratheon is at the gates." Daenerys rolled her eyes, already exhausted by the Lady of Storm’s End’s mummer’s farce of revenge. She’d already sent 1000 men to retake Stonedance.

“At the gates? Are you receiving her?” Viserra mused.

“Of course, I’m not receiving her. She comes in rebellion, not as an honoured guest.”

“What is she rebelling against? Does she have a host with her?” Daenerys near-sighed at her ignorance, before remembering that she wouldn’t know. She had sheltered her from the skirmishes around the Kingswood, and the eastern Crownlands, for Viserra had been kept cooped up with her handmaidens and a guard she couldn’t use her wiles on. New handmaidens she couldn’t use her charming words on either. She’d shipped the two Pentoshi girls back east. Useless. They should have kept a closer eye on her.

“My eyes have not seen an army brought with her. A handful of sworn swords, a few ladies from her court. Her forces are preoccupied; trying to hold Stonedance.”

“Stonedance? She has taken Stonedance? Why? What of Lord Massey?” Her words came as fast flowing as the Trident now. That was the fierceness she knew. This Lannister boy hadn’t replaced the dragon with a meek mouse after all. “Why haven’t you flown Drogon overheard? That should scatter them.”

“Not in the Crownlands.” Daenerys shook her head. “I can’t risk defiling my own lands.” And Shireen knows it. That explains her boldness. But a risk from her, after Tarth. Shireen’s response was more aggressive than expected. She’d taken them by surprise as well, irritatingly enough. A fragment of the Stormlands’ levies had marched through the night and taken the castle with a few hundred men and some grappling hooks.

Viserra picked a blood orange and set to peeling it apart with her hands. “I don’t understand. Is she trying to reclaim the ancestral Stormlands or something?”

“What?”

“House Massey used to be sworn to Storm’s End, before Dragonstone.” She was clever for a girl so fair to look upon. "During the Conquest, they shunned Argilac the Arrogant and knelt for Aegon in his stead."

“Perhaps,” Daenerys lied. “We’ll soon find out. I want you with me when I treat with her."

“But you told me I had shamed you so?” She saw Viserra wince. She’d struck her again that night, with the flat of her looking glass. An unqueenly moment. Born of replacing her usual vices with Dornish Red. Not unwarranted, however. If it was not for Viserra’s own vices, she’d have the Knights of the Vale behind her. They’d be no need to risk her other children then.

"And you did, but you are still my daughter. A Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and one of three dragon riders in the known world." Not that the other, Tyrion, had done much riding of late.

"Rhaegal. I thought you didn't want to risk defiling your lands.”

“I don’t think we’ll need to loose our flames today, daughter. Go. Be ready within the hour, wearing the colours of our house.” Dany waved her hands, dismissing her.

"Wait, wait. Whilst I'm here, Tyrion. What are you planning to do with him?"

"Tyrion? He's still in the Black Cells, and he there he shall stay. Until he wishes to talk, to tell me where his brother is. When he gets too comfortable, I'll begin questioning him sharply. Go." She left.

They met on the Maidenvault at the agreed time. Viserra did as she was bid, making herself look presentable. Her hair was bound up in rings and her face was painted thick with powder, so her pallor and bruising was not as apparent. Her body was clad in a gown of crimson and black silk, tiny panels worked together so they looked like scales, with silver chains dangling from her shoulders. She’d even worn her crown, part of the one she had worn as Queen of Meereen before breaking it into three pieces for her and her children. Daenerys nodded to her from dragon back, her own mount a great deal larger than his green brother. She'd been told that Shireen Baratheon was at the King's Gate with a small force, so she'd stationed twenty men to meet her before Dany would arrive herself. 

They would go now, to meet them. They could have flown along the Blackwater Rush, but Viserra wanted to put on a show. Dany agreed, she needed the common peoples' love more than ever now. They took the longer way; their wings beating against the burning sun as they tumbled over the hovels of Flea Bottom, twirled around the great turrets of the Sept of Daenerys and flew so low over the Street of Steel that they could hear the blacksmiths toiling away at their anvils. "It's Queen Daenerys!" someone cried. "Our fair Silver Queen!" said another.

When they left the city walls and landed amongst their men, the dirt was dry and dusty beneath their dragons' claws. As reported, Shireen Baratheon was not just with her personal guard. She’d brought handmaidens. As Dany landed, she could see that they were comely things with pink cheeks in silks of yellow and green clutching baskets of bread, bound flowers and wooden horses. They had beckoned over smallfolk from the stalls around the King's Gate; peasant children and their mothers and fathers. Kingslander men, women and babes, so used to dragons, they would not flee in fear. The handmaidens, as well as the soldiers, were not so bold, nervously looking to the Grey Stag as if they wanted to drop their bread and swords and run. They didn't though, staying close to their lady. 

Lady Shireen stood tall above them on her horse, armoured darkly, fringed by four men atop mighty destriers. Her plate was not unlike the unsightly scars that had ravaged half of her face. Half dull iron, half brightly polished steel, dripping with mail like other ladies of her standing dripped in diamonds and samite. Unhelmed, long coal black hair streamed behind her like the smoke that had risen from the charred remains of Tarth.

“Your Grace, I’d curtsy, but if you are going to stay on your mount, I’d prefer to stay on mine.” She rode a piebald stallion and gripped his reins for life. She had a natural air of authority, as could be expected from another Usurper’s pup, but her eyes told another story. They flicked uneasily from Drogon to Rhaegal, Rhaegal to Drogon. “A momentous occasion, good folk of King’s Landing. I call you to stay, and bear witness, watch the Lady Paramount of the Stormlands treat with our Silver Queen.” She is using them as a shield. Let her have her shield. Let her think she is safe. Daenerys said nothing, letting her eyes bore into her.

“My princess,” The Lady of Storm’s End sang to Viserra. Her skin and garb were stone, but her voice was a silk ribbon blowing in the breeze. “How fair of face you are. There’s a tapestry back on Dragonstone in Queen Rhaenys’ likeness. You’re the very image of her.”

“Your flattery will not make me forgive your assault on our lands."

Shireen laughed. "My assault? Of course you would sing that song. I wish you no ill, my princess. I know better than others that we cannot choose our family.” Shireen lifted her head up and smirked. The contortion of her lips and cheeks made her even more grotesque to look upon. She thinks she’s amusing. “Your Grace. I come here today to demand recompense, for your assault on my lands.” Whispers erupted around her.

“Silence.” Daenerys boomed, staying their words with a look. “You are not in a position to demand anything of me. Storm’s End will burn just as well as Evenfall Hall.”

“What of Evenfall Hall?" Viserra queried. Daenerys opened her mouth to reply, but Shireen interjected before her words could take flight.

“You do not know? Your mother and that beast she sits on rained fire down on Tarth. Lord Selwyn’s wife and daughters, as well as his goodson Aymond Estermont perished, along with their smallfolk. Man, woman and babe burned alive, because of your mother’s wroth. Because Lord Selwyn wouldn’t see his daughter’s child thrown into the sea.” His daughter's Lannister child. Shireen probably knew of this plot with the rest. Maybe for as long as the boy had been alive. She should have burned Storm's End too.

“There is no reason to quarrel then, Lady Shireen. Lord Selwyn has paid with his life for his treasons. The debt is paid.”

“Lord Selwyn lives. But what is life when the rest of it is gone?” He lives? How?

"I'd wage good coin that a fire raged and the blame is being laid at Her Grace's feet." Viserra babbled, but Dany ignored her.

"Alas," The Queen sighed, etching her chains with her fingernails. "Lord Selwyn is not the father that I really sought after. I will find the lionseed-"

"Ah, the lionseed. I suppose you're taking note of the whispers, Your Grace," she turned to one of her men. "What is it, Devan? A twelve-foot warrior with a Valyrian steel sword and hair like the sun who slew one hundred men to escape capture? Who will not rest until the slays our Silver Queen? Nonsense." She spat on the ground. "The boy has a heart as soft as a maid of ten. You are safe. From him."

"I will find him," repeated Dany, not rising to her. "And the Kingslayer. He is alive. I can feel it."

“Can you hear yourself? Do you make sense to your own ears, Your Grace? You judge Ser Galladon for the sins of the dead man that squirted him into his mother's belly?” Lady Shireen implored, aghast. “If we judge the babe for its father's misdeeds, Your Grace, why do we not judge you?”

The red mist descended. “I am the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the blood of Aegon the Conquerer runs through my veins. You do not judge me. You answer to me.”

“You forget yourself, Your Grace. His blood runs through mine, we are distant cousins, you and me.”

“Mother, mother,” Viserra dropped all titles and courtesies. “Does she tell it true?”

“A few drops. She is not the dragon, not like you and I.” Dany called sideways.

“I’m not talking of that, I’m talking of-”

“I tell it with complete truth, my princess. She bathed Tarth in her fire. Those who survived carry on without foodstuff and family, their homes turned to ashes.” Shireen sneered.

“Mother-”

“Viserra!” Dany shushed her, her silver-gold hair whipping over one shoulder. “I will give you no recompense. I have always made it clear that treason will be answered with fire and blood. You would do well to remember that. Stand down your armies and run back to Storm’s End, my lady."

“I will not. All of the great lords and ladies of Westeros are aware of your tyranny, Daenerys Stormborn. Soon the common people will be too.” She creakily moved her gauntlet-clad arms, playing to the smallfolk at her feet. They were still there, silently and warily watching what was happening above them. "Use them on those who can’t defend themselves again and you will lose what little friends you have left.”

“You don’t seem very defenceless to me, with your skirmishes and castle sieges."

“Oh, I’m not. Since your little funeral pyre, I’ve had the walls of all of the holdings in the Stormlands steeped with the same scorpions that brought down Meraxes in Aegon’s failed Conquest of Dorne. I would not advise your beast to fly over us. Any of your beasts.” Shireen looked to Viserra.

Meraxes. A fearsome creature, but perished after an iron rod through the eye at Hellholt. She couldn’t risk her dragons, any of them. Not in war. Men were disposable but her dragons weren’t. She’d not been able to hatch any eggs since she was a child in the Red Waste. “You threaten my children?”

“I’d worry more about your real ones.” The Grey Stag grabbed her reins, her scarred face twisting cruel. “If you won’t compensate Lord Selwyn’s losses, I’ve nothing more to say to you. Our men will continue to meet in the field.” With every move of Shireen’s mouth, all Daenerys could wonder whether her armour would melt onto her skin before she cooked in it, like broiled beef in a pot. But she couldn’t find out. Not now, with so many innocents so close. She endeavoured to quell her rage, despite the hate that bubbled up inside her; thick and hot and black.

“Compensate? Lord Selwyn is lucky to have his life, for now.” Daenerys called after her, but Shireen had already whirled her horse around, sending smallfolk scattering before breaking into a gallop. Her handmaidens had nervously swung themselves up on the back of their soldiers’ horses, gingerly stealing glances of Drogon and Rhaegal.

“She didn’t beg your pardons, Your Grace!” Shouted a brazen peasant boy, who had once been silent with the rest, clutching a wooden knight.

No, she didn’t. Insolence. Why would she abide it? She would not accept it from her children, so why should she accept it from an up-jumped vassal? No, she wouldn’t. Daenerys reached for Drogon’s chains, but before she could take chase after Shireen, he lurched in the direction that she did not will him to. Rhaegal had outstretched his wings, knocking his brother and mother sideways.  Soon enough, there was no time to be pondering her anger, for she found herself and Drogon being scattered with the washerwomen and street children. The hushed whispers and become still as folk who were once not afraid of dragons at haste became fearful. Soon enough all that remained was her own guards and two of her five children directly in front of her. 

“You burned Tarth?” Viserra's voice broke. It rattled through the air like bells. “Not even just the Lord who betrayed you, but the lesser lords and the ladies of the court and the smallfolk too?”

“Viserra.” You will not do this to me. Not again. Daenerys face burned hot thinking of her shrieking and wailing; how the peasants hissed when she cracked her daughter across her perfect face. The lionknight was the root of that too. Gods curse the day he walked into her city. Gods curse the day he took his first breath.

“Why didn't you tell me? How could you have me paraded in front of her, unawares of your own atrocities? I defended you, mother!”

"As is your duty to me. We'll speak no more of it. Come." Dany nodded to her guards, dismissing them. She didn't want them to see. They followed her orders, traipsing back into the city like ants.

“No."

"No?" 

"I'm not coming home." Rhaegal was snarling and snapping now and a fire was in Viserra's eyes. As was the bond between dragon and rider. Dany steered Drogon backwards, putting distance between them.

"You will." She commanded, sounding a great deal more Queen than mother.

Viserra raised her eyebrows and reached down to stroke Rhaegal's back. “Oh?" She looked up. "And how are you going to stop me?” In half a heartbeat, she was gone; with a rattle of her rider's chains and a whirl of red silks and moss-green wings. The Silver Queen was left alone, spitting hairs, covered in the dust and dirt of the Kingsroad.

Chapter Text

“Stay here, my love,” she whispered. “I’ll find somewhere safe for you soon.” Rhaegal purred and clicked, stroking her with his snout, before beating his wings and curling up like a cat in a spot of sunlight would. The gust from his winds knocked her backwards and into the sea-spray soaked stone beneath her feet. “Why would you do that?” Viserra called to him as she rose, clutching her knocked elbow and wrapping her arms around herself. Rhaegal didn’t respond, tucking his head under one leathery wing. There was no one else with them, no life to be seen. No children dipping their toes in the water nor fishermen carrying their catch back home. She looked up at the main keep. Great black towers carved in the likeness of dragons, risen with the ancient spells of the Valyrian Freehold, loomed on the cliffs above her. Viserra had landed on the beach; the ground was either wet, black sand or dark slabs of rock.

She’d have given anything for one of her furs, the snow bear pelt, or perhaps her shadowcat cloak as blue-black as twilight. Her skin was red raw from the cold winds lashing against it during her flight and the climate was no more forgiving on the ground. It was the height of summer, the realm blessed with generous harvests, but you’d have never thought it here. It was a black, brooding rock surrounded by grey seas and greyer skies. Dragonstone is my ancestral home, she told herself. It had sheltered her ancestors when they had arrived in Westeros, heeding the warning of Daenys the Dreamer. A sanctuary, where one of the lesser dynasties of dragonlords were able to thrive and grow into the both the conquerors and uniters of the Seven Kingdoms. Despite its distinguished history and the kindness the island had shown to both dragon and dragonrider, Viserra misliked this place.

She rubbed her arms, but her hands were throbbing with chill as well.  She definitely wasn’t dressed for riding; silks bound tight around her belly. Viserra’s thoughts went back to when she really had a knot in her stomach. As soon as word had got back to her mother that she’d returned to the Red Keep, she was sent for immediately; having not had enough time to wash, Galladon’s seed dry on her thighs. She’d had four men at her back, and two on each side, herding her to her mother’s apartments like livestock. And she was livestock; a silver broodmare for the Arryns. A proposal of marriage had been sent off when she left and a reply had come back whilst she was gone. It was not the reply her mother wanted.

Viserra was not worthy of weak Lord Robert Arryn’s equally feeble first-born son. Viserra didn’t want to marry, she knew that much, but the thought of no one of worth even wanting to wed her had winded her like a kick in the stomach. She could remember how her mother had beckoned her into her chambers; raven in hand and a face like thunder. She’d looked at her like she was a soiled gown, or ravaged holdfast. She’d decreased in worth, even in her mother’s eyes. The mother who’d been sold for an army herself. Stinking of wine, the Queen had cracked her across the face with a looking glass whilst the anointed knights of the Queensguard looked on. Viserra had begged, pleaded, she knew of no men that would be fraternising with the Defender of the Vale, but that only served to make her angrier.

She knew not the guards who had escorted her to her mother, then back to her apartments. Her Ser Humfrey wasn’t even there either. These were green boys, with pimples and peach fluff beneath their helms. One tried to coax her along the halls, placing his hand on the small of her back. She recoiled from his touch and pummelled at his breastplate. “I am Princess Viserra Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria and daughter of Daenerys the Conquerer, do not presume to touch me,” she had commanded, but they just laughed. She could have sworn that she heard one of them whisper, “I heard she likes a good touch” but she bottled in her want to retaliate. For all she knew, he didn’t say it. She may have been mad. Seeing foes in every shadow and hearing threats in every murmur. Mad. Mad like Mother.

The guards on Dragonstone were kinder. She knew their faces but not their names. They dropped into a bow as they saw her stagger up to them, singing songs of how sweet it was to see her. One even took off his cloak and draped it over her freezing shoulders. She was escorted into the great jaws of the dragon, where waiting stewards fussed over her dishevelment and bruised cheekbone where her powder had slipped off her skin; offering her nourishment and a warm bath, but she shook her head. “My sister,” she said hoarsely. “I need to see my sister.”

“She’s holding court,” said a steward, dressed grandly in a doublet of lilac silk and black breeches. Rhaenyra’s colours. Her personal sigil was the same Targaryen three-headed dragon across the same black field but rendered in purple instead of red. “Please, my princess, wait here, if it please you. I’ll go tell her that you request her presence, I shan’t be long.”

“No,” Viserra reached out to clutch his arm, seeing the man’s face stir under her touch. “No, I’ll sit with the other petitioners. I’ve a request of my own.” Tarth. She stopped to think, once she was left alone. I need to help them. I need to make this right. She couldn't do it alone.

Viserra slipped into the hall, carved in the likeness of a great dragon’s belly. Rhaenyra was seated on her throne, looking down at a peasant woman from a great height. One amethyst eye wasn’t visible, hidden by a curtain of honeyed hair. One of her usual styles, it hid the unsightly scars on the underside of her head. Viserra had seen her sister once every year before she came to court, apart from the year after her maiming. She could remember it well, everything, not just the maiming. 

Her mother had always sent men ahead of them every time they visited Meereen so Viserra would be guarded well.  There were a lot of people there who hated her. The King of Meereen had been cuckolded by the Queen, and with sellsword scum, no doubt. She was the living, breathing reminder of her mother's sins. She spoke like a Kingslander, had the bright blue eyes of her father and skin that was far too fair to have meant that she was sired by Hizdahr zo Loraq, as her mother had tried to pretend for some time.

It was always too hot, everyone looked at her with scorn and she was kept in a small set of apartments with a few White Graces for companions. She’d been allowed to come and watch Rhaenyra claim her dragon, with both court and crowds present. She oft wished she hadn't been allowed, that the King had forbade it, for everyone from Astapor to the Iron Islands knew what came after that.

“But please, my princess, I beg you, have mercy!" Screeched the peasant woman. "He’s just a boy of ten-and-three.”

Her voice was stern, but she still looked to the maester seated at her left for approval. “Noble boys of ten-and-three serve as squires on the battlefield, some a couple of years older have even led great armies themselves. ” A smile danced across the maester’s face, but the petitioner looked forlorn.

“But he’s not a noble boy, he’s a fisherman, like his father. He hasn’t been trained in all that swordplay stuff, he’s been taught to cast nets.”

“My princess,” called the maester. “If I may address this…woman,” he sneered. “The Stormlanders have taken Stonedance, they will soon march on Sharp Point. All vassals of Dragonstone. All of us must play our part in crushing the Baratheon forces.”

“And you, Maester?” Shouted the woman, boldly. “Will you be playing your part? Will we see you fighting the Stormlanders, sword in hand?” The court erupted in laughter; the maester was left red-faced, shuffling in his seat.

“I am afraid not,” he mumbled through his blushes. “My talents lie in providing counsel for our Crown Princess, our liege.”

“My boy’s talents lie in keeping our liege fed!”

“It is not for you, to-” the maester shouted down to her, but at once, Rhaenyra rose, halting his speech. Everyone rose with her, including Viserra, who had pulled the cloak she’d been given over her head.

“Silence.” She sat back down, everyone lowering themselves in time with her. “I’ve changed my mind. Your pleas have touched my heart. Your boy will not fight on the mainland, nor will any boy under ten-and-six who has a valuable trade.” Rhaenyra’s voice was queer, more Westerosi on the ears. Not the voice that Viserra remembered.

The woman collapsed to her feet. “Thank you, my princess, I thank you.”

“You do not need to be so grateful. What good will it be if we win the war, but have no men and boys to catch our foodstuff, smith our steel and herd our cattle? But, if your boy wishes to be trained in ‘swordplay stuff’, please present him to me. He can squire for a knight in my service.”

“You do my kin a great honour, my princess.” The woman mouthed, awestruck. Viserra noticed the maester becoming more and more surly of face. “But I’ll need to have words with him before I can-”

“In your own time." Rhaenyra raised a hand. "Please, take your leave. You have been waiting long enough.”

The woman scattered, curtsying three-or-more awkward times before she left. A black-and-purple clad crier appeared in the centre of the hall, clutching a scroll, scanning the bowels of the hall for the name he was about to read.  “Princess Viserra, of House Targaryen," he sang. His voice was unsure, as his eyes darted around the room, seeking her, but it was still rich and warm as it filled Rhaenyra’s dark halls. Her sister herself was the only lightness amongst the stacks of cold, black stone, dressed in robes of gleaming white. A dragon crouched behind her, menacingly, like the beasts of the Valyrian Freehold who had brought Old Ghis to its knees. Viserra removed her cloak and approached the dais, gasps and excitement crackling around her like flames.

The Crown Princess did not look half as enthused. “Sister,” she said blankly as if they had just passed each other in the corridors. “What brings you to Dragonstone?”

“I’m hiding from Mother,” she retorted, to the smallfolk’s delight.

“Approach,” Rhaenyra called down to her, twiddling a strand of hair.

She’d lost her slippers in her flight so the roughness of stone gnawed at her feet with every step she climbed. “So, I was there, wondering where I could go, and then I thought that I may as well hide from her from behind your skirts. I’ve missed you, sweet sister.”

Rhaenyra snorted, dropping her voice into a whisper. They were close enough now, close enough to touch. Close enough that her lavender oil tickled Viserra’s nostrils. “I don't blame you for wanting to escape her fury. You took a lion into your bed.”

“That’s not the root of her wroth.” And he’s nothing like them. He’s more kitten than lion.

“Oh?” Her queer new voice rang true. “What else have you done? I have your guard lifted, and you find a way to get yourself imprisoned again.”

“I was supposed to do my bit for the war effort,” Viserra jested. “Oh, I offered to march with the Unsullied, spear in hand, but she thought I’d be better in a lord’s bed than fighting his armies.”

“And who could blame her for making that mistake? So, is that why you are here? You are escaping a marriage?" 'And who could blame her for making that mistake?', echoed through her head. Viserra winced. Only the night before, she dreamt that she was back in the Great Pyramid, before Rhaegal threw her sister into the cobbles, except this time she was her ten-and-five instead of the five she’d been then. They stripped her of her samite and yanked the golden chain from her throat and whispered: “whore” instead of “bastard”. Mother was with them, jeering, with her noble husband in his purple robes and her trueborn daughter.

“Quite the opposite. He wanted a maid for his little lordling. Mother was so dismayed at my notoriety that she put the guard back in place.” Viserra said, dismissively. “Thank the gods I’ve somehow become famous in the Vale, otherwise I’d be freezing away in the Mountains of the Moon with only a decrepit septa and child-husband for company. ”

“It wouldn’t have been that terrible. You’d have been amply supplied in knights. I heard the Knights of the Vale are most gallant.” The hint of a smile tinged her face. Rhaenyra did not mean it unkindly this time. She called up her crier, whispering something to him that caused him to clear the hall of all petitioners. The Crown Princess took her sister by the hand, and when her maester and handmaidens tried to follow them, she fanned them away. “No, leave us. I wish to be alone with her.”

They didn’t talk until they were in Aegon’s Garden, seated on a black stone bench, but surrounded with beauty and the sweet scent of summer. The bright hues of the roses in the bushes and fruits on the trees must have stolen all of the colours from Dragonstone. “This betrothal…I can’t believe you’re as glad as you present yourself to be. It’s not like you to be put aside." 

No, it's not. She'd never been set aside before, by any of the others. She looked down at the ring she wore on her finger, it was like sunset set in stone. Galladon didn’t care about the others, he told her so, but he was a bastard boy of a disgraced house, running from the Queen’s justice. Suppose he was a trueborn lord, of some righteous house. She’d be set aside for some innocent, little maid. “I didn’t come here to discuss men.”

“So you come here as an envoy? You’ve word of mother that you could not discuss with other ears present?” Rhaenyra’s voice was hers again, the harsh tones of Dragon’s Bay present in every sound. Suddenly, Rhaenyra reached out to touch her bruised cheek. "Wait, did she...?”

Viserra recoiled. “I fell. And I come of my own accord. I need a ship, Rhae, not a particularly big one either. You’re my only chance, I’ve no one to bribe or beg.” Or bed. She screwed her face up at her own thoughts.

“A ship?” Rhaenyra asked incredulously, picking a yellow rose from a bush behind her and placing it in her own hair. “What do you want a ship for?”

“Does that matter?”

“You demand one of my ships and ask why it matters?”

“Does it?” Viserra risked.

“Come.” Rhaenyra rose, gathering her skirts and extending her by the hand. “I’ll show you why it matters.”

Rhaenyra led her away from the greenery and light of the garden, all the way to the top of the Stone Drum. Her handmaidens, dressed in various hues of purple; indigo, lavender, violet and plum, tried to accost them on the stairs, but she waved them all away once more. Soon enough, Viserra was faced with the Painted Table, where Aegon the Conqueror had planned his conquest all those years ago. Her sister walked a few paces ahead of her and climbed the raised seat, the exact position of Dragonstone in regards to the rest of the realm. The stairs to the seat were noticeably steeper than the ones they’d taken to reach the top of the tower, and Rhaenyra was noticeably unsteady on her weak ankle. Viserra could still remember how it had crunched, with the rest of her bones, when Rhaegal tossed her from his back. She shuddered at the thought.

Once comfortable, Rhaenyra beckoned her over. “Fly to Dragonstone, sister.” Viserra did as she was bid, following her sister up the steps and settling beside her. The chair was meant for the Prince of Dragonstone but it could fit two narrow-hipped princesses comfortably. Her long hair tickled Viserra’s arm.

“I never took you for a commander,” Viserra smirked, looking down at the table below them. It was fifty feet long, taking up the length of the room, carved in the likeness of her mother’s realm. As Viserra looked from left to right, she could see Dorne, all the way up to the Lands-beyond-the-Wall. Littered across the kingdoms were figures, for the Lord and Lady Paramounts and their armies. Wolves in the North and roses in the Reach. There were no lions in the West, but no dragons had taken their place either; the entirety of the Westerlands empty of standing armies.

“I’m only playing at one at the moment,” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, and pointed ahead, to a small forested area, painted green. “That’s the Kingswood, the stags represent Shireen’s men. They’ve been scattering Mother’s armies, forcing them back into the forest when they’ve tried to emerge to retake Stonedance. Mother has sent one thousand more now, though, which is a strong enough force to break behind her lines. ”

“You’ve a mind a for war.”

Rhaenyra tittered, pulling her curtain of hair behind one ear. The scarred one. “I grew up in a war room, with my father. Listening. Mother did not leave peace in her wake when she took the dragons and left Meereen.” Her sister extended one hand south of their position. “The dragons, the ones carved from pearl, they’re mine,” she went on. “I’ll be sending another one thousand men to Sharp Point, to support her. We’re at war, sister, and this is only the beginning. I can’t just loan out ships to all and sundry.”

“I'm not all and sundry, I'm your sister. I only want one. You’ve a substantial fleet, it doesn’t take all of your ships to transport one thousand men.”

Rhaenyra struggled down the steps and paced some twenty steps down to Sunspear. With one swoop of her slender, arm, she knocked the Martell speared suns from the table. Viserra jumped at the amber shattering to a million pieces; warm rock scattered against the cold, dark floor.

“Dorne has ignored her call. Mother was hoping bannermen sworn to Sunspear would attack the southern Stormlands from across the Dornish Marches, but Arianne will have no part in it. I may have to, in her stead, but the only way would be across the water. I’ll need all of my ships if it comes to that.”

“But House Martell is so incredibly loyal to Mother? Why would they not follow her into battle?

“The Burning of Tarth. ‘An act of violence’ was the term that was used.”

Tarth. “Do you agree with her?”

“You probably do, that’s where your Lannister boy was raised. Your most unsuitable paramour to date.”

“I wouldn’t put it past me finding worse.”

“Speak truly. For a girl who grew up at a Westerosi court, you are not best suited to hiding your motives. What do you want a ship for?”

Viserra took a deep breath. “To help the people of Tarth. The common people, as well as Ser Galladon’s family.” Rhaenyra's mouth soured, like half a lemon was balanced on her tongue. “Rhae, listen, please. I hate what the Lannisters did to Rhaenys and Aegon and Elia, how the Kingslayer slew my grandfather and how he besmirched our mother’s throne with the fruits of his incest, but Ser Galladon…he’s innocent. It’s not his fault who squirted him into his mother’s belly, and it's definitely not the fault of Lord Selwyn or his peasants.”

“How do you intend to help them?” Rhaenyra fired, walking along the Straits of Tarth, her long fingernails scratching the woodwork as she coursed by, like a ship. A gleaming, beautiful one. With flowing white sails.

“Shireen is fighting her war, with their men. They've no help. I have friends, Rhaenyra, friends I’ve had since I was a dirty, ill-mannered child running around barefoot in Fleabottom. I know stonemasons, carpenters, labourers, and I know they’d all follow me if I asked, but Rhaegal won't accept others than he knows not upon his back. I’ve no way of transporting them.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes scanned down to her bare feet. “Not much has changed," she sighed. "But...despite wearing that lump of rock around your neck, you’ve a trove of jewels and gold in your apartments. Why don’t you just buy one?”

“I can’t go back to Mother, I can’t. She’ll lock me up again. She had me locked up for a whole moon. I was only able to escape because she brought me and Rhaegal to treat with Shireen Baratheon, as to antagonise her.”

"What? She came to King's Landing? The woman is mad." Rhaenyra exhaled, if she was a dragon, she’d be loosing her flame. Her nimble, brown fingers twisted the pendant she wore on her own chest, a silver harpy, with diamonds in place of eyes. “But bold. Which makes her more dangerous. What is left of the Tarth forces are fighting mother, with the rest of the Stormlands, well, apart from one rebel lord who has fled to mother’s court. You expect me to send a ship from the Dragonstone fleet to aid the enemy?”

“Yes.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I know you’re good. You pretend you’re not, but you’re good-of-heart. And because you agree with me, and Arianne Martell. Because one day, you’ll be queen, and whatever happens with the Baratheons, there's a chance that they'll remember your mercy and your kindness." She walked a few steps closer, feeling the wetness in her eyes. "And because I’m your sister, and I’m begging you.”

Rhaenyra bit her lip. "I was shocked when I first heard. The smoke had drifted up here, turning the skies black. I don't just mislike dragons because I was shunned by one, you know. They bring death and destruction in their wake. They are not a weapon that can ever be wielded safely."

"Rhaegal wouldn't do that, he's good," Viserra said, defiantly.

"Because you are good." Viserra's heart beat with pride. Glowing praise, from her. “I used to think Mother was good too...but now...you spoke of her madness, a few times, over the years…” Her voice trailed off. “I oft wondered why my father did not love her.”

“Whatever reason your father did not feel strongly about her, it was not her ill-mind. That came later. Lord Tyrion said when Mother was sacking cities she was sharp and sweet and even though people feared the dragon they followed her out of love too.”

Rhaenyra paused for some time, her eyelids heavy with thought. Viserra held her breath, staring at her expectantly. It seemed like ten lifetimes before she opened her mouth again.

“I’ll give you your ship and a handful of men, but you’ll most likely have to find some more oarsmen along with your labourers if you want to get there quickly. And have the sense to change the sails so they don't bear my arms.”

Viserra’s heart pounded. “Rhaenyra, thank you. Thank you!” She descended the steps, rushing to embrace her, standing on tiptoes to kiss her on each cheek. The years of cruel words and glares and belittlement, forgotten. Forgotten for this one kindness. “Of course, of course! I’ll change them. I’ll change them myself. That's not all I need, though-"

"You've another request?"

"Rhaegal. If I'm going to sail to Tarth, he can't come with me. Shireen Baratheon has threatened to shoot any dragons out of the skies with scorpions, I can't have him wounded. Please, Rhae, he'll be of no extra work to you. I'll recompense any farmers for any livestock he feasts on myself, I-

"Fine." Rhaenyra huffed and shuddered at her touch, but didn't pull away from it. "And regarding that ship, if Mother asks, you stole it.”

“That sounds something I would do.” Viserra smiled, watching Rhae's hard eyes soften, but soon found herself cast aside. They'd been interrupted, and Rhaenyra had leapt four paces away from her, not wanting anyone to see her soften.

At the archway, stood the cruel maester from earlier. The one who wanted to send the fisherboy off to war. He held a parchment in his hands, chains near-bending his scrawny neck.

“Maester Olyvar, please, leave us.” Rhaenyra clutched the table, flaring her nostrils.

“I’m afraid it cannot wait, my princess. I bear grave news from the capital. The Imp has escaped. The dragon, Viserion, appears to have gone with him," he narrowed his eyes. "Her Grace seems to think that it is your sister's doing."

Chapter Text

Addam Marbrand closed the door gently behind him, the joints of the door creaking like those of some wary traveller as he ensured it was firmly pressed to. He crept over to the looking glass and fiddled with strands of copper-coloured hair until the skin that showed beneath was adequately covered. It only took a few seconds for their eyes to meet, but the Lord of Ashemark did not jump or tremble, in fear nor anger.

Tyrion Lannister was sat at the Lord's chair, fiddling with a few silver stags that Addam had left unattended on his desk. He'd forgotten how long he'd been here, not remembering how high the flame of the hour had burned since he had ungraciously crept in through the window like some common catspaw. 

“My Lord Paramount pays me a visit," Addam said, speaking to him through the mirror. "On my son's wedding day, as well. Right after I've bedded him and my gooddaughter! Gods be good.”

“Am I still Lord Paramount of this region?” Pondered Tyrion, imagining the first thing that Daenerys would do would be to strip him of all lands and titles. He'd seen it done before. 

The Lord of Ashemark turned, his hands balled into fists. “Old habits. Not that you ever really were," he snarled, confirming his suspicions. “You’ve got a right brass neck to be showing that ugly face of yours around here.”

Tyrion studied the man he'd seen so much in his past life. If they hadn't seen each other for six-and-ten years, then Lord Addam had aged twice as fast. His hair was thinning, his face lined with age and worry but Tyrion could tell that he still had a soldier's body under his sable cloak. He was near six-foot of muscle, sharp elbows and knees. “I’d say ‘well met’, my lord, as it’s been such a bloody long time, but I don’t think my presence is very well-met.”

“It’s not. I'll be sending you back the Queen, she’s paying a good price for your head. Higher than Cersei was willing to part with.”

Oh Dany, he thought of her now. She was not the dragon's daughter, she was the dragon. He knew he was right to have feared her, all those years ago. His thoughts went to the gaolers who had found themselves distracted, the night he took his leave. Those poor creatures would certainly be getting questioned sharply. Tyrion Twice-Escaped, that's what they'd call him. He had allies in interesting place upon both occasions. First, the softly-slippered and softly-spoken eunuch who doused the gaolers' wine with sweetsleep. The second, a bandy-legged, bookish commander who seemed to make them disappear altogether. "Don't ask why, don't ask how, my Lord Hand," Blackwood had sung to him. He had the same face, all dark brows and beaked nose, but somehow he looked different. Like a mask had slipped. "You must be the luckiest lodger that the Black Cells have ever housed."

"Hos," Tyrion had rasped, his throat dry. They had denied him water for two days past. "What are you doing?"

"Freeing you." He produced a key. "Do you remember the way?"

"The way to where?" Tyrion squinted, shielding his eyes from the bright light of Blackwood's torch. He took the key with his other hand, feeling the rust around it. He'd seen nothing but darkness, felt nothing but the stone of the floors and rough, stale bread in his hands. Just enough to keep him alive, so he'd talk, or be forced to talk. Not that he'd spoken. Every day they came, and he played the fool. But it was difficult to play the fool when you'd done nothing but embrace the idea of you being the wisest man in the known world.

"The Hand's Tower. We've been unable to move Viserion, you'll find him in his usual place." Tyrion must have looked dazed, for Hos sighed, reaching out one gauntlet-clad hand to shake his shoulder. "Follow the steps down, and through the tunnelled passageway. You'll come to the cellars below-"

"I remember." Tyrion blinked, a path he'd walked before appearing in his mind. He remembered all too well. He'd returned to King's Landing differently, a Hand, but of a Queen; on a dragon, instead of horseback. But he was leaving in the same fashion as before, scurrying his way out of the dirt and darkness like some rat. Commander Blackwood handed down a torch from the wall to him and turned to go, but Tyrion called after him.

"Hos, why? Why would you do me this kindness? Why would you save my life?"

"You're a self-important little man, Tyrion Lannister. I am not doing this for you."

"Then who? Is this some trick? Are you sending me to walk straight into Drogon's jaws?"

Hos pursed his lips. "For Ser Jaime. He returned me to my father, whole and with my health when he didn't have to. It would be dishonourable of me to not treat any son of his with the same good grace. Tarth has been burned by Daenerys in a fit of rage, his known family are likely dead. You are all he has now, gods help him. I cannot let you depart this world as well."

My big brother saved me from my first death, now his deeds save me from my second. "This will not be forgotten, Commander."

"I'd prefer it if it was forgotten, Lord Tyrion. I wasn't ever here." Gold turned to black, and he was gone. Footsteps whispering into silence.

Since then, he'd been flying from place to place, only under the cover of darkness. Viserion would be easily spotted in light of day. He wrestled thoughts of where he would go and settled on flying westwards. That was the direction Galladon was said to have left on, or so he had overheard the gaolers say.  How did this happen though? Who knew, who told? That persistent question was always there, like the bite from some midge or fly that had festered. Paining away all day, keeping him from rest at night; but the more he scratched and nudged it, the greater it would sting. No, it does not do to dwell on the hows or whys. I must find him. I must keep him safe. One night, he said a silent prayer to the Warrior, whilst Viserion stole sleep in a cave north of the Crag. He'd stole a burning branch from his fire and let it rest against the cavern's wall. That was his candle and this was his sept. You couldn't watch over my bloody brother, could you? Well, Stranger, here's your second chance. 

Tyrion knew the gods weren't like to answer his prayers. Who on mortal earth could help? He thought of Shireen Baratheon. She wanted them to go to war together after all, but something was not quite right about her. No seed of Stannis would forgo a chance to better their position. All honour had gone overboard when the Iron Throne was the prize. No, he couldn't trust her, he'd decided that quick enough. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that h e couldn't trust anyone, and he'd be as hard-pressed to find someone who would trust him.

Jaime, though, Tyrion thought. Despite Daenerys' will, in certain parts, his name and memory were still as gold as the hair that had crowned his head. Men loved him, they wanted to follow him. They always did. They'd do the same for his son, would they not? Keep him safe, keep his secrets. Tyrion had tried to do that and failed. 

That is how Tyrion Lannister came to be sitting in Addam Marbrand's solar. “Now Daenerys wants my head? I'm surprised it's in such high demand, as ugly as it is.”

Addam glanced him up and down. “Clever little man, aren’t you? That famous sharp tongue. It’s not your own, though. You learned it all from your big brother, Father have mercy on him.”

“I think the acolyte surpassed the archmaester there, Lord Addam. Although, I’m pleased I didn’t learn my wits from my sweet sister.”

The Lord of Ashemark didn’t titter. “How did you get in here?”

"I landed on the roof and shimmied along the ledges until I found somewhere I wouldn't be disturbed. It's quite a raucous feast you seem to be having down there, Addam. I'm surprised you've torn yourself away from it all to treat with me."

“Treat with you?" Addam's face turned black. "How dare you darken my door, Tyrion Lannister. After everything thing you've done, the plague you brought us.”

Tyrion fumbled for words, but they were like marbles, slipping out of the slits in his hands. “I-I-I...should have come sooner, under different circumstances, I-”

“So you’re here to make amends? More like your keeper has thrown you out and now you seek our protection. Not bloody likely. Where was our protection? When her krakens and horselords were reaving and raping? And when the dragons came?”

"I apologise for-"

Addam snorted. "You apologise? Keep your apologies, Tyrion Lannister. Words are wind."

I tried to save you, not hard enough but I did try. "She gave you the opportunity to kneel, Addam." Tyrion risked. "I came to give you counsel before she marched west, I told you to kneel, but you chose to declare for Cersei, who was already rotting on the spikes of Maegor's Holdfast by that point. Folly."

"My loyalty is not so easily wavered. I kneel only to House Lannister."

"Well, you did bend the knee to Daenerys, eventually. If that was going to happen, you could have saved yourself an awful lot of bother and bloodshed."

Addam laughed in a way that put Tyrion on edge as he skulked over to his door, the floorboards creaking beneath him. "I did not believe in the dragons. Or Dothraki that braved their poison water. By the time I did it was far too late." His eyes burned like the tree of his house. "How dare you, Tyrion? You come into my home, unawares to me and berate me for not acting appropriately to end a war that you and your whore of a Queen started.." His fingers worked quickly, and the door swung open. Merriment and music and the warm tones of some bard leaked into the room like sunlight over the horizon. "Guards!" He yelled. "Guards, come at once." He'll help me, he'll help keep him safe, I just need to-

“Our dear Jaime left a son.”

“What?” Addam turned his head, his teeth gritted.

“Our dear Jaime left a son,” Tyrion repeated.

It was as if he had thrown a pail of water on a raging fire. Addam raked his sinewy fingers through his hair and closed the door. "A son? Tommen.” Addam said grimly, “Tommen. He lives? How? I-”

“Tommen is dead. And I am not speaking of Tommen."

He looked relieved. “I knew those rumours were filth, foul lies from the mouth of Stannis Baratheon, used as Targaryen propaganda, I…” his voice trailed off, he didn’t believe his own pleas. Tyrion wasn’t going to confirm them, nor would he deny them. “But if not, Tommen, who?”

“Do you remember Lady Brienne, of Tarth? The Evenstar’s daughter?”

“That woman he went off with?” Addam shoved his hands in the pockets of his breeches. “What about her?” Tyrion waited for the penny to drop. “Her?” He made a face. Addam was too gallant and too chivalrous to elaborate. “I was searching around the Red Fork at the time, looking for the Blackfish. By the time we regrouped, he was gone. Someone said he galloped off with this Brienne of Tarth and didn't tell anyone where they were going...”

“He went off with her, yes, and left a piece of him with her.”

“When?”

“Six and ten years ago, just as winter broke. Jaime sent her to Lannisport, according to the lad, to keep her safe. They took her back to Tarth, just as Daenerys’ forces clashed with the Westermen at Oxcross."

“Your forces.”

“I beg pardons?”

“Your forces. Don’t distance yourself from what you did, what you’ve done to all of us.” Tyrion barely opened his mouth to reply before Addam fired once more. “Who are ‘they’? None of House Lannister lives. Except you.”

“I’m not sure. It’s all secondhand. Lady Brienne died when labouring.”

“How do we know he is who he says he is?”

“Who would wish to pretend to be the Kingslayer’s son?”

"I've a hall full of men downstairs who'd have died for Tywin. They're like to do the same for any grandchild of his. For any son of Jaime's." From the sounds of it, they're not like to sacrifice themselves for Tywin's second son in the near future. 

Tyrion remembered the day he saw a ghost. A golden and beautiful ghost. Not just of Jaime, but Cersei and Joff and a bit of his father too, in the way that the boy stood. "You'd just need to look upon his face, and you'd know, Addam."

Addam scratched the stubble under his chin. "His son, you've met him?"

Tyrion nodded.

"Jaime has been in my thoughts of late." He lifted the stopper from a carafe of sweet white wine and poured himself a goblet, he even set to pouring one for Tyrion. "I see him when he isn't there, and he comes to me in my dreams. If that's my misplaced guilt, playing tricks on me, gods know what your guilt is doing to you." I'd not wish it on anyone. "His son. Is he well? Has he been provided for?"

"He certainly hasn't seemed to go without."

"I'd heard the whispers of the Kingslayer's son. Out for revenge and blood, to pay his debts to the Mad Queen...but I assumed that it was the half-cooked song of some singer." Addam drained and refilled his goblet. In the candlelight, Tyrion could tell that his face was already red with drink. "Where is he? Where is my best friend's son?"

I don't know. Tyrion wanted to weep. "I don't know." The words were a headache in his mind and bile on his tongue.

The door swung open without so much as a knock. “My Lord..." Lord Addam's squire was agog, noting Tyrion's presence in the room. He cut a noticeable figure. "I apologise for interrupting so rudely, my lord, but there are men downstairs. The Queen’s men. They wish to treat with you.”

"The Queen's Men?" Addam shot him a look. "Tyrion Lannister, what are you brought to my door?"

How could they discover me here? "I only approached under the cloak of darkness, Lord Addam. Viserion will be flying high, out of sight. I'm just as puzzled as you."

"Is that..." The boy's voice trailed off, his eyes wide.

"Yes," fired Addam. "It is." He grabbed a hooded cloak from a nearby hook on the wall and threw it over Tyrion's shoulders, pulling its bindings so tight that Tyrion pondered the possibility of him wanting to strangle him. Of course, he wants to strangle you. Everyone at the feast would relish the chance to coil a length of rope around his neck and to hoik him up like a particularly ugly tapestry. Addam grabbed him by the arms and pulled him out of the solar, the squire trailing after them like some faithful hound. Tyrion had no doting squire or steward, but his cloak comically trailed on the floor behind him. "I can't have you in there, they'll want to talk in there." He mouthed as he continued to drag him through the halls, past lovers cavorting in corners where they thought they wouldn't be seen.

They eventually came to the bustling rafters above the great hall. Long tables hosted a simple feast of roasted goat and root vegetables, and skins and skins of wine. Lord Addam's squire stayed close to his master's heel, watching Tyrion warily. “Stay out of the way,” Addam growled to him, pulling the hood over Tyrion's face. "If you cause any trouble.."

"I shant," replied Tyrion, his voiced hushed. "Go, I bid you." He wiped his hands on the cloak that Lord Addam wrapped around him, so wet with sweat that he may as well dipped them the steaming bowls of parsnip broth at the end of each table.

A familiar voice drifted up the stairs; a reachman with a sinful lilt to his words. “You’re all here then?" High boots slapped the boards the owner of the voice walked on. "Lord Tytos Brax, Lord Garrison Prester, Lady Alysanne Lefford, Lord Terrence Kenning…and even the Teats that Lost the North!" Tyrion squeezed forward, past skirts and scabbards, to view what was happening below. If he was forced to guess, he'd have got it right. It was Ser Humfrey Hightower, one of the Queen's blackcloaks, peacocking as always.

“Careful, Ser.” Lady Jeyne retorted, her face a grimace. Once the Young Wolf's consort, now a Lady in her own right, but that did not stop Humfrey's hand lingering around her shoulder, where skin met silk.

“We were very careful at the Crag, my lady. Have no fear. Thorough, I'll give me and my men that, but careful.” He unhelmed and wiped his brow. “Enough pleasantries. We come at the behest of Queen Daenerys, first of her name. We seek the Kingslayer’s son, Ser Galladon Storm. If he is here, hand him over to us and we’ll be on our way.” His voice boomed up to Tyrion’s balcony, his pale eyes scanning the room as he hoped to find a weak link in the chain, someone who would tell.

Wrong outlaw, I'm afraid, lads. Ask for the Imp and you'll have more luck. Tyrion stole a glance to a rugged man beside him who was looking at him queerly. “No, no one?” Humfrey implored once more, his face as steely as the armour he wore. He waved his hands in the air, smirking to the six men behind him. “Take a couple of maids. Or there's a pretty little lad over there, Merlon, if you'd prefer? They can have them back when they feel a bit more talkative. Or when we’re done. Whatever may come first.”

"Merlon? Is that Merlon Crakehall under there?" Pointed Lady Alysanne Lefford of the Golden Tooth, a handsome older woman in sky blue silks. Despite her courtesies, she turned to spit at his feet. "If your father could see you now-"

"Hold your tongue, my lady, or we may carry you off as well." Humfrey snarled, his black velvet cloak sailing as he walked by. There were men-at-arms, in the wings of the hall but they did not get a chance to move, for too soon steel kissed female flesh. Two of Humfrey's men descended on the benches like crows picking up breadcrumbs; wrenching the prettiest maidens up by hair, cloth and wrist and dragging them back to the doors with swords at their throats. "Where is the Lord of Ashemark?" Called Humfrey, as some slight, yellow-haired girl floundered in his grasp like a rabbit caught in a trap. "Is your Lord craven? Has he something to hide?"

“No!” Roared a voice that did not belong to Addam Marband. Someone with more heart than wits. They'll have those maids' pretty little heads clean off their necks if there is a whiff of disobedience. The heads of the revellers turned like a whip had been cracked, and a giant rose from the back of the hall.

It was him, it was him. His crown of golden curls had been sheared and he was wearing dented, mismatched armour, but it was plainly him. Sat with a handful of hedge knights and too many wine skins in front of him. Oh gods. Galladon grabbed the table to pull himself up, sending silver clattering. “Let them go, I beg you, Ser! I’ll go willingly. I came here with a name that was not my own. These good people were not complicit in any treason.” His words were as true and just as any anointed knight, but he slurred them like any inn's resident sot.

“Oh, there you are. I knew a big bastard like you wouldn't stay hidden for too long." Ser Humfrey mumbled. “Your gallantry is touching, Ser Storm, but the Queen will judge whether or not any treason has been committed. Not you.” Bored of his catch, he pushed the girl that he held to the floor. She whimpered, trying to crawl away, but Humfrey stood on her braid. Tyrion winced at her cries.

“This is not just, Ser." Galladon was riled now, his fists clenched. "I beg you, let the women go and let these people be. It was I that did the deceiving. I tell it true."

“Seize him.” Ser Humfrey commanded. “Try not to rough him up too much, though. Viserra won’t let me warm her bed again if I maim her little bastard knight before his trial.” Tyrion silently screamed, knowing what was coming next. 

His eyes were wildfire. "She is your princess! You'll be courteous where it concerns her, Ser." Galladon lurched forward, roaring, but the men who did not hold a pretty flower in their hands stormed him. They were big men as well, who managed to clap him in irons before his sword was drawn. He was slower than usual. Even a lion can be slain with enough hunters. A drunken lion needs even less.

"Lord Addam! Come out. I've got Jaime Lannister's bastard in chains. Present yourself!" Only barely. Galladon was batting them off like flies now, trying his best to unsheathe his sword with his bound hands but failing every attempt.

“Galladon! Stop!” Tyrion couldn't stand it. He yelled down to him, his voice booming from under his heavy hood. Addam, who’d just stepped out of the shadows of the arches looked up; seeking him in the crowds, his face plastered with confusion. Their eyes met. It’s him. It’s him. Jaime’s boy. You can’t let them. You can’t.

“Lord Addam,” asked Ser Humfrey, noting his presence, all whilst looking up to examine the rafters above him, to see where the screams had come from. “How lovely of you to grace us with your presence. Are you aware that you’ve been harbouring an enemy of the Crown?”

Addam looked up for Tyrion, gawping, but he'd already retreated backwards into the crowds, in case he was spotted. “He’s been here for about a moon," he heard Addam say. "I didn't know who he was. He said he was Ser Gally of somewhere or other. A hedge knight. He’s been keeping the peace in Ashemark, forgoing pay.”

“Do many hedge knights forgo pay?” Ser Humfrey quirked an eyebrow.

“Only when they plan on robbing you later,” called someone Tyrion did not know, his face not visible behind both his helm and the red-headed girl he was grappling with.

“Because the thing is, Lord Addam, this doesn’t make a lot of sense. I don’t think it’s going to make a lot of sense to the Queen either. I was a younger man when the Lion banner blew over King’s Landing, but I remember you and the Kingslayer were good friends, no? Now, you’re telling me that your best friend’s bastard has shown up at your court? And you knew nothing of it?”

“You knew my father?” Called Galladon. He stopped resisting to glance upon Addam, allowing himself to be restrained by the shadows around him. "You knew him well?". He shouldered one away who held him too close for his liking. A brute to look upon, but his voice was as pleading as any child’s. “Please, this man, Lord Addam, he wasn’t awares. I swear it, by the old gods and the new.” Tyrion edged forward, noting that Addam’s head had shot up again, scanning the rafters. One look at the boy’s face. That’s all he needed. One look and he’d know that he's Jaime's. He must know.

“You swear it? Gods be damned if I trust the seed of an oathbreaker.” Ser Humfrey’s eyes wandered down to the sword on Galladon’s hip. He reached down and unsheathed it, admiring the colours. “I always wanted a Valyrian steel sword. Vigilance was lost long ago and I would have been too far down the list to wield it anyway. What do you call this sword?”

“Oathkeeper,” Galladon grunted through gritted teeth as he watched Ser Humfrey toss his own inferior blade to ground, placing Galladon's in his own scabbard. “Not my sword, it was my mother’s sword, please.”

“Your mother was the Kingslayer’s Whore.” All six men were knocked aside as Galladon, lurched forward and snatched it back. He held it awkwardly, both of his thick wrists touching as he grappled at the pommel. The smallest Hightower was quick to retrieve the blade that he’d carelessly cast aside, but his nephew seemed more alert now. Quicker. Galladon drove his sword into Ser Humfrey, but with the flat instead of the point. The fair dragonknight crashed to the floor, his black armour playing a tune on the stone floor. He rose awkwardly, spitting both hairs and blood “Stop toying with him,” he called to his men, clutching his face. "Clap his legs in irons too, I don't care if it's a long walk back to King's Landing."

He’d need to get to him before he did something rash. Humfrey Hightower was a learned knight, more experienced, faster and also, armoured. He was clad in Targaryen armour, black enamelled steel with a breastplate and helm fashioned to look like dragon’s wings. If that was not enough protection, he was flanked by six other blackcloaks. Even if Daenerys would prefer a long drawn-out, theatrical trial, culminating in a public execution in the Dragonpit, she’d still happily accept his golden corpse.

Revellers rushed forwards, pushing Tyrion against the spindles of the balcony, keen to watch the going-ons below. He pushed past them, dashing down the stairs Lord Addam had told him to stay above. “Galladon,” he called again, bursting through the crowds that circled both the dragonknight and the lionknight. Tyrion did not know if it was the golden sword or his greenish eyes, but this time, Addam Marbrand’s eyes spoke to Tyrion. Jaime’s boy. It’s him. It’s him.

In the time it had taken for Tyrion to ascend the stairs to the feasting hall, a fettered Galladon had sliced Ser Humfrey’s black blade into two pieces as if was a crusty loaf of charcoal bread. Unawares of what to do, Ser Humfrey cast his half-sword to one side and eyed Galladon wearily. “Useless, the lot of you! He's in fucking fetters and there's six of you!” he screamed to his men, jabbing his finger, but Galladon stood firm. “Valyrian steel, that is.” The blade was smoke and fire, alive in the candlelight. “A Lannister sword, look at the pommel," someone whispered, to Tyrion's left. Indeed, the leather bindings that he had advised him to cover to the pommel with had unravelled. The lion roared once more.

Lord Addam lurched in front of him, hand on his own hilt. "This is my keep, these are my lands. Stop this madness, I command you!"

"I do not take my commands from you, I take my commands from Queen Daenerys, first of her name."

"I'll come with you, willingly, I've said, but leave these people-"

“No, you will not go willingly.” Addam's words were a command, that could not be mistaken, but his voice was as gentle as a summer breeze. He turned and addressed the hall, his head high. “This boy who stands before us is our rightful liege! The grandson of Lord Tywin, the Shield of Lannisport, and son of Ser Jaime, the Young Lion. If you pledged your sword to Casterly Rock now all those years ago, now is the time to draw it once more!” It was a battle-cry but he inspired stunned looks and whispers, rather than a charge on the dragonmen.

“Your rightful liege?" Ser Humfrey laughed. His laugh was grating on the ears. He put on his helm, his voice bouncing around within the steel. "You accept this little bastard boy as your rightful liege?”

“My mother and father were wed!" Protested Galladon, his knuckles white around his sword. Every eye in the room was on him, drinking him in. The pennies all seemed to drop at once, as if someone had taken a dagger to a silk purse.

"Aye." When Lord Garrison of Feastfires stood, he raised the table in front of him with his paunch. "Aye," he slurred, hand on hilt. "If that's Jaime fucking Lannister's son, and it looks a lot to me like Jaime Lannister's son, you'll have to go through those men of mine if you reckon that you'll be dragging him back to King's Landing, pretty man." As he spoke the words, a dozen men-at-arms emblazoned with the red ox of House Prester stepped from under the rafters. No knights to look upon, but they were armoured well enough and carrying longaxes near as big as Tyrion himself. "What the fuck are your soldiers still doing sat down?" He called to the other Lords and Ladies. My father's bannermen. Soon enough, steel sang around the room as blades were unsheathed. Now the oxen were joined by unicorns, shells and Lord Addam's own burning trees; all pointing their steel towards the Queen’s men. The Lannister name still invoked a certain loyalty, that is if the forename was not Tyrion. Galladon stood blankly in the midst of it all, more lamb than lion, unawares as to what was happening. He hasn't the foggiest idea who these people so willing to die for him are.

The westermen outnumbered the Queen's, at least five to one, and Ser Humfrey knew it well. “Fools. Word travels slowly here.” The Queen's man announced. “None of you have heard of what happened to Tarth?” Not Tarth. Don’t speak of Tarth. Not from you. Ser Humfrey slinked to Galladon as slick as spilt oil. “Her Grace punished your grandfather’s treasons with fire, and with blood. You’d see these people charred as well? For the likes of you?”

“Fuck your Dragon Queen,” called Lord Tytos Brax, pounding his fists on the table. “If she wants to be known at the tyrant she always was, she can be the queen of the ashes, blackened bones and burnt-out holdfasts. I let your father be captured by Robb Stark, Ser, at the Whispering Wood, I won't let the same happen to you."

"'Fuck your Dragon Queen'? You'd really speak so ill of the Queen who saved you and your kin from the Long Night?"

"Aye, I would! I saw no white walkers, riding giant spiders made of ice around these parts. Absolute poppycock if you ask me. And even then, even if what the Northerners say is true, and she did save me...I'd have rather died than given up my pride!"

Ser Humfrey took a moment to study the man in front of him, scratching the stubble on his chin. "You'd have rather died? That could be arranged."

"Not today it won't! Look around you, Ser. There is a losing side, and I'm not on it. At arms!" Upon Tytos Brax's command, a dozen men-at-arms marched forward, swords drawn. The dragons retreated at the sight of the unicorns; the ones who still held women, dropping them like hot coals to reach for their own swords.

"The Golden Tooth!" Called Lady Alysanne, summoning six more.

"Ashemark!" Lord Addam's men came forth now, circling Galladon protectively, like a swaddled babe.

“Lord Addam...” Galladon looked over weakly, feeble despite all of the swords surrounding him. “What is he talking about?”

"We won't let them take you, lad."

"Tarth, I mean. What is he talking about?

Lord Addam did not fully understand the weight of his words. “Queen Daenerys put the isle to her dragonflame.”

“She burned it, all of it, hoping you’d be inside.” Ser Humfrey cackled, relishing in Galladon’s pale face. “Your whore mother’s family paid for their crimes and yours with their lives.” His pale eyes sparkled. Oh, he was enjoying it, even though was folly to throw pebbles at a caged lion. Don’t, Galladon, don’t. If you go for him, you’ll start a bloodbath. Tyrion eyed the swords around him. All it would take was one drop of red for everyone’s swords to kiss and clash. They hadn’t had a good fight here for six and ten years, and some were desperate for one. He threw himself forward, tripping over his own boots.

“No!” Tyrion called, heaving himself up. “Nephew, don’t. He is trying to provoke you to anger, do not let him.”

“The Imp!” Hooted Ser Humfrey. “Two birds, one stone.”

I'm here, I'm here. I'll keep you safe. “Is it true?” Galladon called to him, expressing neither joy or surprise at seeing his nuncle. “What they say? About Tarth, about my family?”

I cannot tell a lie. Tyrion nodded. “I’m so sorry.”

Tyrion did not know what happened next. He felt a hand drag him backwards and saw Galladon getting pushed alongside him. Men with axes and swords and morningstars separated them from the Queen's. Steel came together, clanging like bells, whilst tables overturned and both blood and wine spilt. Maids screamed, children ran and hedge knights who feared to break guest right by standing idle joined the side of the lord that had fed and housed them that eve. A dishevelled lanky boy, no more than fifteen with Addam's copper hair and lovers' bites on his neck strolled down the stairs before sprinting away from the carnage.

By the end of it, it was Lord Addam who held steel to Ser Humfrey Hightower's throat, the point of his blade close enough to shave silvery hairs on his chin. "No, no," whimpered the dragonknight. "Please, I was only the messenger. Mother have mercy!" Addam's sword grip was strong, his stare unwavering, but he pulled his blade away and sheathed it in his scabbard. “I've a message for you. Run back to King’s Landing, Ser." Lord Addam snarled, stepping over a black armoured corpse in his path. "Tell your Dragon Queen what happened here."

Chapter Text

The Lady of Storm's End clasped her arms in front of her chest, feebly trying to keep out the bite. It was near evenfall now, the last few rays of sunlight rippling on the water. A beautiful sight to behold, but she took no joy in it. “Do you believe he’s well enough to return?” Shireen quivered as she looked down on Shipbreaker Bay, watching the hunched figure of Selwyn Tarth in a rowboat, boarding a larger vessel at the foot of the cliffs. 

“No,” said Edric, after some time. “He most certainly isn't, but the gods wouldn’t have been able to hold him back any longer.”

“I feared he’d die before he made it back.” And it would all be your fault if he had. He'd been here ever since, bed-ridden since Edric had dragged him back from the sea, soaked in saltwater and shaking from grief. She scratched the inside of her palm with her fingernails. She hadn't cut them for some time. Jagged little knives.

“It would have been kinder if he would have done. He's lost two wives and all of his children now, and that grandson of his won't last long. There's a significant reward for that comely head of his." Edric's tone was barbed. He'd clearly not forgiven her for neglecting to tell him about Galladon. Galladon, my great golden hound. Mother have mercy, Father give him strength. Where are you? "He's been calling for him in the night," Edric went on. "He's been shrieking for Elaena too, his eldest. He reckons she was out on her own boat that day."

"So she may live still?" 

“It's not bloody likely, Shir. Haven't you seen the seas of late? A calm day today, yes, but we haven't had many of them. If he's talking sense, and it's not just the witterings of some grief-sickened old man, I can’t imagine she would have lasted long out there.” The butterflies of hope stopped fluttering in her chest and shame bubbled up in its place. Like a boiled, burnt stew; black and thick and hot.

“Are you sure? Positive? Have no vessels have turned up in the bay? No sign of her whatsoever?”

“No pleasure barge with lost daughters of Tarth, I'm afraid, my lady.” A voice behind them had been listening to half of their conversation. It was Devan, wearing a silver cloak held together with a brooch fashioned to look like an onion. The stones in it sparkled as he approached her, but his eyes twinkled the most.  "The only ship that has entered our waters unknown to us was a small galley, sails emblazoned with the Seven-Pointed Star a fortnight ago. I feared it a dragon’s trick, but its goodwill was legitimate. The Faith have sent labourers to aid with the restoration of Tarth, and to look for survivors. I fear I'm going to the deepest of the seven hells after being chastised by some mouthy little septa when I asked them to state their business.” He smiled weakly, but she knew he was hurting. Not as much as her. It was guilt that raked at her heart every day. You did this. You caused this. You thought yourself a schemer but you had about as much patience as Cersei fucking Lannister.

"What was it like, Devan? Tarth?" She didn't want to know the answer. She looked down to see that blood wept from her hands where she had scratched herself so deeply. She wiped it on her skirts.

"I know you are no maid to warfare, my lady, but I shant upset you with grim details. It would not be fair. Let the Faith and our men clear the damage-" Clear the bodies. "-and I'll take you there myself. Any survivors will be well tended to."

“They’ll be hard pressed to find survivors that we don't know of, Ser Devan.” Edric scorned, his hand creeping to find her own. The one that wasn't bleeding. “It was over two moons ago that Daenerys rained her fire down. Anyone who was unfortunate enough to be trapped by debris and ash would have certainly been smothered or starved to death by now.”

“I’ve a romantic heart, my lord. We must have faith. The work of our holy brothers and sisters is certainly welcomed." Devan nodded to the Baratheon banners that blew in the breeze, the stag of her house rearing in fury on the Seven-Pointed Star.

“I know all about your heart, Ser." Edric sneered, his eyes narrow slits of blue. The last slice of daylight before the darkness. "Leave us. My lady is grieved. She needs the fresh air."

Her lover flinched. "You forget yourself, my lord, I don’t take my orders from you.” Devan kneeled as if she was the queen that her father said she would be, unfazed by his fine cloak in the dirt. “My lady, my liege.” My love. “Would you like me to take my leave?

Shireen’s stomach wrenched. No, no, no. I don't want you to. If she had her way, he’d never leave her. She’d have wed him and their children would be trueborn, and her Onion Knight would have been her goodfather. But she could not have her way. Trying to have her way had caused so much pain and anguish. I cannot be ruled by my heart anymore.

“Please do not disregard my lord husband again. He speaks with my voice.” She heard herself say.

“Whatever my lady wishes,” Devan said, his voice wavered. He turned on his heel and began the march back to the keep. Shireen watched him all the way, endeavouring to not let the disappointment show upon her face. Edric squeezed her hand as if he approved of what she had done, but she shook him away.

“Don’t touch me.” She shuddered, wiping the residue of his sweaty palm on her skirts. Sweat and blood and silk.

“Don’t touch you? I’m your lord husband.” Edric flushed red, now all too aware of the twelve guards that were only twelve paces behind them.

Shireen made no effort to hush her voice. “That does not give you permission to maul me.”

“Maul you?" He announced. "I was providing you comfort. You haven't eaten for a moon, you sob at night and sob by day when you think no one is watching. I'm trying to look after you, Shireen.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because I love you.”

“You don’t love me, you fool." One-half of her face twisted with venom. "You’ve never loved me.”

“It was not me who denied you affection. You would love me, if you gave me a chance. If you paid me half as much attention as you paid him.” He spat. Shireen did not have to ask who the man he mentioned was. He knew. He always knew. She just didn't think that he cared. She didn't care after all.

Shireen stood for a while, stunned, feeling the salty breeze lecherously graze her skin. For half-a-heartbeat, she wished for a gust so strong that it would push her over the edge of cliffs, so the seas could swallow her up. A gust did not come, but a cloak. Edric reached around her and fastened it tight. “That was unworthy. I am to blame as well. I have not treated you as well as you deserve to be treated.”

Shireen studied his face. It was a good face. Fair to look upon, and even fairer by sunset. His eyes were wide now. They were brightest of summer mornings, but his hair was the hour of the bat. She reached out to touch him, grazing the coal-black stubble upon his sharp jaw before creeping up to stroke the rings around his eyes. He’d been working tirelessly, that could not be doubted, tending to Lord Selwyn and ensuring the defences around Storm’s End could not be penetrated. He’d even set to refilling the murderholes in the cavern with boiling oil every hour, in case the dragonmen managed to bypass the portcullis.

“I could be good to you, I really could. If I tried more, and if you’d let me. Please, Shireen, please.” His voice was urgent, his breath flame on her cold ears. Her body and mind were weak. She wanted to be taken care of, and now she knew that she had to entrust that duty to her lord husband. Her protector who had wed in her in the sights of gods and men. She was no longer a tattered princess, acting on wants and whims in a bid to restore lost glory. She had a duty. To her people, to her children, to...Edric. 

How could she serve them all, though? And well. How? After what she had done. She looked down, the blue of the water crashing into white as it hit the rocks below. The shame bubbled up again, the shame of it all, as all-consuming as dragonfire. She lifted her gaze and looked to Tarth. The first time she'd really looked at it, instead of looking to the skies or past it to the seas. The screams of peasants burning hit her like a stampede of charging horses. Lady Tarth and Elaena and Floris' skin blistering like a pig on a spit. "No, no, no!" She screamed, taking a step towards the edge.

Edric held her back and heaved her over one shoulder like she was a rolled-up tapestry. Her men rushed forward to, fussing and fretting, creating a barrier between cliff and sea. "You're alright, little doe. I've got you. Your lord husband has got you." Her sobs became whimpers and her tears and mucus dried hard on her face. When she opened her eyes again, she was on her featherbed. She heard voices.

“My lady, my lord," whispered one. "I apologise for disturbing you both, but there is word from King’s Landing.” Maester?

“Does the Queen wish to taunt her with her beasts again? She's gone mad, Maester. Mad. She was mad straight after Tarth, but with rage...now, it's just-"

"Women can be hysterical in times of grief, or loss. Not something Daenerys took the time to consider before her...changes." I'll show you hysterical. Shireen stirred, the furs heavy above her.

"What is it? Word from who?"

“It's certainly not word from the formal channels.”  Allard. The High Septon. 

"Let me read it in her stead, she's not well enough to hear any grievous tidings."

It was if lightning had struck her in the heart. She shook off the furs as if they were a blanket of snow. "I'm fine," she called, wiping her face. "I'm fine, please, please, let me have it." She forgot her manners and courtesies, wrenching it from his hands as if it was a leg of lamb and she hadn’t eaten in a moon. Allard.

Little doe,

There have been a few failed hunting trips to Ashemark. We saw a prized lion cub, but haven't been able to trap him. It seems he is being defended by the entire pride. A shame, but we will be trying again soon.

-Al.

A ship with a Seven-Pointed Star on a sail was saving Tarth, and now a raven bearing the same sign on a wax seal had saved her. The gods, they have listened to me. New tears; fat and salty ran down Shireen’s face. She held out her tongue to catch them, but they still managed to trickle over onto the raven she clutched in her hand. He was alive. Alive. “Wake Ser Davos.” 

“And Ser Devan, my lady?”

“Yes,” she said, not looking to Edric. He'd tended to her well. He could have let her throw herself off the cliffside. She expected him to. But she needed her Master-at-Arms, there was no time to swaddle her husband's pride. “Him too.”

“Shireen, please." Edric clasped her by the shoulders, using a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe her face. "Let me sit with your council, please. You can’t keep me out, you need to let me in. You've been carrying so much weight on these shoulders of yours. Share it with me.” He clutched her hands tight. “Please,” he begged. “I want to serve you.”

“Alright.” She said, repeating it again as if to reassure herself. “Alright.”

They met within the hour, Edric assuming the Lord's seat in her solar whilst Shireen paced the room, giddy with hope. Alive, alive, alive.

“Galladon, he’s alive." She announced. "They found him in Ashemark.”

"How do you know?" Edric's eyes were shining. Lovely eyes. Like her own.

Shireen looked to Maester Karl, he nodded. "The High Septon is spying for me."

“Wait, found him? They found him and didn't kill him?” Devan stared at her, but she averted her eyes.

“Yes, found him." Her hands were shaking. "But couldn’t capture him.”

“I doubt Daenerys is very happy about that." Davos knotted in his eyebrows in confusion. "He’s not going to stay free much longer. How did he manage to evade them?”

“I don’t think he slipped through their fingers, I believe he was shielded. Who is the Lord of Ashemark, maester?”

“Lord Addam Marbrand. He was the Kingslayer’s friend.”

Of course. “That’s it then. We need to send a raven to Ashemark, call them to arms, to stand up against the tyranny of the Silver Queen.”

“Hold your horses, princess, you can’t rely on the Westermen right now. They’ve not had a standing army in years. Yes, the lords and ladies will have a unit of men-at-arms for their own protection, and you’ll be amply supplied in peasant boys who fancy themselves as dragonslayers, but not yet.”

"My father is right. We can send them a message of support, pledge our swords to their cause, but they won't be ready to answer any call. We're still on our own, for now."

“If we need men," Edric raised his voice, to be certain he was paid attention to. "I say we retreat from the Crownlands. There was no real gain in doing so, we were never going to retake Dragonstone or King’s Landing. It only served to shake up Daenerys.”

Shireen made a face. “Certainly not, it only takes a nominal amount of men to hold. Princess Harpy sent 1000 men to retake Stonedance and a handful of my archers picked them off like squirrels on a branch. The more keeps we can hold from the capital to here makes us safer. I’ve given orders to shoot down any dragon seen in the skies. I’d rather my men had an attempt to shoot it down over the Crownlands instead of risking it charring us in our beds.”

"Holding Stonedance isn't going to win this war." Edric seemed to ignore everything she had just said. "We'll need to meet them on the fields."

"And we shall, husband. I've promised Daenerys as much."

“Who does she have?”

“Only the Reach is definite, and the Riverlands, for she has some hostages of importance at court," Shireen replied. "The North has agreed to supply some men from Winterfell, but they aren't burdening their vassals with her call.”

“Don’t forget Red Ronnet! We've a fearsome foe in that one,” smirked Devan, peeling an apple with a dagger. His particular treachery didn't surprise her. He'd fled to King's Landing on the day of the Grand Hunt, pledging his sword to the Queen.

"Dorne shant oppose us, and neither should the Ironborn," Davos added.

“The Ironborn don’t want a chance to rave and reap?” said Edric, aghast.

“Oh, they’ll be raving and reaping, trying to scrabble some of the spoils of war when the fighting truly beings in the West and Reach, but they won’t be doing it under the dragon banner. They’re not interested in Westerosi wars.” Shireen sat down in between the two Seaworths, both of them deep in thought.

“We could crush the Riverlands,” contemplated Davos, “as well as whatever the Northmen try to face against us. Even if they brought all of the fighting men from above the Neck, they don’t have the numbers to raise a substantial army anymore. The men who didn't die in the War for the Dawn were babes at the time. Green boys.”

“And what of the Reach?”

Davos shrugged. “The Tyrells are a problem,” he said, as he clicked his tongue. “We’ll need to lay siege to some of the smaller keeps. It’s easy enough work if they don’t know we’re coming. The Reachmen don’t build their castles as big and strong as we do in the Stormlands.”

“Easy enough work, with how many men, father?"

“As many as we can spare. If the might of Highgarden approaches, we’ll need to retreat East or it’ll be a bloodbath, but if we make enough gains before that happens, we’ll put Willas into a position where he’ll resign from Daenerys’ campaign. A sensitive soul, he won’t deal well with the blood of innocents being spilt.”

“He keeps some bloody strange company if that’s that case.” She considered her own thoughts, adding the appropriate numbers in her head. “I can spare about 9000, at the moment.”

“Is that all?” Edric was horrified. “How many do you have in Stonedance still? Are you sure relieve some of them?

“Relieve some of then men? Madness. I need those scorpions manned at all times, and construction started on those beacons as soon as possible, I need to light up these skies so I can see what is hurtling towards me.”

Shireen took some time to study the table in front of her. She had been more than thankful to give up Dragonstone, hating the place with its magic and secrets and palpable darkness, but she wished that she could have taken the Painted Table with her. The stone of Storm's End was woven with magic of its own. Magic that prevented other spells and sorcery from passing through. The best sort. It had a table, not as fine, not as large; clumsily painted with the terrain of Westeros. It paled in comparison to where Aegon planned his invasion, but it served her well enough. She found what she was looking for, jabbing a finger just north of Blackhaven.

“We’ll march deep into the Dornish Marches. There is water, shelter and they won't know we're even there. And if they do find out, the Tyrells won’t be able to trot their horses over the crags and cliffs anyway. When we’re ready, we can take Ashford.”  And then Cider Hall and Longtable.

“And then Cider Hall and Longtable,” said Devan, smirking. “Father is right. Willas Tyrell is soft. He’ll stop meddling in Daenerys Targaryen’s business when his bannermen’s lives are at stake.”

"What is to stop her flying down and setting us aflame?" Edric asked, his voice tight.

Shireen paused. "The fact that she only has one. Her second daughter, the bastard one, hasn't been seen for two moons."

"And she managed to let the Imp and his mount escape..." added Devan. His smile was warm, undeterred by his dismissal earlier. She looked away.

“Call the banners, in person. I cannot risk ravens being intercepted. I want them to march for Blackhaven as soon as possible. I’ll ride myself at first light tomorrow, with the men of Storm's End.”

“Tomorrow?”

Shireen nodded. “With the Reach next to them, the Lords of the Westerlands aren’t going to piece an army together in a hurry, especially after the first War for the West. But if we can make the Tyrells bend, they’ll join us. I know they will. We need to move quickly.”

Whilst the Seaworths rode through the night, the elder North to Bronzegate and the younger South towards Estermont to ready her soldiers, Shireen returned to her chambers and watched her lord husband undress. Watching the light and dark of his chest muscles in the candlelight made her heart swell. She did not oft feel that way about him, especially in years recent.

She'd been so happy on her wedding day, a crown of cream-coloured roses on her head and the stag of House Baratheon on her back when she met him at the sept. But then she saw Devan, as slim as a whip with his common brown hair, and his eyes that broke her hearth. He was not full of wroth and envy, but a sad acceptance. "You look radiant, my lady." He had told her, as he danced with her chastely to Seasons of My Love. He hadn't warmed her bed for almost a year after that until the longing got too much for the both of them. They had each other in the stables whilst a storm raged outside, her pinned to his body like Elenei had sheltered her mortal man from stone and thunder.

"You're fierce. So fierce." Edric sat beside her on the featherbed, placing his hand on her thigh. "How many men are you sending towards the Marches again?"

"9000. You were right to be perturbed, but that is the best number that I am able to raise. Even then, one-ninth of those shall be peasants from the fiefs."

"9000," he repeated solemnly. "And you are sure you wish to be with them? When do you expect to arrive there?"

"Of course I'm sure. Why would I ask men to die for me when I would not risk my own life? I should arrive in Blackhaven by tomorrow even."

Edric furrowed his brow. "Do you want me with you?"

"No." She paused. "No. My children need their mother and father both. You may take your seat at my council, but I can't have you marching with me."

"Whatever you wish." He stroked her hair. She liked how it felt. How much she enjoyed it made her feel queer.

Shireen looked at him for some time. "It was unfair of me to deny you a seat at my council. You're my cousin, as well as my lord husband."

"I'm glad you see that now. You can trust me. You can trust me with your life. If I have seemed cold, it was my jealousy. I couldn't bear to share you. I want all of you. Don't make me do it anymore." He whispered, leaning into her, inhaling her hair. His name was Storm, but he was the dry, burning heats of summer. Her cheeks reddened under his breath.

It happened quickly. His hands crept up her skirts, retrieving her smallclothes and unhooking them from her ankles. Then it was his head that disappeared under the sage-green silks, wanting to taste her. She writhed around her his tongue, her hips rolling into his kiss and her eyes rolling backwards in her head. She couldn't bear it any longer, fumbling around and pulling him up and onto her. She wanted him, she wanted him. Shireen could taste herself his lips, but not for long, because soon enough his mouth was on her scars, kissing them like they were the prettiest, pinkest pieces of flesh. Then he was inside her, more clothes were strewn aside with every thrust.

Throughout their lovemaking, she did not think of Devan once. She did not wish she was looking on brown instead of blue. No more, she thought. No more. This was her lord husband, and she had to do her duty. She had very much enjoyed that duty. Perhaps Edric was right, she'd love him if she gave him a chance. 

"Where are you going, love?" She murmured when they were done, her hair splashed out on the pillows like spilt ink. Edric rose from their furs, pulling on the breeches and tunic that he'd discarded on the floor.

"To see to the babes."

Shireen sat upright. "I did not hear Argella cry." Edric shushed her, pinning a lock of hair behind her ear. "Is something wrong?"

"Neither did I, I just want to look at them. And to check those guards aren't falling asleep. We can't trust anyone, Shir."

"Shall I come with you?" She swung her legs out of bed, feeling the wetness slick on her thighs. Mayhaps they made a new child? She was fertile enough, three children living at seven and twenty. Poor timing, though, she'd be leading men into battle tomorrow and could be fighting for moons if not years. A breastplate that could hold a burgeoning belly may be a task too much for her blacksmith at such short notice.

"No," he said adamantly, rushing to kiss her forehead. "You rest your bones and head. You've so much on your mind, so much on your shoulders. Rest."

 As soon as the door was pulled to, her heart panged. She wanted him back. She wanted to be with him. Perhaps she could love a husband as much as a lover? Shireen waited for near half-hour longer, before pulling on her sleeping silks and creeping out of chambers. Mayhaps the children were awake, and she could read to them all. The Dance of the Dragons. She used to love that tale, but that was when she thought all of the dragons were dead.

"Good even, Joss." She smiled to the guardsman at her children's nursery. "Do you want to join me and my lord husband for some songs?" Life seemed sweeter now. Galladon was alive and her soldiers were on the move. There would be war, but there was hope. Up until this night, it had only been grief and guilt and loss.

"I think I better stay on watch, m'lady." He grinned. "I'll give Lord Edric his invitation when I see him."

"Oh, has he been and gone?"

"I haven't seen him, m'lady."

"Another entrance, perhaps?"

"Ain't no other entrance anymore, m'lady. We filled the other doorways with brick and stone, as you said. One door in, one door out. Were we wrong to do so? I can have it knocked down." Joss' young face was pale under his helm. Shireen's was pale for another reason.

She excused herself, running back to her chambers. He wasn't there. The castle slept, apart from guards on patrol. They stopped and asked her if she was well, offered to escort her back to her apartments but she blushed and shook her head. She couldn't sleep. She had restless legs. She'd lost a necklace that day, a chain of yellow diamonds, could they let her know if they find it? Excuses. Then her feet were pounding the stairs, heavy and steady as a stroke drum pacing oarsmen. She saw him, coming out of the rookery, his eyes narrowed.

No. Her stomach lurched and so did her body, her back pressed close to the wall. It was cold, her breath in front of her face. Her heart was beating like a hammer on silks as she listened to his footsteps dance around the corner until they were barely a whisper. The rookery. What was he doing there? As soon as she felt safe to move, certain she would not be found, she bolted up the stairs and pulled open the heavy door. She knew what she was looking for. The King’s Landing raven. It was gone. She checked the roosts for the main cities of Westeros; Oldtown, Sunspear, Winterfell, Highgarden, Pyke, Casterly Rock. No King’s Landing. Then the roosts of the birds of her vassals, in case the bird had wandered. Tarth. Bronzegate. Fawnton. Nightsong. Griffin’s Roost. Grandview. Felwood. Haystack Hall. No King’s Landing. She looked above, hoping the bird had crept towards the burning beacons overhead for warmth. No. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t deal with the birds squawking. He's betrayed me. Before his seed was dry on my leg, he betrayed me. Blackhaven. 9000 men. Tomorrow. He's sent a raven to the Queen. He'd have sent her to her death.

Feathers quivered around her. Shireen waited for a while, before calmly retracing her steps back to her children's nursery. Stannis and Orys were sleeping soundly in their own beds, whilst Argella was awake, swaddled in white cloth. She heaved her up in her arms and offered her a breast from beneath her sleeping robes. As she fussed to latch, Shireen could see her daughter’s eyes in the candlelight. They had darkened. Brown.

“Stannis’ father has betrayed me, my littlest doe.” She swayed from side to side, letting her black hair skim her babe’s skin in a way she loved. Ticklish, she gave a toothless smile. “But that’s alright, my love, my tiny queen of storm. He can think himself wise and cunning but I’m wiser, and I’m done with schemes.” Shireen’s voice was as sweet as any lullaby as one hand stroked her babe’s soft face. “He can whisper and dance with dragons, but I won’t. I will steep the Dornish Marches in catapults and scorpions and I will slay the dragons. When they think they will take me unawares, I will be waiting. I will be ready. I am the blood of Stannis Baratheon, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, and I shall not be brought to heel by this Silver Queen or the by-blow of some drunken, whoring sot.”

Chapter Text

Jaime stared down at his mottled arms, chuckling. They were only like to get worse today. He picked up the basket of crushed oak galls and began to scrape them into the boiling vat in front of him, before adding more alum and horse piss that had been collected by someone even more unfortunate than him. He stood for a while, watching as the colour of the water changed. Too cloudy, far too cloudy. He limberly crept in between all of the other dyers and their vats, to pull one of the cords on the walls. Everyone was dying blacks today, a sombre tone for Tyrosh, and the warehouse workers had been ordered to bring more oak galls every time the bell rang for them. It was not too long before one of the closest things he had to a friend bustled through, holding a barrel above his head as if it was the smallest pot of ink. Ink. That would work. Why were they wasting manpower crushing oak galls?

“Westerosi!” The cask came to the floor with an almighty crash. “I’m glad it is you who called for me, I’ve something to tell you-“

“If you are going to declare your love for me Xhal, it’s far too late. I’ve already been promised to Grollo.” Jaime hooted, nodding to the tongueless, balding dyer to his right. Xhallalla laughed, but Silent Grollo did not find him half as amusing.

“You and your jests and japes. I'll miss you! I’m leaving, gone! I’m going to your homeland.”

“Where?”

“Are you soft? Westeros.”

Jaime broke open the barrel with a dagger that he kept in his pocket. A blunt thing, with a hilt of whalebone. He'd no need for fine steel these days. “Why?”

“To fight.” Xhallalla puffed out his chest proudly.

“I had no clue you were a warrior.”

“I can be, for the right price.”

“What is your price, Commander Xhallalla?”

“A square yard’s share of Casterly Rock’s mines, as well as lands and titles. I will be Lord Xhallalla to you.” Xhallalla grinned, baring the pearls of his teeth.

“Casterly Rock?”

“They say it is like a mountain, that is as tall as the clouds and it’s insides are solid gold.” The Summer Islander saw Jaime’s face. “Do you know it?”

“I grew up in the shadow of it.” In more ways than one.

“You speak truly?”

“You doubt me?”

“Yes,” Xhallalla said blankly. “I have been here a year, and that has been too long. You have been here tenfold as long and-”

“More than that.”

“-for what reason? The Westerlands of Westeros are lands of knights and fair maids, where all the mountains are made of gold, the harvests are always bountiful and everyone lives in a great castle. Why would you come here? And stay here? To rot in the dust with the flies and the slaves?”

Jaime could scarcely hold in his laughter. “Who told you this?”

“The messenger, he was by the fountain this morning.”

“What messenger? Did he bear any sigil or arms?”

“I don’t know his name.” Xhallalla was startled. “He’d a purple horse on his breast. Said he came at the behest of Lord Tyrion Lannister. He was the one who promised the gold, and the titles.” Not horse. A unicorn. House Brax. Jaime grabbed his oar and started furiously blending the dye.

“Who will you be fighting?”

“The Queen. The Queen has taken Casterly Rock, and Tyrion Lannister and the Westerlords are going to take it back, for the Kingslayer’s Son. Whoever he may be. In truth, I don’t understand it completely, but…gold, a castle. It’s my chance.” A summer child from the Summer Isles. He’s probably younger than Tommen. He’d heard more of him recently.

“More from Westeros….” Someone had said, in the tavern he was in the night before. “The details are different, depending on who you ask, but they all tell the same tale. The tale of a tall, young lord with hair like the sun and a sword like forged fire.” Tommen, with Joffrey’s sword. The boy I did not save, Jaime thought sadly, as he sipped red wine from a chipped cup. I shan't do the same for my second-born son. He thought of Brienne of Tarth, his Brienne, and the sword he'd given her. Oathkeeper. Tommen's brother-sword.

“Chance?” Jaime spat, all whilst still furiously stirring the dye. “Chance for what?”

“Glory, titles, a princess with golden hairs for a wife…” Xhallalla was good-humoured, chuckling as he scraped out the oak galls with his hands, into the steaming liquid. “Perhaps it could be your chance. A chance to go home.”

“Mayhaps you are right.” Jaime gritted his teeth.

“I’m leaving tonight you know. I’ve bought passage and everything.”

“On what ship? With this messenger with the purple horse on his breast?”

Xhallalla shook his head. “No. He’s gone onwards to Myr. I’m sailing to Oldtown. Can I walk from there to Casterly Rock?”

Jaime couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’d buy some better boots if that is what you intend.”

“It leaves at dusk. Tallest Tree, that is its name.”

As soon as Xhallalla turned on his heel, he’d decided. He was going to do it. At last, he was going to do it. He’d oft thought about it, found himself standing at the port, wanting to go back and slay the Dragon Queen like he did her father, but something kept him back. Live, and fight, and take revenge. Killing Daenerys Targaryen would have just been revenge. Now he had something to live and fight for, and if the purple horse could be believed, his father’s bannemen would live and for him too. Tommen. My son. My boy. I’m coming.

When Jaime showed up that evening, hands newly-mottled black, he’d expected to see a few sellswords; hardened warriors from the Ragged Standard and The Company of the Cat. But it was actually a boatful of misfits who were sailing on the good ship Tallest Tree and Jaime realised, quite startlingly, that he fitted in perfectly. In hindsight, the actual companies probably realised it was folly. The Queen still had her dragons, and even if there was a dragonslayer amongst this sorry lot; Tyrion Lannister was not well-known for his honesty. Even if victory was theirs, they probably doubted the prospect of getting their gold once the fighting was done.

Jaime leant over the side of the boat as it pulled away from the harbour, not looking away until the brightly burning beacons of Tyrosh turned into one-thousand fireflies dancing over the sea. He felt nothing. No longing. No loss. This was never his home, it was his hiding place. He’d once decided he was sick of lies, but this lie had kept him alive. For what? He'd asked, so many times. But now he knew. It had kept him alive to go to his son. He hoped it wasn’t too late. He thought of going to find Xhallalla, but he wanted to be alone with the stars. The sky was clear and beautiful, the Ice Dragon visible, its blue eye pointing north. But he was not going north. He was going west, then west again.

Beside him, a comely young man with a well-muscled chest and the almond eyes of Yi Ti retold a story from his lands whilst a handful of Tyroshi boys huddled under coverlets. The oldest couldn't have been past his fourteenth name day, but he'd a sword at his side all the same. Old enough for war, but still not too old for stories. “The Lion of Night fell in love with the Maiden-Made-of-Light and fathered a son on her. Their only child grew up to become God on Earth, ruling the Great Empire of Dawn for 10,000 years. He was just and fair, but misery would soon come once the God on Earth ascended to the stars to join his forbearers. The Amethyst Empress, as lovely as the moon, would be slain by her own kin, this betrayal of blood causing the Lion of Night to come forth full of wroth and vengeance, to punish the wickedness of mortal man…and the Maiden, the Maiden-Made-of-Light, so just and fair of heart, finally turned her back on the world.” Jaime half-joined them, keeping one ear open as he swayed from side-to-side, the gentle rocking of the sea eventually sending him to sleep as if he was a babe in arms.

He heard shouting. It was morning now, the very early hours of it, slices of gold creeping up towards the sky. Water sloshed around the deck of the boat, turning Jaime’s soft blue boots as dark as twilight. In his waking moments, Jaime panicked. Was he drowning? He jerked upright but was relieved to see that the other passengers' faces were ones of bemusement rather than fear. His joints were stiff and his toes curled uncomfortably inside the battered leather like fish in a net. They squelched as he wandered over to the captain and Xhallalla, both whom were jabbering away in the Summer Tongue. The water was higher at this part of the boat, worryingly so.

“Are we on the verge of sinking, Xhal?” He rubbed his eyes.

“We were, but we've plugged it, for now. Have no fear, Westerosi, there is an island we can dock at, moments away...so the captain says.”

That doesn’t fill me with hope. Jaime panicked. He’d been staring across the Narrow Sea for the past decade and a half, and now he might die in it. He looked up, scanning the seas ahead for their refuge. There was an island, and it was close. Half a league, maybe less. It was a patched fool of an island; one part lush and green as Xhallalla had thought Westeros to be, the other half as black and charred as a rabbit left on the fire too long. A fire had ripped through it like a sword through samite.

“Is that Estermont?” Jaime peered.

“Tarth, Westerosi,” the capital responded, in the Common Tongue. “The Sapphire Isle.”

Tarth, Jaime’s heart sank. He had made it here, at last, but not as he should have done. Brienne should have returned here before the dragon landed, and he should have followed her. His thoughts went to her father, the Evenstar. Would he have accepted me, accepted me with her? Shaken my golden hand and called me goodson? Probably not. Brienne was the only person that truly accepted Jaime, forgiven him his atrocities and believed in his honour.

When they docked everyone cheered with delight; the captain and his crew, Xhallalla, the Tyroshi lads with their shaggy mops of bright blue and fuchsia, the handsome Eastern storyteller, the freed slave soldiers of Volantis with jade-green stripes across their cheeks. Even the bent and broken Braavosi whose sword would have been better used as a walking aid. Jaime did not cheer, wandering away from the others as they set to pouring the water from the deck with whatever buckets and goblets they had to hand.

A splintered, skeleton of a town languished in the shadow of Evenfall Hall. The kindled bones of taverns and homes lay strewn amongst charcoaled trees. The burning seemed to have stopped, but the stench still invaded Jaime’s nose. Another smell that he knew too well seemed to linger. Death. He’d once called Tarth a dreary mountain, much to Brienne’s chagrin, and at this moment in time, he was right. She said it had been beautiful once. It must have been for Brienne could not tell lies for very long. Would it be that our children would have played here? Children he could have held. He could see them now, rushing past him, after crabbing or dipping their little toes in the sea, rushing up the great steps to see their lord father and lady mother. He shook his head. No. Don't. He knew not to torture himself with what could have been. Especially not here.

He heard voices. The living were here too, whatever fire that ravaged Tarth hadn’t taken everyone. Hope seemed to shine from the other side of the town, where labourers with the Seven-Pointed Star around their necks were hastily setting the frames of new homes. Peasant women stirred vats of porridge like he once did dye at a creaking, wooden table whilst nimble-fingered, bright-eyed children bundled together hay with twine for roofing.

There were even septas who were part of the effort, one moving a tower of bricks with her bare and bloodied hands. As Jaime approached her, he could see a few tendrils of silver-gold hair escaping from her headscarf. The only women he’d seen with that hair had been bedslaves from Lys or queens. She certainly wasn’t the latter, but it was queer to see an Essosi follow the Seven. And one so fair to look upon as well...what would possess her to serve the gods for the rest of her days? Then his eyes dropped down. Her grey robes were taut across her swollen belly, round with the early curve of childbearing. Ah. He’d seen that done before. Girls with bastards in their bellies shipped off to the motherhouses to live under one name before they dragged their father's houses into disrepute.

“S-s-skorion massitas…kesīr?” ‘What happened here’, he’d asked, in crippled Valyrian, taking a punt on her being Lyseni.

“Zaldrīzoti. Zaldrīzoti massitas kesīr.” ‘Dragons', she had replied, her Valyrian a shining Ser Loras Tyrell to his one-handed, ageing knight. ‘Dragons happened here’. She threw down the brick she was heaving and clapped her hands of the dust. “What else have you known to burn stone?”

“Nothing.” She had swapped to the Common Tongue. Strange, but he was thankful all the same. Her voice sounded of home. “When?”

“About three moons ago.” She raised a pale eyebrow. “I'm surprised that word of this hasn’t reached you.”

I actively avoid all current affairs. He ignored her. “You are Westerosi?”

“Yes. Like you. Although, you’re a convincing Tyroshi until you open your mouth.” She looked at his garb, a gaudy whirl of mustard and grapefruit-orange and bright, bright blue. He stared at her own colours; red. Crimson weeping from her hands where stone had grazed her white skin.

“Should you be doing that, in your condition?”

“Probably not. But the maester of this island is a pile of ashes, he is not in a position to advise me against it.” Was this Targaryen Westeros? Wanton silver-haired septas forced to wander around as manual labours?

“The father then,” he gestured to her belly.

“I took the Warrior for a lover, not the Father.” She smirked, staring at him, her eyes steely. Common blue eyes, not the purple of the dragonlords, but they were intense all of the same. Cersei's were similar. If you stared too long, you'd drown in either lust or despair. “Are you here to provide assistance?”

“No,” he replied, looking away. “I’m going home. To see my son.”

“When did you last see him?”

“He was in his eighth year.”

“And how old is he now?”

You ask too many questions. “Older.”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be pleased for your return.”

“Where do you want this?” Interrupting them, a bearded man with arms like two joints of ham ambled over, clutching a barrel.

“If it’s wine, bring it to me, if it’s salt-fish, take it up to Evenfall.” Authority came to her naturally. She chuckled, wiping her hands on her belly. Evenfall. Jaime looked up the twisted towers, blistered and black. She’d have looked up as he did once, that’s for sure, but she would have had a prettier sight to see. Her remembered how grieved she was when she learned of the Stark’s demise, how it broke her inside. That wasn’t even her own kin. She’d cried to have looked upon her home like this.

“Can I help?” He heard himself asking.

“What of your onward travels?”

Jaime turned around, watching the crew struggle to shift the water. His ears were ringing with the sound of the hammer and the squalling of the captain. “I won’t be ready to depart for a while.”

She looked at him queerly. “Go with Otis,” she nodded to the bearded bear of a man. “There’s foodstuff that needs to be carried to up to the castle. Well, what’s left of it? The smallfolk are taking shelter inside until we finish building more homes for them. Are you sure it would not be too taxing for you?”

“Why?” As soon as he replied he realised she was gesturing down his stump. “No. It’s no problem. I’ve been balancing barrels on it for years.”

Why would dragons burn Tarth? Jaime pondered as he put one foot in front of the other. The steps were steep, and he could barely see above the barrel he carried. By the time he reached the great portcullis on top of the cliffs, he was heaving and wheezing. Dropping the barrel, he caught his cough on the back of his tunic sleeve, the mucus of his throat a vivid purple. “Are you alright, mate?” Otis called. Jaime nodded, picking it up again, following the man through the courtyard and into the feasting hall.

There were a hundred or so women and children in the hall, the side that was unbesmirched. Half the roof had been burned off by dragonflame, providing no shelter from above. Some of them huddled under blankets and furs, still waking from slumber whilst others prayed and some sang.“The Father's face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong. He weighs our lives, the short and long, and loves the little children-”.

He dutifully followed Otis to a corner of provisions, where a makeshift kitchen had been set up, similar to the creaking table in the town below. Jaime studied the ruined tapestries and portraits that decorated the walls, but there was nothing to look at for heat had melted away every paint and thread and dye. Despite the destruction around him, he could feel her in every footstep. He could imagine her where the Lord’s table once stood, sat by her father, as suitors came to ask for her hand. Thrice. He’d been the fourth. He’d asked her outside a ravaged sept in the Riverlands, after spending the night past with her. After he made his proposal, her homely face turned crimson and she began to sob, asking him to not jest with her so.  “-The Mother gives the gift of life, and watches over every wife. Her gentle smile ends all strife, and she loves her little children-”

“There’s more to get,” Otis stormed towards the doors, his Seven-Pointed Star swinging about his chest. His voice was the gravel of Flea Bottom, rough on Jaime's ears. The more Jaime thought about it, the more he realised that Otis looked like no septon that he’d never seen before. Not that he had seen a lot of septons in recent years. “-The Warrior stands before the foe, protecting us where e'er we go. With sword and shield and spear and bow, he guards the little children-”. Jaime could still hear them sing, as he wandered out the way he came. There was more to bring up to the castle. More to do. Something different than salt-fish, he hoped. He knew beggars couldn’t be choosers, but he wouldn’t wish a moon’s worth of salt-fish on anybody. He stood for a while, looking out on the Narrow Sea, happy in the knowledge that he was halfway home. Jaime felt on top of the world, even higher than when he stood on the highest peak of Casterly Rock. He felt like the Titan of Braavos, straddling East and West. But more than anything, he felt himself. “I’ll follow you down in a moment.” He called to the queer, bearded septon, enjoying the way the breeze felt on his face.

Something was calling him. At first, he thought it to be Xhallalla below, “Westerosi, the boat is fixed! Come!” but he heard no noise but the sea crashing below. Instinctively, he turned left and began clamouring up a grassy bank, thick with a carpet of sand-grass and wildflowers. It proved more tiresome than the stairs to Evenfall, Jaime stopping thrice before he reached the top. He came to a garden, gated, a statue of sorts at the far end. The gate swung open pleasingly although the rust was furry against Jaime’s fingers. Even this high up, the air was brackish and unrelenting, overpowering the stench of death and fire that he’d just climbed from. The wind teased through his green hair, as gentle as his warrior maid’s fingers all those years ago.

Then she was not just the wind. She was there. He saw her. He saw her in all her glory. The sword he’d given her, immortalised in blue enamelled iron, pointed towards the ruined castle. This was her resting place, guarding her kin who had passed before her. Jaime choked with the finality of it all and his memories came rushing back to him, as loud and thundering as the charging hooves of a mounted vanguard. Water dripping from her flaxen hair as he pulled her onto the skiff. Her boot in his ribs as she kicked him awake. Brienne, my name is Brienne. Hacking, slashing, faster, faster, faster. Sapphires. Her hand as she soft cleaned the vomit from his beard. Live, and fight, and take revenge. Their bath. Her burning sword. The bear-pit. Kingslayer? Oathkeeper. She rode up, bold as you please. Her lie. Her tears. Her kiss. His promise. But now she was dead, and her bones were beneath the ground he walked on. It hurt. It hurt everywhere. His heart ached with hopelessness. He knew why he’d kept those memories locked away, somewhere where he could not find them easily.

A figure rose from a wrought-iron bench and Jaime realised that he wasn’t alone. “Who goes there? Y-y-you shouldn’t be here.” A glassy-eyed lord dressed in crumpled silks rose; hunched with age, his hands creeping around his cane. “Go, leave us." He howled. "Leave all of us.” ‘My father is Selwyn of Tarth, by the grace of the gods Lord of Evenfall.’

Her father. It’s her father. Jaime wiped the wetness from his eyes with his maimed paw. He was not the dyer of Tyrosh anymore. He was Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, the Young Lion, of Casterly Rock, son of Tywin. He stood up straight. “I beg pardons, Lord Selwyn, I-”

“Go!” His shaking voice rattled him. It was like a sword on a wet stone; searing and pained.

"Lord Selwyn, I-"

"Go!" 

He fled, the gate crashing behind him. He lost his footing as he hurtled down the hill, tripping and falling on his face. Jaime tasted sand in his mouth, spitting, as he pushed himself up on his stump. Once he was on his feet, he pounded the ground again, his feet going faster than his torso down the winding steps. So fast, he feared he may fall once more. He didn’t. Leaping off the last step, he sped towards the boat. Xhallalla was with two peasant girls, with long red hair and skin the colour of cream. “Westerosi?” He was chewing on an apple, spraying chunks of it everywhere. “You look like you have seen a ghost.”

I have. “We need to leave.”

“What have you done?” Xhallalla snickered. “Have you fucked the high lord’s maiden daughter and need to escape his wroth?” A jape. He was not to know. But the red mist descended all the same. Jaime struck him in the face with his left hand, sending him sprawling. Xhallalla snapped back up clutching his face. Jaime clenched his fist again, in case he hit him back, but the Summer Islander just fell about laughing, clapping him on the shoulder. “Westerosi, you’re mad! So meek, and then…” He mimed punching his palm. “We will go now, to Casterly Rock, to make our fortune. Lord Xhallalla and,” he made a face, “-what is your name again?”

Jaime paused. Live, and fight, and take revenge. “Jaime. My name is Jaime.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys inspected the girl. The hair was different, more flaxen than silver-gold, but she had the same eyes and the same skinny little frame. Her bony jaw quaked in fear as the queen held her chin to check her teeth. Rotten, greying and set in a low-born face. Viserra was baseborn herself, truth be told, but her sellsword father had only given her his eyes, leaving nothing else of him in her. Daenerys shook her head. She had an urgent meeting with Lord Willas within the hour, and they had chosen to bother her with this? She greedily read the raven she had received moments before and shoved it in her bodice, groaning. That was a matter for later.

“Do you take me for a fool?” She scolded the man who had brought her in, he’d a squished face and a gaudy cloak of emerald and indigo. Her mind had been kept occupied since she had awoken that morning, the sun setting on a day of endless conclaves. She’d just been treating with the Lord of the Arbor, and now it was some soft-headed, newly-monied whoremonger in front of her. A fool. All of her gold in the West couldn't have bought him some wits. “I’d commend your cunning if my lost girl was no more than a few moons old, all babes look vaguely the same after all...but this is sheer lunacy.” She released the girl from her grip, sending her scampering back to her master's skirts. “Do you have a name, child?” She poured herself a glass of wine. Sarella had advised her against it, commending her for the efforts she had made to maintain a clear head since her flight to Tarth, but her goblet had been filled with water all day. She had done well. Even had fallen and she deserved a sweet white from Lys dancing rills all over her tongue.

“V-V-Viserra, Your Grace,” came the reply. Her voice was as jittery as a cart rolling down steps.

Aghast, Daenerys glanced the man up and down. “I’ve taken offence to this.” The man’s face grew pale as if he was finally beginning to believe that this was not one of his finer plans. “Minisa,” the Silver Queen called back to her handmaiden. A pretty girl, with long auburn hair and sharp cheekbones. The young charge of the lackwit flesh merchant looked a homely thing next to her. “Take this poor child to the baths and have someone scrub her clean. Give her the choice of working in the kitchens or tending the gardens if she does not wish to return to his...establishment."

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, he made me, I didn’t want to tell you lies, I swear it!”

I don't blame you, child, she could have said, but her patience had been tried enough today. Daenerys waved her hands as the girl was carted away by a tender Minisa Tully, baring her crooked teeth as she pled. “And as for you...” she leant in so close that cloves and stale sweat invaded her nostrils. “Take him to the Black Cells.” Is that even a threat anymore? If anyone can escape? She sighed. It must have been, for his chin began to wobble like the young whore's had done as he pleaded. It was her, she told him that she was the princess. Of course she did. Her guards rushed in to drag him away, and their hands were not tender nor gentle as her handmaiden's. “And do not waste my time again,” she cursed her men as they dragged him out, wanting to knock their helms together. “Have a lick of sense between you all instead of presenting any whore and her peddler you find on the street for my inspection. You know what my daughter looks like, and I’d imagine half the population of King’s Landing could identify my youngest based on the shape of her nipples.”

The Queen groaned, taking her crown from her head and placing it beside her. She did not wear anything that was truly ostentatious, but it still felt heavy of late. Everything felt heavy. The room was dry and dusty and she was wearing far too many skirts for a day that had been quite so warm. Her underarms were slick with her own toil, making her feel no better than the whoremonger. She was thankful when Minisa returned, so she could freshen her face with rosewater and help her dress in a fresh gown of jade-green. “I cannot believe that man tried to trick you so, Your Grace. It was plainly not Viserra.” The girl sighed as she set to fixing the queen's hair. She wrestled with a loose tendril, slippery silver, escaping from her fingers as she tried to coil it. “Oh, your hair is so beautiful. Always so beautiful.” She whispered, under her breath.

“I cannot believe it either, Minisa. Even for things that aren't so clear as day, you would be wise to have faith in your own judgment, Minisa. Is it you who will succeed your dear father?" Dany refilled her goblet.

The girl shook her head as she rested the crown back on the queen's head. "No, Your Grace. Since my brother died, my sister, Catelyn shall. She is at Winterfell, with my aunt." A shame. An heir as a hostage would have been of more value to me. "Either way, men of those sorts will oft try to trick a woman, whether she is sat on a throne of iron or laid out on creaking bed in a brothel. I hold my own men to higher standards, however. Not that they reached them today. I should throw them in the Black Cells for presenting that child to me.”

They sat in silence for some time until Minisa's pretty lips parted. They were two pink petals on her porcelain face. “Don’t you…?” Her voice trailed off and Minisa paused, blushing. “I beg pardons, Your Grace. It is not fitting to ask questions of a Queen.”

‘Don’t you…?’ How presumptive. She bit her tongue. The girl was three and ten, and a young three and ten, still sleeping with a straw doll when they shared a bed on nights cold. She needed her useless father too, as well her aunt. She may have to make the journey to Winterfell herself.

“No, it is not fitting.” Daenerys still couldn’t help but frown. “Although, you have started, so you might as well carry on.”

“Don’t you...have faith she’ll come back, of her own accord? Is this search not a misuse of Your Grace's valued time? She’s always come and gone as she pleased. Remember, a year past, when she decided to fly to the Wall? We only knew where she was because their maester felt the need to dutifully inform you that she was well.”

Dany remembered. She came back wearing a Black Brother’s cloak, a taste for dark ale and full of tales of Jon Stark’s valour. That was what he was listed in the annals of history as, not Jon Snow, nor Jon Targaryen. Her brother’s son, her daughter’s cousin. He’d have been a good match for Viserra if older than she would have liked. She’d always said her daughter was the dragon but she could have seen her as a wolf as well. Fierce and free, with snow in her silvery eyelashes.

“I fear it is not like that time, Minisa. Like her sire took his leave, she has done the same.”

“I was never acquainted with Lord Daario, Your Grace.”

“As I wish I had never been.” Minisa laughed nervously at the queen's jest, but her eyes were focussed on pinning up the fine hairs from the nape of her neck. “I’ve oft been asked why I did not separate myself from my estranged noble husband, marry another and have more children, sons, even.” Sons that were not bastards nor dark of skin. Daenerys found herself snarling at the thought. “I’ve never answered truthfully, but I’ll tell you, child, Daario Naharis. He is my reason.” Her voice bounced off the walls of her silver goblet as she drained the last drops of white wine.

“He was exiled, was he not, Your Grace? For stealing gold from the treasury to line his own pockets, I have read.”

“Yes.” Dany lied, refilling her goblet once more. The last one, she promised herself. “Yes.” Stealing gold. That was the tale she had told. The truth would have caused too much damage to bear, and since that day she had lived in fear of Hizdahr telling her daughter about her lover. The truth about her lover, and what he tried to do to another man's daughter. There was enough strife between her and her blood. What had she restored their glory for if her daughters would lose it in feuds and fury, or even fire? She thought of her eldest's namesake and shuddered.

“The daughter you made, though, Your Grace, She’s prone to her flights of fancy, but she’ll come home, she always does.” There was a strange pride in her eyes. Minisa adored Viserra, much more than she liked her eldest daughter. The Tully girl had only come to her as her handmaiden after Rhaenyra had the girl in tears. She had launched a jewelled comb at her after Minisa had fixed her for court but had neglected to cover her scars enough for her liking. Daenerys would have usually chastised her for being ill-tempered if she hadn’t given Rhaenyra those scars herself.

Daenerys turned to face her. She could not tell if she was sweet or dense. Everyone knew where she had run to, everyone. Viserra was a friend to every pot-scrubber and stable lad in the Red Keep and all were aware of how she spent the best part of a fortnight in the Tower of the Hand with a cloth pressed to the Lionseed’s brow. He’d stolen her away in such a short while, with his turquoise eyes and gallantry; a Princess of the Iron Throne playing his nursemaid. She gritted her teeth. Bad blood could still be the most beautiful. “Minisa, stop this mummer’s show. I know full well where she has gone.”

“Please, Your Grace, do not believe these foul rumours. The Kingslayer’s son, she would never elope with him. She was only tending to that boy because her heart is so kind, Your Grace. She did not know who he was.”

Dany rolled her eyes. Such an innocent. Minisa had her dolls, Viserra had her cocks. “You'd find the kindness in anyone's heart, Minisa."

“No, Your Grace.” She was both sweet and dense, it seemed. Saying no to a queen to defend the honour of a princess. Her cheeks had turned as red as her hair. “If she is with him, then she has been abducted, or something else untoward. Please, Your Grace. I swear it. I'll pray for her swift and safe return.” An abduction was a plausible scenario. The singers would like that. The realm believed her kind and gallant brother had stolen his Northern girl away, after all. Perhaps someone would be more like to strike Galladon Storm down in a brutal fashion if it meant that they were saving the maiden fair. She’d speak to Sarella about that later. There was power in rumours, often more power than numbers. But she had those as well.

“You swear it? How fortunate I am to have your oaths and prayers. Find me another gown to wear, for I mislike this one, and leave me.” She waved her away.

Viserra, come home, she thought, as she pulled a gown of blue satin over her head. The fabric was fine, the skirt studded with yellow diamonds and embellished with silver-threaded dragons flying around her legs. She had only had it tailored a few moons past, but it did not cling to her breasts and waist in the way that she liked. It fitted her like a knight's pavilion at a tourney, no matter how much she tried to tighten it. How long had it been since she saw her? Two moons, perhaps a while more. Three? Where could she be? Where could they be? She had surely run to him. Her thoughts went to Viserra's father, the man who had left them. Why she’d even mentioned his name to Minisa, she did not know. She took another sip.

Her captain had returned from the Yunkai’i singing all the right songs and saying all of the things that made her blush and beam with pride. He’d dragged Cersei Lannister from the Iron Throne by her hair, and extended his hand to Dany to help her upwards to assume her place. She was the rightful queen but he was far from a king. She’d sent him westwards whilst she subdued the Stormlands. Whilst a young Shireen Baratheon knelt to her and Drogon, in a field as black as the stormgirl's hair, all she could think of was him. 

Her distraction had startled her. She was a girl-queen in Meereen, eating olives and iced fruits as she daintily dipped her toes in her pool. Now she was the dragon, a conqueror, Aegon with breasts and bells on the ends of her braids; so why did she still feel little more than a lovesick child where her captain was concerned?

She’d seduced all Seven Kingdoms by the sword, diplomacy or dragonfire by the time he had returned to her. “Fair queen,” he had whispered. “I’ve ridden three days and three nights to be with you, I left the rest of your host in the dust.” Her captain had kissed her hard, her tongue sliding over his golden tooth and his hands sliding all over her body. He broke away from her, undressing in haste, leaning the scabbard of his sword against the wall. She’d yanked her own gown off, ripping the pearls of her bodice in her urgency. They spilt over the bed like seafoam, making them both rollick with laughter. As she ripped his back to ribbons, she noticed the sword that he’d abandoned. It was congealed. Sticky with blood. Lannister blood. It only served to excite her more. He was blood, she was fire and Viserra came nine moons later.

Even when she mewled and screamed and made her nipples crack and bleed, she was her joy. You are my bastard girl, mine and mine alone. What was Rhaenyra like? She did not know. She had to leave her with Hizdahr and an army of wetnurses. She was on a ship westwards the next day, with wads of cloth between her legs to catch the bloody mementoes of her labouring. She'd sobbed the whole way to Dragonstone, her grief and guilt bringing seas as stormy as the even of her own birth.

Daario had sacrificed a part of himself when they sailed to Westeros as well. Once the wars were won, there was no more blood nor glory nor battles. Life at court was not a life for a captain of a mercenary company. That was why she thought he had left in the night. That or he had grown tired of her, tired of her body, tired of what she could give him. He loved Daenerys the Conquerer, sacking cities and dousing fields in flame as the bells tinkled in hair. Now she sat on an iron chair with a babe fussing at her breast surrounded by perfumed lords and ladies that he scorned openly. He left her with crumpled coverlets and an ache in her heart that would not go away no matter how hard she tried.

A year or so later, a ghost returned but it was not her captain. It was Hizdahr, Fourteenth of that Noble Name, on a fine Meereenese war galley with dusky purple sails. The smallfolk lined the streets to catch a glimpse of the King in the East. He’d brought one-thousand swords with him, as well as their Rhaenyra. She was three or perhaps four, the image of him. Daenerys could picture her now, her natural red-black hair, like his, coiled on top of her head. All wrapped up in pelts of spotted tiger to keep out the chill. It was colder than her home. This was not home to her. Rhaenyra did not recognise her, her purple eyes wide as she peered from behind her father’s skirts. Why would she know her? She'd only seen her once before. “Rhaenyra,” she’d cried, tears in her eyes, wanting to touch her, wanting to show her to her new sister, but Hizdahr shielded her. That had hurt. But it did not wrench her heart as much as what he was about to tell her. Once they were inside the throne room, her eldest girl was allowed to sit on top of it, surrounded by her Meereenese swords. Authority had suited her well, even so small.

“Where is Lord Daario, sweet queen?” His tone was not sweet. His wiry brows narrowed his dark eyes into slits. The words he spoke were no more than a whisper. No sword or spear could hear them, but Dany was so taken aback that he may as well screamed it, spittle spraying her face.

“He is not here, my love." She said, puzzled. "He left my court, near a year past.”

“Where did he go?”

She had pondered lying. She’d dismissed her noble husband and now her captain was the one who shunned her. “I don’t know,” she’d admitted after some time. His stare was heavy. So heavy. “He did not say where he was headed.”

“I thought as much,” he’d scratched his chin, where a beard had grown. He'd grown his wings back as well, seeing as she never had to look upon his face anyway.

"Have you travelled thousands and thousands of leagues to discuss Daario Naharis?"

“Indeed I did. He tried to have my daughter killed, my trueborn daughter." Our daughter. "The blood of the harpy and the blood of the dragon, the heir to the Iron Throne until a son is born to us. We were due to go to Toros, to present her to my kin. We made our journey by land, through the Black Cliffs, the route approved by you and your council. Not the dragon road from Bhorah to Matarys, like I wished. We were set upon the Yunkai’i, as soon as we reached the cliffs. They had been waiting for us, knowing we would pass at that precise time.”

“The Yunkai’i?”

“You heard correct, my love. Who on your council can say they are friends with the Yunkai'i?"

“No one on my council is friends with the Yunkai’i-“

“Spare me.”

“-Daario was but a hostage and-”

"And he is the only hostage still breathing."

“I do not believe this." That was all see could manage, as she gazed up her daughter on her throne. She was kicking her feet, wearing tiny slippers. Soft purple leather. Laces around the ankles. "He was no fickle sellsword. He loved me, and I loved him. I love him.” The hall had been cleared, with the exception of the soldiers. She’d no shame in the words she spoke. Her husband merely scoffed.

"Then where is he now, fair queen?" He shook his head, his ridiculous wings flapping around like a hound's ears. "Your trust in sellswords is admirable,” he spat. “I’m sure the Yunkai’i paid him handsomely, they wanted no more dragons in Slaver’s Bay. Although that was most likely not the sole reason, it’s likely that he wanted your bastard to wear your crown. Where is she? It was a girl, was it not? I’d like to see the girl you said was mine, although I haven’t lain with you since you left.”

“You shan't see her.” Daenerys stumbled. She was not used to stumbling anymore. She was Daenerys, First of Her Name. She was the dragon. She sat on the Iron Throne, lived in the Red Keep and was crowned in the Light of the Seven, in front of enamoured crowds who screamed her name.

“And you shan’t see her.” His swords separated and he climbed the stairs of the Iron Throne, only to scoop their daughter up as if she was a sack of saffron. Daenerys liked to think that Rhaenyra recognised her then; their eyes meeting, purple on purple, as she was hauled over Hizdahr’s shoulder. She screamed when Daenerys screamed, but when Ser Barristan asked her if she wished her to accost him, she shook her head feebly. She wept because she knew, she knew, she knew. Hizdhar told it true. Daario had drawn the maps himself, suggested that route as the safest. Her captain had betrayed her. She’d let such a man into her bed. Into her council chambers. Into her womb.

It was not worth thinking about anymore. All that mattered was what she did now. She did not fear the Yunkai'i anymore. They had been broken long ago. For now, she needed to slay the lions. All of them. The cub, the dwarf, and the Kingslayer, if he still lived. To protect her children, both of them. Her eldest did not stand a chance of bringing the West to heel when it was time for her reign. They hated Daenerys, but had followed her and served her and paid their levies for she had dragons...but Rhaenyra did not ride. She thought of her Viserion, another one of her children. She longed for him near as much as the ones born of her body. Perhaps he would bond with Rhaenyra, should Tyrion perish...

She looked at the hour candle burning and opened another wineskin only to swig it straight from the neck. She would go to Lord Willas herself, thinking a brisk walk would be best used to clear her head. Covered in ermine and six Blackcloaks, she began her journey to the Tower of the Hand. She looked up, drinking in the black vastness above her, studded with a million diamond stars. A beautiful night. She thought of her girls and whether they were looking up at them too. She said a silent prayer to the Maiden, to protect what was left of Viserra's virtue and a prayer to the Warrior, to wish Rhaenyra fortune in battle. The head of her useless High Septon languished on one of the spikes above her as she prayed to her gods above, so she said one for him too. To the Father, praying for him to be judged justly; for him to go to the deepest of the Seven Hells for his treachery.

She found Willas pouring over tomes in a way that made him eerily look like Tyrion. It was just something in his stare, for he was a pinch younger and gallon more comely. Brown curls tumbled in front of his face, and he was finely garbed in olive and bronze brocade. Her new Hand.

"My Queen," he dutifully raised to bow, clutching his cane to steady himself. "I was due to come to you, I beg pardons that I am not prepared for your arrival. I-"

"No need, my Lord Hand." Dany smiled, taking a seat to face him. "We needed words, urgently. You must get a raven to Highgarden before your men begin to march tomorrow."

"What must this raven say?"

"I need more of your men, I received another raven from Edric Storm a few hours past."

"Edric Storm? Robert Baratheon's bastard and Shireen Baratheon's Lord Husband?"

"My whisperer. He was the one who first made me privy to the Baratheon assault from the Marches in the first place. He had informed me that Shireen is putting all of her eggs in one basket, as it were. All of her men, knights to peasants, will be at the camp. All of them. She is retreating from the Crownlands to strengthen her force and this has been confirmed by my scouts. It is not 9000 men that are marching from the Red Cliffs, it's 20,000. 20,000 men who will lay siege to your castles."

"20,000?"

"You needn't worry, Lord Willas. I'll send 5000 of my own, and Drogon and I will be there to strike fear into their hearts. One look at me upon his back will be enough to make them swap sides...but I need you to spare more men, as a show of force."

"20,000." Lord Willas said again. "I beg pardons, Your Grace, but that sounds an abnormally high number. I did not know the Stormlanders could raise such an army. Of course, the quill is my sword, I am no warrior...not as military-minded as my brothers...but are you quite sure?"

"I am sure."

Lord Willas scratched his head. "Why is this Usurper's pup more trustworthy than the other one, Your Grace?"

That irked her. "I've promised him the Stormlands, and a trueborn name. He is an opportunist like his repulsive father was. It is in his interest to see the end of Shireen Baratheon."

"Do you intend on upholding this promise?"

She snorted. "Of course not, and even if I did, he'd be strung up by his own bannermen before the year is out. The Stormlands will be going to Ronnet Connington, it has been decided. As soon as the scorpions in my path have been cleared and I can take Storm's End. How many more men can you spare me?"

Her new Hand pondered. "14,000 of the 20,000 ready to march are mine own retainers, but the rest I had to procure from my vassals. I will have to see if they are able to send more fighting men..."

“Procure? You are their liege lord. You needn’t be begging and bartering for soldiers from the bannermen that are sworn to you. Their loyalty should be unwavering.”

"You are right. I will send word tonight, I swear it, Your Grace."

"That is pleasing to hear. And I swear to you, this shall be over before it has begun. I was within my rights to judge Lord Selwyn Tarth by flame and I shall hear Shireen Baratheon say it before she dies.."

"Of course, Your Grace."

"You have proven yourself to be loyal and wise, Lord Willas. You and Lord Paxter Redwyne have pleased me so greatly. Fine men were clearly grown in The Reach amongst the corn and apples."

"I thought you seemed more radiant than usual, Your Grace. Satisfaction suits you well. It is so sweet to see you smile, in light of your hardships. May I ask how Lord Redwyne has delighted you so?"

"He has granted me command of his entire fleet. Even his own galley. I will be sending them to blockade the Summer Sea, to prevent the Stormlanders from moving any armies westwards."

His face fell. "His entire fleet? I rely on them to protect the Mander, Your Grace. If any evade them, it would be disastrous, if-"

She cut him off. “The command has been given, it is done, Lord Willas. Galladon Storm slew Paxter Redwyne's youngest son in a fit of rage, leaving his cadaver headless in the streets. He’d do anything to bring him to justice.”

“My Queen, House Redwyne is sworn to Highgarden, surely I should be able to give the the command to Lord Paxter to splinter off some of his fleet, a handful of ships, that is all, to ensure the Mander is adequately protected?” He had the gall to raise an eyebrow, but it soon fell. Defiance did not suit him. “Forgive me, Your Grace, for my forwardness. I will do as you bid. The Reach will be defending you at both sea and on land.”

“As I have always defended you from the air.” She said sternly. And do not forget that. "Do not fret, Lord Willas, there will be no chance of any vessel reaching the Mander. Lord Paxter is a most reliable commander at sea."

“Indeed you have, and indeed he is.” He smiled, but it was not as warm as it usually was. Not him as well, no, no. Lord Willas rose abruptly and extended his arm. "Loras reached Highgarden last even, as you commanded him to. I will send word that we need more men at haste. Please, let me escort you back to the Holdfast on my hobble to the rookery." Her fears subsided. She could trust him, couldn't she? She nodded and took it, but in truth, it was her who aided him down the spiral stairs.

As they crossed the courtyard, boy with skin as brown as a nut and tufty black hair groomed a one-eyed destrier tied outside the stables. He wore cropped breeches, exposing his bony knees, riddled with scars and grazes. He was not some common stable lad. She knew him.

"You're Lord Uller's nephew, aren't you?" A traitor like the rest of the Dornish, alas, Blackwood had dealt with him. She could always trust Hos, always. She was half Blackwood herself. They had the same blood.

"Yes," the boy stumbled. He couldn't look her in the eye. Ser Galladon's little shadow. She had heard he'd adored the Lannister boy.

"I heard you readied his horse to help Ser Galladon escape."

"Yes, Your Grace. But not to escape, I wouldn't do that. I thought he was going back to Storm's End. I had no idea that the Kingslayer was his sire, I swear."

Dany was sick of the oaths of babes. His big, dark eyes, as wide as supper plates did not endear him to her either. Something about his wobbling chin irked her. Perhaps it would be best just to kill him, to make sure. He'd been questioned sharply and found to have been telling it true, but...

"You are a squire, are you not? Who are you assigned to now?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Commander Blackwood has taken me as his squire." Daenerys felt herself soften a bit. It did not happen often these days. If he'd seduced her daughter, who was no stranger to the easy words of men grown and convinced her to run away with him, he could certainly endear a little squire to him. Hos would watch him. His loyalty could not be questioned.

"Back to work then, little lord Uller. I'll be taking an interest in you."

She hoped to have her eyes linger over him some more but her eyes were averted at the sound of crashing gates and hooves thundering. Her guards circled her, hands on their hilts, but Willas seemed nonplussed. The dust settled and a rider fell from his horse, ungracefully. He wore Targaryen armour, that Dany had run her fingers over many times before, but it was dusty and dented. She had remembered plate that shone like black fire, but it did not look half as grand now.

"Aid him." She commanded, directing her men to the dented knight who was scrabbling around with his helm. When he was unburdened from it, she could see plainly who the mystery knight was. “Ser Humfrey?” He did not look as comely as she remembered. His silvery-gold hair had been tarnished by sweat and grime and blood. She’d taken him to her bed, once or twice before, but she’d be kicking him out now. He was wounded too, her guards now holding him up as a means of stopping his maimed leg collapsing under the weight of his plate and mail.

“Your Grace. Forgive me, I would bow, but…”

“You’re forgiven, Ser. Please, please tell me. What became of you? I haven't heard from you for weeks.” She paused, noting he was alone. She had sent a whole party westwards with him, calling on the Lannister loyalists of old to see if Galladon Storm had fled to them. “You are alone? What of Blue Rat, the Brunes, Ser Merlon? The…others?”

“All dead.”

“At whose hands?”

“The Westermen. Houses Marbrand, Lefford, Westerling, Brax and Prester. There were others, I think...I...” Humfrey’s face darkened beneath his bruises. He was badly injured. She grabbed a nearby torch and approached him, both eyes were blackened and bloody, his left eye sealed shut with grey pus.

“These lords would not comply? They would not aid you in your search for the Kingslayer's son?" They hated her, she knew that, but to defy her?

“Aid? They rebelled, Your Grace. I only live for Lord Addam wanted to use me as a messenger to taunt you.” He spat on the floor.

“Taunt me? Taunt me how?"

“He wanted me to tell you what happened.”

“And what did?"

“The Kingslayer’s Bastard was there, as well as the Imp, but to tell it true, I don’t believe Lord Addam knew about his presence. Galladon Storm, I mean. There was a wedding, lots of hedge knights and misfits all in the same room." Humfrey rasped; his throat wood shavings and dust. "The Storm boy offered to go, but Lord Addam Marbrand would not allow it, neither would the other lords. There was a bloodbath, Your Grace.”

The Lionseed and the Imp. Her heart pounded. A bloodbath? "Please tell me you slew them, or at least one..."

The Knight of Oldtown shook his head, coughing. "There were too many, Your Grace. We were outnumbered vastly. They sent me on my way and I tracked them for as long as I could. They were heading south, to the Rock."

"What of Viserra?”

“Viserra?" He looked at her queerly. "She was not there. Not that I saw."

Relief drenched her like cool rain. Thank the gods. But after the rain came the fire. They had woken the dragon. All Fourteen Flames exploded within her, bringing ash and ember and doom. How dare they? She was outraged by their defiance and amused by their folly. Fools. Such fools they were. They will pay for this insult. They will pay.

"They wished you to taunt me, Ser?" The knight nodded. "They should know by now what happens when a dragon is taunted. We lash out and punish those who wrong us, with fire and with blood. I will have the Kingslayer's bastard's pelt and I will shorten the Westerlords by a head like I should have done all those years ago. They had my misguided mercy and now they will never know it again." She turned to Lord Willas, who watched her warily, his eyes molten in the torchlight. "My Lord Hand, I will stand with your men in the Dornish Marches, and when we have put down these Stormlords. I shall bring another Field of Fire to the Westerlands, I may only have one dragon, but my fires will brighter than Aegon's ever did."

Chapter Text

“Tonight we'll be marching through the Boneway. Our scouts have found a mountain path which will lead us straight to Lady Shireen's host." His brother Loras' eyes were glowing with confidence. He was still as cocksure as he had been at seven-and-ten. "We've known where they've been all the while, but being able to reach them has been a great deal more taxing.” Willas nodded, doubting if he was as bright-eyed as his brother as he rubbed at his own. 

The hour was late, his wheelhouse had only arrived at their camp when the sun had long set. Baelor the Blessed had made a similar path southwards, wearing sackcloth but no sandals on his feet, to bind the wounds of Daeron's war. Now Willas Tyrell had made the same journey, but to join one. In the time that it had taken him to reach the camp, Shireen Baratheon had sent a raven to all of the great houses, aligning herself with the rebel Westermen.

It was to be expected. As soon as word had reached the small corners of the realm that Tyrion the Imp and Jaime Lannister's bastard were holed in Casterly Rock, he'd expected some to declare their support. Especially hers. The boy served her on her ships and had been knighted in her halls, after all. It was within her interests to support his claim. He'd have done the same. His father did the same; calling his banners when Daenerys crossed the Narrow Sea. Tommen was dead and Margaery was in a cell, and the Dragon saved her. She could have kept her as a hostage or had her wed to one of her commanders to reward him for his efforts, but she did not. His sister had been returned to Highgarden with an honour guard, singers and ten thousand pink roses as a sign of good faith.

There had been no flowers or songs of late. Daenerys was still raging at the taking of Casterly Rock. Her anger was not for the gold, for she had stockpiled enough of that over the years, but the fortress itself. Queen Visenya had baulked at the Rock, but Daenerys the Conquerer had managed to take it; sending men through the drains and sewers at the behest of Tyrion. It was her favourite prize of her War of Conquest, one she never wanted to lose. She granted it to the disinherited Tyrion as she had promised, but forbade him from ever furthering his line.

She could not have predicted that it would be his brother's line who retook it. The armies of the Westerlords had been depleted, but united under the littlest lion, they easily defeated some 800 men that the queen had left to guard the approach to the Rock. In her cups, Daenerys had cursed Tyrion, sprouting that he was the one who had reduced the standing army at Casterly Rock so. Willas had just nodded, cursing him with her. He knew full well that it had been the queen who had given the command. He was there when she did it. It was not a witless decision. She had peace with the Iron Islanders, an impregnable fortress in Casterly Rock and a realm that feared her three dragons...what was the point in having more men than needed stood idle?

But that was before. Before all of this. Daenerys spoke of a bloody battle at the Lion's Mouth, where the Lannisters and the men that were once sworn to them had brutally sieged the Rock, slaughtering the servants and the smallfolk and fishermen who took up arms to defend what was hers. Willas did not believe it; more like the boy announced who he was and the guards pledged their swords to the golden boy instead of the Silver Queen.

"How far are the Stormlanders from this path you have found?"

“Her Grace has seen their pavilions dotted from above, and their fires billowing smoke. They are a fifth-league or so across the mountain plains. Our march will not be long nor arduous. The terrain is flat for land so high. Our mounts will cope once we scale the hills.”

“She has taken flight? Then why are we here, planning a camp assault?” If he had a dragon to be woken, it would have been breathing fire; green flame shot with gold.  She could burn the rebels black and blistered in the time it would take for him to pull a tunic over his chest. “I thought the whole point of this exercise was that she was wary of Shireen Baratheon’s marksmen? And she has flown all the same? We've brought the men from Highgarden and gone cap in hand to the Hightower, begging 6000 of their bloody swords, gods, and for what purpose? If she could have doused them in dragonfire?”

Loras sighed. “She merely scouted briskly, from such a height that no catapult nor scorpion could have touched her at. Do trust her on this, Will. Sarella calculated the exact height she must fly at if she means Drogon to remain unharmed.” And what of her own children? The ones without scales and wings? Princess Viserra had been missing for a year's quarter and Princess Rhaenyra was securing the borders of the Crownlands singlehandedly. May the Mother watch over them, because their own certainly isn’t doing it.

He clutched his cane. “So, what are we to do?” Willas gazed over the war table, which had been knocked up in haste. They had moved the whole host from Summerhall when they found the roads nearby that led to the mountain plains had been barricaded by a rock slide. A shame, as Willas was no true soldier and used to castle comforts. The restoration of Summerhall had been one of the many jewels in the crown of Daenerys reign. The stained-glass windows of the feasting hall were still under construction; beautiful depictions of Targaryens old, as well as their dragons, would look down with a thousand and one eyes whilst lords and ladies ate and drink and danced. He was planning to suggest that the queen gave it to Viserra, as responsibility had clearly calmed her sister so. He could have sniggered at the thought now. Daenerys would not be rewarding her daughter's willfulness by naming her the Princess of Summerhall.

The expeditiously-made camp lay between two slabs of rock, dry and dusty and red, bordered by endless black sky. There were no trees to be rustled or grass to be blown. The only noise and movement came from their men, some 25,000 who had swarmed this vast expanse that provided a path between Dorne and Stormlands. They had brought both the might of Highgarden, as well as dragonmen from the Crownlands. He saw none of Daenerys' own army. The men who had come to her aid bore the brown paw of House Brune or the dancing crustacean of House Crabb. They were united under her banner, though.  Roses and dragons cavorted over their pavilions, still vibrant by torchlight, but there was no drinking sweetwine and dancing for the men on the Boneway. As Willas had arrived, the soldiers had been quenching their thirsts with water and were beginning to be drilled. Their column cut across the landscape like a line in the sand whilst their plate tinkled melodies as they moved into formation.

“As I said, my Lord Hand. We’ll be marching through the Boneway. The first time we stop will be to storm their camps.”

“And what is to say that they will not stop us first? I do not have the keenest military mind, but it seems vaguely optimistic to think that 20,000 angry Stormlanders, led by the blood of Stannis Baratheon, will allow us to take them unawares. The crags of the Red Mountains are most like teeming with spies and scouts, Lord Commander.” 20,000. It irked him every time he said or thought about it. But Edric Storm himself had revised their numbers. He'd seen the raven himself, in his hand. Instead of the 9,000 originally stated, he said there were 20,000. If Daenerys, usually so suspiciously-minded, trusted him, then Willas would too. She could be reckless at times, acting with feverence and a desperation to bolster her own standing; but he could not call her incompetent.

“They can have all of the spies and scouts they wish, it will do them no good. Their only exit is the path downwards to the Boneway, and we shall control it. The Dornish may be cravens who did not answer the call, but the Yronwoods in the south are not like to let the Stormlanders pass. My men and I will move quickly, lightly armoured on steeds that can scale this rocky path, and take them in their beds.” His eyes were still shining with that confidence and it was becoming. 

Willas felt braver around his little brother. He hoped that his own eyes gleaming once made Loras just as bold when they were boys sparring in the yard at Highgarden. Willas was the strong one then, he had been for some time until he first stepped into the tourney yard. He’d winced on Rhaenyra's nameday when Jaime Lannister’s bastard was struck off his mount by a Dornishman, for he knew the pain all too well himself.

Unbeknownst to the bride, Rhaenyra would be facing Trystane Martell next, but in the sept instead of the tiltyard. If the betrothal still stood, that was. Daenerys was strongly considering breaking it. Many names had been bounced back and forth in the small council chamber, Rickon Stark being the main contender. There other suggestions, however. He'd uncouthly spat his wine out when Sarella offered his own name. Startlingly, Daenerys thought it a splendid idea. "Dragons on the Iron Throne, and dragons in The Reach!"

Willas had rejected as diplomatically as he could, although he would have been lying a the soft whisper in his heart hadn't told him to consider it. He would be a king, after all. When she came to court, Rhaenyra Targaryen was more of a dragon than her mother and sister, with their Valyrian looks. Snarling and proud and quick to loose her flame. A teated King Maegor, like the first Rhaenyra had been. But that had changed, even if others could not see it. She had calmed and grown into a woman that any lord would be delighted to wed. 

Impeccably bred, she had a beauty that was just as harsh as her tongue had been. She sang well and could play the high harp, as well as the bells. She spoke High Valyrian, the Common Tongue and the hisses of Ghiscar old with equal fluency. Wise beyond her years, and with a mind for battle, as recent events had decreed. Born to be a queen. He hoped the smallfolk would grow to love her like they had loved her mother and sister.

As enchanting as her purple eyes were, he did not want her. She was half his age and half a daughter, for truth be told, her mother had been the closest thing to a wife he had ever had. He groaned with his realisation. Not that he'd ever loved or bedded or cloaked her in the golden rose of House Tyrell. He enforced her laws, gave her counsel and oversaw her well-used dungeons for the past six-and-ten years, and more recently allowed her to pin a golden Hand on his breast. And for all his sins, he'd follow her to war too.

“What is it, brother?”

Willas blinked. “Nothing of worry to you. 'My men and I'?"

"I beg pardons?"

“It should be 'we'. I will be riding with you. I have not come all this way for no good reason. Did you expect anything else?”

“Well, I thought you were here because Her Grace willed it.” Well, there was that. Loras looked at him queerly. “You do not need to trouble yourself. It will be easy work, I assure you. It’s not the place for-“

“-a cripple?”

“I was going to say ‘for the Hand of the Queen’”

“It’s the perfect place for a Hand of the Queen. After all, that is not my only title. I am their liege lord, the one who has dragged these men away from their wives and babes to settle a squabble between the queen I serve and Shireen Baratheon.”

“If that is what you wish,” Loras laughed, but not unkindly. “Do you want to be in the vanguard, brother?”

“The snark of it! Me in a vanguard." He laughed himself. "I’ll place myself in the centre, where everyone can see me. Not that I’m going to be of any use.” He spoke with self-deprecation, for he knew he would be of use. Men would fight twice as hard if they knew their lord was with them. If their lame lord was there howling and waving his sword from a stallion's back, how could they piss their breeches and run?

“As you will, brother. With the plans I have, I'd rather you were in the centre. Nuncle Gunthor will come to you soon to inform you of our intentions. I must prepare. We march within the hour.” Loras leant forward to place a kiss upon his brow. "Shireen Baratheon will be brought to heel before the sun is up, and the Westerlords will soon remember what happened all those years ago. Then we can go home." Home. Where was that? King's Landing? Highgarden? He hadn't seen Highgarden in so very long. Or his sweet sister, still as beautiful as ever. Singing in the rose gardens with her babes and bards. She kept a lively court, he had heard.

"Loras?"

"Yes?"

"Did the Queen see the host when she took flight? How large is it?"

"There are 20,000."

"Has that been confirmed?"

"She saw high pavilions and enough of them to support the size of the army that was forewarned against."

Willas nodded, but something still rattled him. The Stormlanders simply did not have that many fighting men. Of course, nearly all of them could be peasants that she armed with pike and sword. Why did it gall him so? What benefit would there be to Edric overestimating their numbers?

His brother had trust in her intrigue, and her intrigue seemed to be fact. He'd spent most of his life with the Silver Queen, and it seemed her mistrustfulness had rubbed off onto him. As he trudged back to his own tent, his cane scraping against the parched ground beneath him. The closest thing to a wife I've ever had, he thought again. The tragedy of it all made him want to laugh. He’d known women, of course, and there had been talk of marriage but it had never come to fruition. His potential betrothals had died of chills, war or had been married to others. He’d met one of them, the Lady Sansa, at Winterfell a few years past. 

She was burning torch in a cave of ice. Startlingly lovely and astute in her thoughts, with soft and graceful hands. Lovely hands. He’d imagined her long, copper hair fanned out on her pillows whilst those hands stroked the stubble beneath his chin. He immediately felt ashamed when her children rushed to clutch her skirts. Perhaps they could have had some happiness. He could have bred her a chestnut mare with slender fetlocks and a flowing mane and she could have given him sons of his own. But it had not happened. It hadn’t happened with anyone. No trueborn children nor hidden bastards that he knew of. Alas, Garlan had left enough rosebuds by Leonette Fossoway, and there were always Margaery’s, even if they were Hightowers.

He scolded himself. You're the Hand of the Queen, about to march to war alongside your brother and your queen and your house’s retainers. He could take a wife when the war was done, and not the Princess of Dragonstone. Daenerys could not deny him a marriage, could she? He could always offer Garlan's eldest to Rhaenyra in his stead. He was a comelier version of him anyway, but with two working legs and fewer wits about him.

His brother had left a gift in the tent that had been prepared for him. Three squires to armour him for battle. His bottom half was unplated, clad in boiled leather of forest-green and bright bronze mail that glittered in the candlelight. His breastplate was more ornate than he was used to; bronze again, with the rose of his house wrought in emeralds on his chest and magnificent falcons roosting upon each shoulder. His plume was just as magnificent, peacock feathers that streamed behind him as he moved. The metalwork was as pristine as they day that the blacksmith had forged it; like the rest of his plate. Near-forty and green to battle as the banners of his house.

The horns sounded, and it was time. He leant his cane against the featherbed and offered both his arms to his squires. Gently, they lead him out of the tent and supported him into the saddle. Their nimble fingers danced over the buckles and bindings, as Willas' eyes glanced over the formation that was appearing in front of him.

The column-of-two that he had seen on arrival had snaked into neat lines. 25,000 or so strong; it still extended far so north that the men and banners faded into black at the scythe of the horizon. From where Willas stood, he could see his brother in all of his splendour, atop a wondrous white mare; charging up and down the front lines. This was what his brother was made for. For battle, for glory. "Highgarden!" His men chanted, thumping their spears to the ground at the sight of his younger brother. He was concerned at the noise they were making if the Stormlanders were so close, but he could feel pride swell in his chest all the same. They'd be back in King's Landing soon. Perhaps Daenerys would permit them both to return to Highgarden, if only for a moon.

Beyond the commotion, Drogon slept soundly, on the far edges of the camp. His great tail curved around his mother's red pavilion. As if the large dragon was not enough, her blackcloaks had circled her as well as two members of her Queensguard, Tal Toraq and Ser Egbert. He'd called for her when she arrived, to be informed that she was sleeping. At least one of us will be well-rested, Willas sourly allowed himself to think. If it was not the uneven roads that kept him awake in his wheelhouse, it was his mind. What on earth was he doing here? There was surely documents to be stamped back in Kings Landing, or more gaolers to chastise? As Master of Laws, the escape of Tyrion fell within his purview and the fallout had been exhausting. A man she liked less would have lost his head, but he had gained a golden hand pin on his doublet instead. He did not quite understand why.

"Willas!" Called a voice. Willas' head turned. It was his uncle, Ser Gunthor Hightower, his breastplate barely containing the vast expanse of his belly. Their fifteenth year of peace had ended and many a man would have found themselves dusting off their plate armour, unused for that time. "Loras is assembling the van, he is wondering if you still want to crush this stone-faced bitch and her scum from Storm's End?"

Willas winced, looking down at his plate and mail. There was a breeze about this night and his plume was bobbing in the wind. "I've actually just dressed for bed."

Gunthor hooted inside his helm, wisps of pale hair curling from beneath. "Splendid!" He guffawed. "That was, a yes, yes? My Lord Hand?"

Are all battles so light? "Yes."

"Well, our van will storm the camp whilst the flanks break off to circle it, followed shortly by the lighter infantry at your rear who will travel around your centre." He spoke quickly, making wild gestures with hands that Willas did not quite understand. "You will merely be the anchor, a body of 5000. Once the horns are sounded and the rest of the men move, you'll become the rear, blocking the mouth to the Boneway. All I need you to do is cut down any of Shireen's men that evade us. Does that sound alright to you?"

No. "Yes." His mouth was dry, but he had to be brave. As brave as Loras. The men would fight harder knowing he was with them. The harder they fight, the sooner they can go home. This is not their war.  He allowed himself to be led to his position, surrounded by heavy horse. Ser Willam Wythers and Ser Hugh Clifton, knights sworn to Highgarden, were to his left and right. They were flanked by pikes and spears and swords. If they thought queer of his presence, then they did not voice it.

The forward march began, but there was no horn nor drum to sound it as to not alert the Baratheon host, despite the commotion they were making earlier. Surrounded by proven knights and hardened warriors, he knew he was better suited to breeding fine warhorses rather than sitting above one. Soon enough, the width of the Boneway seemed to half; one part splintering off to a sharp drop down to the River Wyl whilst the other winded around the foot of the cliffs. Willas felt for the poor riders who had to trot alongside the edge. He never liked heights himself. The smallfolk would often gather on Aegon's High Hill to watch Daenerys and Princess Viserra tumble and twirl from dragonback, but where it excited the peasants, it only served to make Willas feel queasy.

They had only trotted half a league or so before they began to slow. “What is it?” Willas called to a foot soldier in front of him. He turned blank-faced, mouthing apologies and begging pardons. Eventually, a message worked its way backwards towards the centre.

“Our passage is not as easy to scale as we thought, my Lord Hand." Called Ser Hugh. "There was a blockade of rubble that spilt from the path we were due to take, cluttering the Boneway. The foreriders couldn’t get the horses up the path, nor could they look for another route.” Willas gritted his teeth. Across the Boneway, though. He misliked that. Was it the gods blocking their way? Telling them to turn back? He silenced the craven's voice within him. He had faith in Loras. Loras said it would be easy work and it would be.

"Are we to dismount?" Willas asked, but the knights that he knew were acting as his guards did not know. They trudged on, for a few minutes more, until the velvet-soft nose of a handsome destrier nuzzled the back of his neck. The rear had closed in on him, making him unable to wheel his horse around and travel around the flanks to see what was happening ahead. This is not right, we've halted completely, he thought. There were leagues and leagues of Boneway to travel, all the way to Dorne. Soon enough, vanguard and centre and rear were closed in, like fish in a net. “Space out,” harassed, he called to the men around him, but it was futile. There was nowhere to move. The spears in front of him couldn’t even bend their elbows, their faces flushed under their helm.

With each passing moment, he became wearier. His eyes darted around, studying the surroundings. He was no soldier, but he'd attended his father's councils since he was a boy. He'd read the histories of Westeros, familiarising himself with the Greyjoy Rebellion and the War of the Fivepenny Kings and the Field of Fire. He tried his best to draw a war table in his mind, placing the units as if they were heavy horse and spearmen on a cyvasse board. 

The picture soon became clearer. The knights of Highgarden and King’s Landing were pinned against the rocky wall of the Boneway and a sheer drop to their left, as well as whatever blockade that had hindered them from marching forward in the first place. No, this would not do. This would not do at all. The horses would not cope, so cramped. He hoped his own horse would not become spooked. It would take two squires and a cart full of hassle to unburden him of his saddle safely. Once he was mounted, he became a centaur-

There was a rumbling that he felt deep in his stomach. First gentle, like rain tapping against a pane of glass, before rolling into a thunder. Willas looked up in horror. From the crags, a shower of boulders as big as cattle tumbled towards them. It was as if a stone dragon had awoken from a slumber long; breaking free and sending avalanches of rocks below. Men screamed as they were mangled and flattened under the grey waves, the plate that they had dusted off providing no protection from such might. Alarmed, the horses went wild; kicking their riders from their backs or carrying them off the edge of the path. Their cries echoed as they fell, ringing through the night air like bells. But the cliffs showed no mercy, for the rubble kept coming and coming and coming.

"Turn back, my lord!" Called one of the men to his side, who was desperately trying to control his startled mare, but Willas couldn't. His eyes scanned the terrain until he saw Loras, his bronzed armour shining finely in the moonlight. He sat prettily on his warhorse despite the carnage around him, having masterfully charged back to avoid the boulders falling overhead. “Brother!” Willas screamed. “Brother!” His brother did not hear him.

At the sight of the carnage ahead, most of their footmen had set to running for their lives, dropping their shields and spears as they went. “You’re going the wrong way!” Willas cursed, desperately trying to quell his horse as it kicked and whinnied, but they ignored him. “You are sworn to Highgarden. Your lord commands it!” Their lives meant more than their duty. Clever men. One brazenly stopped to call, "Yes, sworn to Highgarden, not King's fucking Landing, m’lord!"

Willas looked up. There was no stone dragon. They were stone stags. Men in yellow surcoats were atop the cliffs, loosening the rubble and sending it below. They knew we would pass this way. They knew. They had burning barrels too, and tree trunks that rolled wheels on a cart. What wasn't pushed instead came over the top of cliffs, shattering down on the men below. Catapults. They had catapults. It was most unlike Daenerys to not spot them. When he looked back, he could not see his brother anymore. “Loras!” Willas continued to scream. "Loras!" But his brother still did not scream back, nor did his horn blow for the retreat. He waited. It didn't come.

“Retreat.” He decided of his own accord, sounding the horn that hung around his own neck. This could not carry on. “Back to camp. Now. We needs must fetch the queen." They did not need to be convinced. He found a strength in his leg that he thought he never had, his heels driving into the side of his horse as he galloped backwards to camp. The hooves of the rest of his unit, as well as the men at the rear who had turned on their tails, thundered behind him like drums. The dragon still slept and their arrival did not wake him. Still atop his horse, he trotted into Daenerys' pavilion. Blackcloaks scattered beneath his hooves. There he found the queen drinking water instead of wine. She was armoured finely. Black diamonds coated every piece of plate she wore, her gauntlet twinkled like one thousand stars when she lifted the goblet to her full lips. Where her body was clad in gemstones, her face was plastered with both fear and boredom in equal measure. “You are still mounted...is it done?”

“Your forces are the only thing that is done, Your Grace.” His rare bite was hollow. He took his helm off, desperate for some cool air but only got a mouthful of incense. He ran his fingers through his hair, reeling. Loras. My brother. He'll think that I've left him.

“What do you mean?” She set the goblet down with a great clunk and stormed out of the drapes, only to return moments later. “Where are the rest of the men?” Her tone was accusing.

“Dead. Dying. Injured. Trapped.” Loras. His voice was trembling. “They trapped us with a blockade and rained their own fire on us. Burning barrels. Rocks as well. Boulders, even. You and Drogon must-"

Ser Willam Wythers entered the tent, having followed behind him, his eyes wild. "I beg pardons, Your Grace, I-"

“How many men did they have?” She fired at him.

“I am not awares, Your Grace." Ser Willam choked. "I only saw a few hundred or so on the cliffs, doing the pushing, if that, but they are still to be feared. The vanguard are all dead or soon to be." Willas grimaced at his turn of phrase. "It's impossible to say for sure.” The knight had the right of it. Hundreds had done the work of thousands.

"We must hurry," Willas persisted. "The boulders and barrels keep coming. There are men alive who are trapped, the Lord Commander, we must-"

She cut him off again. "Lord Edric assured me that there would be 20,000."

"Perhaps that is correct, they could be inside their tents or hiding under the cloak of darkness...or..." I think you should have awarded him the same level of scrutiny as you did the Lannister boy. The hour candle flickered away in the corner, making Willas all too aware of the time they had. Or the time they did not have. He took a deep breath. "Your Grace, we need you and your fire. Char these rebels like your ancestors did to those who had wronged them. Make them pay with fire and blood."

She nodded, her purple eyes smouldering rage. “I will. I will.” As soon as she strode out from her pavilion, her dragon was waiting, as if he knew what needed to be done. He lowered his belly to the earth, to aid her into her seat, which she found between two of his great jagged spinal plates. "Where?" She called.

"The foothills of the path, the one were due to march up." He replied. "They need you gravely." His heart was pounding. Daenerys liked to be needed.

She thrashed her chains against the leather of his back. “Drogon, my love, we must…” She mumbled other words, words he could not hear, to will him into the air. The dragon responded, and he was soon at one with the clouds, the vast expanse of his wings threatening to block the pale of the moon behind them.

Willas followed behind her, but her rage and resolve soon carried her out of sight. He and Ser Willam rode hard, with a unit of 1000 surrounding him. He commanded the others to return to Summerhall, to tend to the wounded. There would be no need for vast armies with Drogon. But we always had Drogon, so there was never any need in the first place. Mother of dragons. A mother must protect her children, Daenerys had oft-said, but she was the mother to the realm. Sons of Highgarden had fallen that day whilst the Mother of Dragons was waited in her tent for the battle to be won for her. No. This is not helpful. Loras. Your brother. Only she can save your brother now.

He heard them before he saw them. The thunderclap of Drogon's wings and the blast of his fire booming as Willas coursed around the bend of the Boneway. Whilst Daenerys rattled her chains, circling and screaming from above, Willas gripped his reins, tightly. Most of the vanguard had perished, but Loras was one of the living. He wanted to go to him. He desperately wanted to go to him, but he could not. He had never felt so lame and weak, held upright on his courser with bolts and screws whilst his little brother was trapped amidst corpses, stone and fire.

Dragon wailed. He truly was Balerion come again. Daenerys was flying high, a shadow in the dark; occasionally swooping over the pearl of the moon like the slash of a bravo's blade. Dracarys. Drogon was loosing his dark flame but he could not sustain it for very long for Daenerys would soon will him further away. When he flew too close for her liking.

No. That would not do. She had to save him, and the others. She had to. She needed to get closer. Her flame was blasting the clifftop rather than the men throwing the barrels and boulders. He knew there were catupults atop, from the ferocity that some of the barrels fell with, but it was the men who were doing the damage. They needed to be put to the flame. For now, they were fearless, continuing to lob their rocks undeterred by the dragon flying overhead. If they felt her heat, they would not be fearless for long. "My queen!" He cried, in a shriek that rattled his tonsils. "Come!" He cried again, but she did not fly to him. She is focussing on scorpions and marksmen, most like.

He heard men scream. "Loras," he screamed with them. "Loras!" He turned his head just in time to see a burning barrel come down on his brother, knocking him from the saddle, followed by a showering of rocks. A roar went up from above. Laughter. They knew who they had struck him. They knew who they had killed. His grey and gold finery was soon buried between grey and red and white. The white was his horse’s corpse, pinning him to the ground.

Willas could not grieve for long. He did not have the time. heard a whisper through the air, a sound that streamed through the night like a fallen star. Arrows, or worse. Then it was not a whisper in the wind, but a hurricane. The dragon screamed, and so did it its rider. As the beast fell from the skies, fire streamed from Drogon's mouth like the orange tourney favour that had been knotted around Ser Galladon's arm. That was what this was for, wasn't it? That was what all of this was for?

The beast took six iron bolts to his right wing, decorating its leather webbing with gaping punctures. He flailed around, shattering the cliffs with every thump of his crushing tail, before crashing at the foothills. Once on the ground, it kept thumping and thumping and thumping as the creature screamed. Soon enough the rock began to slide, dislodging boulders that the Stormlanders had managed to loosen themselves.

Daenerys was oblivious as she emerged from beneath his good wing, casting her helm aside. “Calm, my love, calm.” She wept, rolling out of the way, avoiding both his mammoth claws as they scrabbled at the earth below and his great thumping tail as it set more rocks free. They showered the corpses at the foothills like rose petals. She had two arrows in her back, herself, and a steady stream of blood pouring out of her head, so much that her silver-gold hair had turned crimson. The plate had come away from her body as she ploughed into the earth. One arm was badly burned, as red as forged steel even from afar. “Calm, Drogon, sweetling, my love!” She continued to plead and plead and plead, clasping his horns.

“Daenerys!” He screamed towards her. “Stand back, leave him be. I beg you!" Willas had tears in his eyes now, but they weren't for her. They were for his brother and the men who had followed them so faithfully. But they had died for her, died for her cause and died for her war. Shuffles. Footsteps. Whispers. Willas' eyes darted up. He was so very aware of the movement above. Marksmen to finish Drogon? Or more men to heave boulders below, to buy him in a stony tomb as well?

“A mother does not leave her children.”

“No, a mother lives for their children. Think of Princess Rhaenyra, and Princess Viserra."

Daenerys ignored him, her face hidden in the vast cavern under Drogon's neck. The beast lurched. The queen stroked his horns and climbed atop his back all of the same, gripping her chains. She was begging, pleading, praying. Suddenly, Willas saw its eyelid wrench open, his eyes burning brightly as the burning barrel that had knocked his brother from his horse. It forced itself up from the ground. It's crippled wing not able to flap with the ferocity of its brother but it began a laboured flight all of the same. It veered from the havoc, flying high then low then high again. Then she was gone, the Silver Queen and the black beast, at one with the skies.

Willas reached around to unfasten himself, but it was no use. He ripped his sword from his scabbed and slices through the leather bindings like soft bread dough. Still attached at the stirrup, he slid down and under the horse’s ribcage, shaking his withered leg to free himself. Suddenly, he lurched downwards, laying in a heap on the red ground. He had to get to Loras, had to.

He dragged himself on his belly, driving his claws into the sand to put him towards where his brother had fallen. Loras was swaddled in silks as a babe, cloaked in roses woven in his youth and would die covered in rocks; far from home. It hurt. It hurt everywhere. He hauled himself closer to his brother's crypt, trying to heave the rocks from his path. The boulder in his way did not move, it merely became bloodied and scratched with his effort. Willas sobbed bitterly. It was the first time he had truly sobbed since he was a boy. When they had told him he would not walk unaided again. His mouth full of salt and sand. It was futile. There was no use. There was no way he could reach him.

The night's air was peppered with the smell of embers and the sound of men dying. One of them was not dying quietly. He winced at the thought of him being Loras, but he knew it couldn't be. The barrel had struck him in the head. That did not make his heart any lighter. He flipped over to his back, looking up at the skies and praying for his Silver Queen to return. To punish the men who killed his brother. Vengeance, justice, fire and blood. He knew they would receive none of that this eve.

It fell quiet as the Stormlanders retreated, but against the gossamer moon stood a solitary small knight. One-half of his brightly polished armour gleamed where the moon caught it, and the hairs on his head were long ribbons that whipped in the wind. He could not see the man’s face beneath his helm, but Willas knew he was not smiling in his victory.

"My Lord Hand?" Said a voice anxiously, pummelling on his breastplate, thinking him dead.

Willas fluttered his eyelashes open to see Ser Hugh Clifton peering down on him, panting. Willas could see his breath dance in the cool air. It had been a beautiful night. If only he had paused to gaze at the stars before.

"Your brother...and your uncle-" The knight said forlornly, clutching for his hands.

"I know."

"The queen has fled safely, North, but where are we to go, my Lord? To Summerhall?"

Willas shook his head, his helm grinding against the earth below. "You shall go to Summerhall, collect the men and return to the Reach." He'd have to compensate the widows, for their losses. And who will compensate me?  All of the gold in Casterly Rock would not be enough to dull the ache in his heart. "I'll return to King's Landing, to do my duty, but I promise you...Highgarden has done theirs."

Chapter Text

Viserra turned, pulling off her mantle and shaking out her hair. It felt good to feel the sea winds tangling through it. If she closed her eyes, it could have been her sister, easing out the knots with a comb of jade. Oh, she missed her. She would have given anything to be curled up in a featherbed with her; Rhaenyra’s slender fingers counting the nobbly parts of her spine. Rhaenyra had only done that twice before, at times when Viserra had least expected it. Most of the time she scoffed or stared or screamed. It had been so long since she had seen her face, picking yellow roses in Aegon's Garden, that she’d have given anything to be screamed at by her as well. Kisses or curses, she'd have taken them both.

And Mother. She longed for her mother. Despite the destruction her mother and her dragon-brother had brought to Tarth, she wanted still wanted her arms around her. She'd expected to be consumed with hate as she moved both blackened bones and blackened stone with her own hands, but most of all felt an overwhelming sadness and a wish for things to be different. Her child had begun to kick, fluttering in her belly like the wings of a butterfly beating against the skies. She placed her hand on her bulging navel, soothing it. Would it be that my mother did not wish your father dead? They could have lived in the Red Keep. Galladon could have taught them sword and morningstar, and she have would read to them as soon as they were old enough to listen. And Rhaenyra would have intructed you in the tongues and the high harp. Maybe mother could have helped you fly...if we ever got more eggs and you were like me and her. She cursed herself for thinking such things. Things were not different. They were not.

"Princess?" A familiar voice growled. Otis, a kindly sot of a carpenter who was still more knightly than the majority of her mother's guardsmen.

"You can call me by my name," Viserra responded, her gaze not lifting from the horizon. The wind was glorious on her face and the waters were turquoise and beautiful, but her stomach was churning with every wave their ship rode over. She knew nothing of boats and ships and galleys, but the one on which they sailed looked as good as any vessel could be. It was called Prince Rhaegar's Valor, but she had sawed off any embellishments that could be seen as Targaryen and as commanded, Rhaenyra's violet sails were exchanged for gleaming white ones. It looked a great white swan dancing on the seas.

"I couldn't ever. I did on Tarth, for your own protection, but now...no. It's not right. If you're going to associate with me, I will use your names and titles. My princess." He shook his head, the crumbs in his beard flaking on his tunic.

"Tell me about how we met." Viserra inhaled the cool air, hoping it would ease her sickness. They were on course for Dragonstone, to return the ship and reunite with Rhaegal. And to see Rhae. After that...there was no after that. She did not know what she would do. Rhaenyra would know, even though she'd be wroth at first. She would help.

"It was some winesink off Eel Alley, you were about three-and-ten if I don't misremember. You took the rings off all of your fingers and tossed them to the innkeep, saying that when we had drunk those- he could have your diamond anklet. It was sunrise by the time I left, as drunk as a dog. I carried you up Aegon’s High Hill on my shoulders. ” He sniggered. "I nearly shat myself when someone told me who you were. Gods, what were you even doing there? No daughter of mine would be seen down there."

"I didn't want to be hated," she whispered bitterly, the words nearly getting lost in the breeze.

"What?"

"I didn't want to be hated," she gripped the side of the boat, steadying herself. "I saw my sister, shut up in her apartments. Terrified of whispers and heckles and cruel words."

"Aye, but no one would ever hate you, Princess."

My efforts worked then. "Some might, some do."

"Those namby-pamby lords of Arryn may not think much of you, but more fool them, that's what I say. There's more gutter scum like me who would fight for your honour than there are Knights of the Pale."

"Vale." Viserra sniggered. “Vale."

“Wherever they are knights of, it’s probably shit. Shit as King’s Landing was, You’re not old enough to know what King's Landing was like before, my princess? Are you?"

"I've read things."

“Your squiggles in ink couldn’t do it justice. I won't make you ill. Your mother did us good. Now there are roses lining the streets in place of bony corpses. Cersei Lannister nearly starved us all dead." He rubbed his round belly. "No fear of that now, aye."

"Princess Viserra!" She whipped her head around to find Skinny Tym dancing on the deck as if he was on hot coals. Another waif she had found. She'd helped him escape the Goldcloaks justice with words as sweet as honey when he was caught stealing a smoked ham. "We can't continue. There's a blockade ahead."

"A blockade?" She rushed to where he was gesturing, and sure enough saw rows and rows of ships extending as far as the eye could see. She could tell they were no more than a half-league apart.

"Sail closer," she commanded. "Tell whoever is captaining that I wish us to sail closer."

"But, I don't mean to question you or anything, my princess, but what if they take us for the enemy?"

Viserra sighed. That sounded like you were questioning me. "Do it, Tym."

As they coursed closer, Viserra knew that she had seen this ship before. Arbor Queen, the largest galley in the Redwyne fleet. She was old, but still magnificent, with sumptuous silks as rich in colour as the wines they produced. The Redwynes were sworn to Highgarden, and Highgarden were sworn to Mother. She pulled her mantle over her head.

"Friend or foe, Princess Viserra?" Otis whispered, his voice a low growl.

"A friend of mother's. So probably no friend of mine at the moment." Or of Galladon. It was Lord Paxter's youngest son whose head he lopped off in his great escape of King's Landing.

They would not recognise her. Lord Selwyn did not even question why the girl with silver hair had been following him around, asking questions about his disgraced grandson, even though rumours of her flight had reached Tarth by way of sailors. Men gathered at the side of Arbor Queen's quarter deck, curious of who had dared to sail up to them as bold as banners.

“Who goes there? State your business.” Called a man as bald and scrawny as a plucked sparrow. He was no common sailor, Viserra could tell that for sure. He was dressed finely, a burgundy cape draped across his body. His crisp voice rang through the air like shrieks of the gulls above.

“I am Septon Otis, of King’s Landing.” Otis rasped, gazing up. He looked at her, unsure. She nodded. “We have been providing aid and prayers to Tarth.”

The man spat on the floor coarsely. Who was he? “Tarth. The Traitor’s Isle.”

“The peasants did not betray anyone,” Viserra commented.

He ignored her and looked to Otis. “I am Lord Paxter Redwyne. By the grace of the gods, Lord of the Arbor and a loyal servant of the realm. Your men have steered into my blockade, Septon.” Lord Paxter? I knew him by ship but not by face.

“A blockade?" Viserra glanced out towards the row of ships behind the stern of Arbor Queen, lined up like ducklings behind their mother. “A blockade like this means a siege." She declared. "What is being laid siege to?

“Storm’s End.” Lord Paxter looked taken aback. He answered her but did not look to her when he did so. “Shireen Baratheon has left her castle undefended. After the Battle of the Boneway now was the time to strike.”

Viserra climbed the bowsprit, the last few rays of daylight blinding her. She did not feel spritely as she once was, her belly cumbersome. “It looks rather well defended to me.” She could see it, in the distance, its great stone walls standing tall. Stormlander castles were the strongest in the realm, and Storm's End, in particular, had never fallen.

“Are all your septas this insolent?” He shook his head in despair. “Where are you headed?”

“To wherever needs us, m’lord," he uttered. It must have been novel for someone to address him over her.

“Holy men you are? Eh? We will give you passage,” the Arbor lord decided, after assessing their sails, crudely painted with a seven-pointed star.

Viserra was assessing the rest of the blockade's sails. Most were the deep burgundy of the Redwynes, but a handful were more vivid. Violet. Like her mother's eyes or the dragon that emblazoned her sister's own personal standard.

“Who is leading the siege? The Queen?” She clambered down. Her back, aching.

“Queen Daenerys is in King's Landing. It is Princess Rhaenyra, and her dragonmen."

"Not the queen?" She asked again, to be sure.

"Are you soft, sister? Just Princess Rhaenyra and her dragonmen. Ever since my treacherous cripple of a liege stood down his armies. Not that I followed his call, though. I answer to the queen and the queen alone."

"Stood down his men?"

"Did word not reach Tarth? I thought they'd be dancing and feasting at the news of Willas' withdrawal. That stone-faced bitch sent men over the walls of Highgarden to force his hand, knowing the might of the Reach would have been sent East. The dishonour of it all. But that is the company that she keeps, smugglers and bastards and traitors." He cleared his throat, his voice rattled from shouting down from his ship.

"There was no feasting m'lord on Tarth, m'lord. I assure you," offered Otis.

“We’ll dock here. I wish to go to Storm's End.” Viserra blurted, loud enough for the Lord of the Arbor to hear.

“Storm's End, she wishes? And dock here? Here?” Lord Paxter spluttered, calling his men over to chuckle with him. “There’s no safe anchorage here.”

Of course, I didn't mean exactly as here. She clenched her fist. “Where could we find it, my lord?”

“A league or so east. Follow the coast. What business do you have here, sister?"

"We've foodstuffs and ale. A siege is hungry work, I'm sure, my lord." His eyes scanned her up and down, but she stared back. Let us dock, let us dock, let us dock.

"I'd display your banner of peace before you approach the camp," he announced. "Princess Rhaenyra has commanded her pickets to kill on sight."

They anchored a short distance from the beach but still had to pile into a smaller rowboat to reach the land. As soon as Viserra saw the sands beneath the water and knew it was safe to disembark, she leapt out of it. The water was bitter cold, but the land beneath her feet was sweet. "Princess?! Princess!" She heard someone call. Otis? Skinny Tym? She did not stop to turn and see. There were steps in the cliff leading up from the beach, perhaps carved by fishermen centuries ago; to help them carry their crates of catch home. She ran up them, her feet slapping against the rock, but did not stop to wince. Soon she was atop the cliff, Prince Rhaegar's Valor a model boat floating in a pleasure pond.

She approached the camp, her steps hurried and flagging at the same time. She had exerted herself climbing the cliff steps. As much joy as she had felt when her moonblood did not come for a second month, knowing that it was Galladon that had planted that seed within her, she did not like what it had done to her body. She tired easier, her feet swelled for no explicable reason and her back was constantly stiff.

Despite the watchtowers looming above her, she approached the camp unhindered. Stopping to collect her breath, she noticed that the west of the camp was simpler. Pavilions of undyed cloth. The east side was grander, taller tents and a rainbow of hues, for knights and lords and princesses. She would go there. It was bustling, so many men with plate and sword that it was as if Viserra had knocked over a merchant's box of wood knights. Most ignored her,thinking her a serving girl, allowing her to pace through the rows and rows of tents about her business. The sun had set in the half-hour she had wandered and soon enough all of the silks had paled to the same dull shade under the moonlight. Her heart was hammering, thinking of her sister. What would she say? What would she do? Perhaps this child would bring them closer. Perhaps this child would help Houses Targaryen and Lannister end their blood feud.

A hand clasped at her arm, jerking it back with such force she feared it would break. "Where do you think you're going?" Asked a voice, cruelly. "Princess Rhaenyra doesn't want any camp followers hanging around here."

Camp follower? “Princess Rhaenyra is my sister." She looked at the owner of the hand that was paining her. He was comely beneath his black helm, with a wicked grin. He looked at her hungrily. "Ser, if you would be so good to let me go, I am Princess Viserra Targaryen. I would love to sing my sister sweet songs of your dedication to your duties..."

“If you're Princess Viserra, then I’m Aegon the Conquerer.”

“Who the fuck is this?” Another, half-dressed in his plate emerged from a tent. Viserra was taken aback. She was skinnier than usual, all sharp elbows and knees despite her burgeoning belly. Her hair was all marred and ratty from the saltwater and she had no powder on her face, but it was plainly her. I’m Viserra the Fair, the Dragon's daughter, the Delight of King’s Landing, of the blood of Old Valyria. She opened her mouth to speak, but the guardsmen spoke over her.

“Some nobbly-kneed whore. Well used from the state she's in.”

“Ser, I would advise you to watch your-”

“The only thing I want to watch is your little teats bouncing around.”

The other shuddered. “That’s grim, Lor. She’s with child.”

“Her face is nice enough to distract me. I’ll give her another, that happened to my aunt, you know. There are three moons between my cousins.” He dragged her closer to him, his grip vice-like. His free hand stroked her hair before grazing down to her waist. He went to force his lips against her own, but she bit him, drawing blood. It tasted like pennies on her tongue. "You little bitch," he cried, but it was drowned out by a voice cut through the air like a whip.

“Take your hands from my sister immediately.”

The voice's owner wore a tokar of black leather, fringed with shards of dragonbone. Heavy furs robed her, keeping out the sea chill, and the diamond eyes of a harpy winked from the middle of a full chest. Viserra breathed a sigh of relief, wiping the blood from her mouth.

“This is your fabled sister?” Choked a man of a middling age to her sister's side, dressed in fine robes of silver and silk. Rhaenyra ignored him.

“Are you soft?" She said, squaring up to the man who was mauling her. "Lift your hands.”

He did, allowing Viserra to wiggle free. She clutched her belly protectively. I'm fine. I'm fine. We're fine. The bewildered soldier threw himself on the floor, whimpering, his helm tumbling off in his pleading. He clutched at her skirts, but Rhaenyra recoiled. “I apologise, my princess,” he cried. “I do, I really do. I’m so sorry. I beg your forgiveness. I thought she was some whore, some common girl.”

“And that is not how we treat common girls either. Will it be your left or your right?” Her eyes narrowed, catlike.

“I beg pardons, my princess?” His own eyes were as large as plates.

“Rhaenyra, it is not necessary…” Viserra heard herself plead. She had her health. No harm was done. But her sister silenced her with a wave of her hand.

“Your hand,” she said dully, flexing her own. The one she had raised. “You used both to maul my sister, but I’ll do you a kindness and let you keep one. Which shall it be?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Azzak…” She turned to a knight to her right, but he was like no Westerosi knight she had seen before. The amber skin of the Ghiscari glowed from beneath his plate, and his surcoat was emblazoned with a sigil she had not seen before. But like all other knights, his scabbard held a longsword, as well as a falchion as long as her arm. Rhaenyra smirked at him, and her speech rolled into hisses. Viserra could not understand, but Ser Azzak could. Soon enough the man did too, as the Ghiscari knight lifted him from the ground by his hair.

“No,” the man pleaded. “No, no, please, no! I beg you. I meant no true harm, I swear it.” But Azzak pulled out his falchion, moonlight dancing up and down the sharp of it. Two more of Rhaenyra’s men took him by the arms and pulled him to the ground, pinning his wrists and outward in front of him. They all cackled in her tongue, but Rhaenyra’s face remained blank.

“Now.”

Viserra squeezed her eyes shut as the blade was brought down over the man’s right hand but his screams were soon drowned out by laughter. The stench of piss invaded her nostrils. When she fluttered her eyelashes open, the man was writhing around on the floor clutching both of his hands. He was whole. He hauled himself up and went to clutch at her skirts once more but she stepped backwards.

“If I hear of you attempting to grope at smallfolk again, I’ll take both of them. Get out of my sight.” She smiled to the lord in the fine silver clothes as nodded to take leave. As he walked away stroking his closely-cropped beard, her eyes flashed to Viserra. Purple fire, glaring. “You. Come.”

Viserra dutifully followed to her sister's pavilion, the two of them surrounded by swords. She reached out to take her older sister by the hand, but she batted it away. I used up all of her sweetness when I begged her for that ship. When they arrived, Rhaenyra removed her crown and placed it on a pillow of lilac silk. Beneath it, her hair was black at the roots. Viserra had remembered once bursting in on her as she sat with lye, saffron and shavings of boxwood and ivory smeared thickly on her head. You could have heard her screams in Southyros. Viserra never did it again.

“Rhaenyra, back there, with that guardsman...you did not have to do that.”

Rhaenyra ignored her pleas, pointing. “What is that?”

Viserra did not know what to say. “I- I had a large supper last night.” Viserra smiled, hoping her sister would too. She didn't.

“Do not jest. You're with child. How many moons has it been?”

“Four whole, but nearly five.” She was certain of that. She’d drank her moon tea all the times before, with the others, but with Galladon, she couldn’t. She had tried, but gone were her handmaidens and stewards and servants whom she had trusted. She’d managed to steal away one night, when her guards were being changed; searching through Sarella’s chambers for tansy and mint and wormwood. They’d found her, though, with the flacons up her sleeves and hauled her back to her chambers.

“Four. Five.” Rhaenyra repeated, not looking at her. “I don’t want to know who put it there.”

“What do you mean? It’s is Ser Galladon’s child I carry.”

“I said that I didn’t want to know.”

“I don’t understand,” she said desperately.

“You’ve never had to understand anything, have you? You do exactly as you please, with no regard for the consequences.”

“What do the consequences have to do with you?” Viserra asked, defensively.

Rhaenyra tittered. “‘What do the consequences have to do with you?’ They have everything to do with me. The West has fallen to the Lannisters, they’ve managed to take Casterly Rock with little more than a handful of men. Lord Willas’ sister, the Lady Margaery, abducted. Drogon is gravely injured. Mother has gone mad. And my sister…my sweet, sweet bastard half-sister, has seen fit to help the Kingslayer’s son further his line. For all your books and your tomes, you’re an absolute fool.”

She felt a fool. "The Lannisters have taken Casterly Rock? Drogon is injured? Lady Margaery? How did this happen?"

"A lot has happened since you have been playing your game. The Westerlords have risen up to support your love's claim. Mother and our dragon-brother were lured into a trap by Shireen Baratheon."

"A trap?"

"Sarella has a theory. Mother believed a raven to be from one of her informants, but it was actually from Shireen herself-"

"Who was the supposed informant?"

"Her Lord Husband, Edric Storm. If Mother would have ventured down here first, she'd have known for sure he couldn't have sent it. His head is rotting on the spikes of the battlements."

Viserra gasped. "What was in the letter?

"Inflated numbers, to get Mother to send a huge army to match its might. It was an ambush."

"How can you ambush a huge army, it does not make sense..."

"By luring them to a battlefield where this huge army is packed in like fish in a net. The Stormlanders crushed them with rocks from above. It seems that Shireen wanted to kill as many of Mother's men as possible, but her schemes didn't end there. Whilst the Reachmen were occupied, Lady Margaery was taken by splinter force of Shireen's from Highgarden. The Mander was left unprotected when the Redwyne fleet were told to sail here. Folly." Viserra winced, but Rhaenyra scoffed. "Please, stop your mummer's farce. You do not care for this House, nor our allies. I can't believe I enabled your flight, what a fool I was."

“Don't say that." Her voice was tight. "What would you have me do? To help I mean, now."

“To start, you can go home. And when you arrive, that child in your belly is not Galladon Lannister’s. Name someone else as the father. That, or I could have some moon tea brewed. I’ve no use for it myself, but I have maesters with me.”

Viserra flinched. That had hurt harder than when Mother cracked a looking glass against her cheek. “I wouldn’t ever kill my child. Nor am I going back to Mother, I am a woman grown and I shall go where I like.” Viserra’s voice was steel, but her thoughts were anything but. The Lannisters have taken Casterly Rock. She would go there, to her lionknight. And she would have a daughter who would be as beautiful as her sister and mother, with hair like beaten gold. Perhaps they would get more dragon eggs, one day, and her daughter would ride a dragon too. They could call her Brienne for the mother he never knew and the girl that Lord Selwyn had told her so much about and Galladon would love her forever for it.

Rhaenyra stuck her nose in the air, haughtily. Her eyes were haughty too; jagged shards of amethyst. What eyes would their daughter have? Bright blue, like hers? Or his green of the sea? “You'll go where you like? I thought you wished to help. This flightiness is what got you in this mess, to begin with. It could be a hedge knight, whose name you did not ask. A common blacksmith, or innkeeper’s son. Or your shadow, Ser Humfrey.”

His name quelled her daydreams. “Ser Humfrey is-”

“Approaching his fortieth year, unwed and preying on little girls too young to know better. Vile. When I am queen, I will cage men like him with the rapers.”

Viserra was confused. “He did not rape me.”

“The Rosby Tourney, was it not? The nameday of Lord Rosby’s chunky little daughter with the squashed nose. You told me the next day, believing I would be impressed. I was not. Had you even flowered?”

“Of course, I’d flowered, it was just before my thirteenth name day.”

“Just before your thirteenth name day. Gods, that improves things somewhat.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“And I don’t want to talk to you. Your existence, let alone recent events, has made my life one-hundred-fold more stressful. Go and wash. You look a bloated corpse.”

Stunned, Viserra allowed two of Rhaenyra’s handmaidens to guide her out of Rhaenyra’s grand pavilion to a smaller one a few rows away. She recognised one as Leona Tyrell, a younger daughter of the late Garlan the Gallant. Her quick little fingers swiftly peeled the clothes from her body and her golden eyes widened when she saw Viserra’s belly, addled with stretching marks. Ever the lady, Leona did not comment. The other handmaiden was a gangling woman, ten years or so older than the Tyrell girl. Her hair was yellow as butter and her eyes a pretty blue, but the strands were brittle as straw and her stare was blank and dead.

“Good even!” Viserra said breezily, through her teared-up eyes, not wanting the sting Rhaenyra's words to cause her to treat them with disdain. The girl did not respond, her mind focused on the task of adding more water to her tub. That irked her. People usually responded when she spoke to them. When they knew who she was.

“She doesn’t talk, Princess Viserra, but the Crown Princess likes that. She hates us talking.” Leona spoke in hushed tones. “The men call her the Mermaid. They say that some peasants found her washed up on the beach. The soldiers took her in and had her chopping cabbages, but when Rhaenyra sent Ellyn Piper back to her father for creasing her gowns, she was in need of a new handmaiden.”

When the water was at a level Viserra deemed acceptable, both of them hoisted her into a wooden tub, scrubbing her right up to the silver tufts between her legs. As Viserra looked down at their busy hands, she took the first look at herself that she had in moons. Purple stripes screamed across her belly, one great line slashed across her naval. She rubbed her hands over it, slippery with soap.

Another child no one wanted to be born. Her mother would have thrown Galladon from the battlements of the Red Keep if she’d known about him all those years ago. Hizdahr zo Loraq would have rolled her in honey and thrown her in the fighting pits for the bears if her mother had birthed in Meereen. But they hadn’t. We lived, and so will the child we made in a field of wildflowers.

When her skin was red with heat, they hauled her out and combed her hair in the warmth of the fire. The Mermaid, still silent, braided it in thick plaits. They hung either side of her face like chains. Chains. She sniggered, remembering the two men she'd seen guarding her door as she came in. Rhaenyra won't make the same mistake that Mother did. She won't let me escape twice. "Leave me, please," she asked the women after they dressed her in one of Rhaenyra's gowns. Essosi in style, the billowing satin concealed her belly. She paced the simple pavilion seeking something to do, but her search was unfruitful. It was modestly furnished; a tub to bathe in, a bed to sleep in and a table to eat at. Her thoughts went to the men she'd left down on the sands of the Stormlands. She hoped no ill luck had fallen on them, but also knew that they would not have left without her.

There were no books, but Rhaenyra's ladies had left her some supper, at least. White wine, crisped capon and vegetables roasted with honey and spices. She drank until the wineskin was empty, and collapsed on the bed with her hands creeping over her belly. Soon enough, she was singing songs to it. She had a girl in her belly, she thought. A golden girl, but with her eyes. Galladon's mother had blue eyes as well. The Evenstar had told her so when she called on him with hot broth at his daughter's tombside. He very rarely left it.

As she kicked off her slippers and stretched out her legs, a blast of wind licked at her toes. Her head turned, and Viserra noticed a draught coming from the far side of the tent. She rushed over, picking at where the drapes had not been pinned down. In moments, she was on the other side of the tent, scraping the grass off of the cream satin. Viserra froze, thinking a guard had spotted her, but he walked off; as if he hadn't seen her at all. She wandered the rows of identical tents, following the sound of laughter. Her heart was beating fast and her reddened cheeks burned against the chill of the evening. She did not know where she was going.

Men lurched drunkenly, their faces lit up with the camp fire, cackling as a singer sang Milady’s Supper. Next to him, a soldier without his plate or tunic thumped manically on a drum, wearing a fool’s hat of motley on his head. There were camp followers writhing on their laps and wineskins at their feet. A merry siege was being had by all. She doubted that there was much enjoyment going on within the walls of Storm’s End. She could just about see the outline of the fist of the tower raised to the night sky, as defiant as their Lady Paramount. Lady Shireen had three children, two older boys and a girl-babe. She felt sick thinking of their terror; their mother at war, leaving them surrounded by enemies and stormy seas.

“You’re Princess Viserra, of House Targaryen, are you not? The whole of the camp is alive with the word of your arrival, my princess.” A man placed himself in front of her, his features shadowy in the night. As he turned his face, he was illuminated by the bright flames of the campfire. His hair was matted grey, his cheeks littered with tiny nicks and scars like some maid's dresses were embellished with embroidery and needlework.

“I am” She looked at him queerly. I must look myself again. “I apologise, Ser. I haven’t had the pleasure.” Leaning back, she procured a wineskin from a table behind her, squeezing the Dornish red into a goblet. It did not look most clean, but she did not question it.

“There is not much pleasure to be had, I fear. I am Ser Lothor Brune. If you seek your sister, I’m afraid she isn’t around the campfire.” He had kind eyes. They smiled at her.

“I can’t think of another person I’d like to seek less." She said, through sips.

Ser Lothor smiled. “So you are mirthful as they all say? I apologise for not completely recognising you, my princess. You were a girl when I saw you last.”

“It's of no matter, Ser." She changed the subject. "I’ve heard Rhaenyra is leading the command.”

“Indeed. And she runs a tight camp. The lads have said that as soon as they arrived, they were digging trenches. She only opened the wine stocks when the siege towers and trebuchets were completed.”

“Have you not been here from the start, Ser Lothor?”

“No,” he replied, sheepishly. “I am in the service of Lord Petyr Baelish. He is in conversation with your sweet sister as we speak.”

“Littlefinger?” Viserra was wide-eyed, wiping her mouth.

“That’s the one.” He swigged his own wineskin.

“Has he stepped outside the Vale in fifteen years?” Her mother had stripped him of his Lannister-granted titles and handed them back to the Tullys all those years ago. Disgraced, he skulked back to his decrepit castle at the edge of the Arryn’s dominion, continuing to act as an advisor for the only man in the Seven Kingdoms stupid enough to trust him.

“Tyrion?” She had asked, when she was eleven, or maybe twelve, “if he was so awful, and it sounds like he was rather awful…why did mother let him live? Why was he not thrown in the dragonpit?” A smile had danced over the Hand’s lips, as he poured her a glass of wine that was half as full as his own. “Littlefinger came from nothing, too lowborn for a worthy match and a keep on the edge of nowhere with a great deal more sheepshit than smallfolk. After rising so high, being reduced to nothing once more was the most bitter of tonics. There are fates worse than death, sweetling.” Viserra had nodded studiously. If Jaime Lannister was the monster of her childhood, then Petyr Baelish was the snake. A snake who was in Rhae’s pavilion. Her stomach faltered. She not could tell if it was wine or fear.

“What business does he have with my sister?" She could not help her tone from sounding accusing.

“There is to be a marriage,” Ser Lothor replied, wrinkling his squashed nose.

Viserra tossed her fresh hair and grinned. Of course, that was it. So Lord Robert had a change of heart, and he did he want her for his son’s Lady Paramount after all. She rubbed her belly appreciatively. They would not have her now. They will not have us, my golden girl. They may have taken her soiled, but they would not have scathed with the battle-scars of her labouring. “A marriage. There may be some minor complications with that.” Too late, Sweetrobin. I will not go home as my sister says. I will marry my lionknight, and our child will be trueborn and bring peace to the realm.

“You’re telling me.” The knight mopped his brow.

“How big is the dowry being offered?”

“20,000 swords.”

“Swords? What use are swords to Robert Arryn? Have the Mountain Clans gotten so wild?”

“You misunderstand, Princess Viserra. It will be Robert Arryn who is paying this dowry, of sorts…”

“But why is he paying a dowry for his son? I know it is not unheard, now daughters can inherit before a son, but-” But they didn’t want me! I was not worthy of his heir, why would he be pledging swords to mother, trying to marry his son to me-

“It’s not for his son. It’s for his daughter-”

“What one?” Robert Arryn was drowning in daughters. He’d got twins on his wife when he was fifteen and hadn’t stopped since. It was oft pondered how such a sickly man had such strong seed. Or the energy. Curious.

“Aemma, the eldest of the girls. Twin to Artys.”

Aemma. She knew Aemma. She’d came to court once, one occasion where her father’s health was less ailing. Viserra had loved the younger girl’s long chestnut hair and throughout her stay had treated her like she was her little doll; wandering the Red Keep hand in hand with matching ribbons in her hair. Viserra had wept when she had to go, but her mother had promised her that would have her real sister with her soon. Rhaenyra did indeed arrive soon but after her very first outburst in the throne room, Viserra knew that they would not be skipping through the gardens together, picking flowers and playing at being Jenny of Oldstones.

“Aemma!” She gushed. “I knew Aemma when I was a girl. I was twelve and she was eight. Does she still sing like a little songbird?” She had sung so sweetly at one of the many feasts they had had that moon and played the bells at the same time. A proper little lady.

“Aye,” Ser Lothor nodded. “And she is but a girl, but will soon grow into a maid most beautiful. It is oft said she resembles her aunt, despite Lord Robert not having much Tully in him. It’s a terrible shame what he is doing to her. Throwing her to the lions like a scrap of meat.” His tone bordered on theatrical.

She took the old knight by the hand and pulled him down to sit with her. “What is he doing to her?”

“This marriage,” his voice was hushed, his breath foul. “They’re giving her to the Lannisters.”

“F-f-for Tyrion?”

“No. Their new little lordling, the Kingslayer’s son. I know, I know. Treason. We all tried to tell him, Lord Baelish most of all, but Lord Robert wants that Casterly Rock gold. Disobeying the queen doesn’t hold the same weight as it did before. One dragon is being ridden by the enemy, her own wounded in battle and the whole realm knows of your absence." He stopped, noticing her silence. "Lord Robert is pleased, but Galladon Lannister is the real winner in all of this. If it goes ahead, he’ll have a pretty maiden bride and near 20,000 swords to be called upon. His claim will be indisputable, as in, no one will bloody want to dispute it.”

Pretty. Maiden. Bride. The sun stopped shining on her daydreams. “If it goes ahead? Has a pact of sorts been signed?”

“Not if my lord master can help, my princess. He’s come to treat with your sister to alert them. He won’t see the the Vale go to shi-”

Viserra promptly vomited over his boots. “I beg pardons." Her tongue danced around her mouth, licking the acid from her teeth. No, no. Aemma Arryn was a proper lady. Beautiful and graceful and maiden. But Galladon was hers. She carried his child. She trusted him where her family were repulsed by his very existence. He loved her. He'd never said the words, but he loved her. Her loved her. She knew from the way he looked at her.

She beckoned some of the singing men to take her to Rhae's pavilion. In truth, it was not far, but every step seemed a league. When they arrived, Viserra burst into the tent, tangled in the silks of the entrance. “You must stop this! He can’t marry her, he can’t. We love each other Rhaenyra, we do. He wanted us to run away together, and I wanted to, I really wanted to.”

“How is she aware?” Cursed a sobering voice. Littlefinger? He was the man from earlier and she did not even know it. He walked towards her, his skirts swishing as elegant as any lady's, with his hand scratching at his beard. “You’re as spirited as you are in the songs, my princess, and indeed…we have heard a lot of songs.” His voice was buoyant, but his eyes were stone. Rhaenyra crossed her arms and shook her head.

“Have you Lord Baelish?” Viserra asked, her voice dripping with insolence as she stumbled to meet him in the centre of the tent. “Perhaps you can sing them for me?”

“Viserra,” Rhaenyra said, firmly. "Stop."

“Oh, my voice is not so sweet.” He stood, smoothing down his robes as he turned to Rhaenyra. “My princess, this discussion has been fruitful, but it is best I take my leave. You clearly have more to talk about than I hoped. Do trust me when I say that I shall act as you have commanded.”

“Trust Littlefinger?” Viserra announced.

"Such fire! A true dragon if I ever saw one." The man stroked his beard. His smile sent shivers down her spine.

“I beg pardons, my lord. My sister has had too much to drink.”

“No offence is being taken, my princess. I bid you goodnight.”

As soon as the curtains closed behind him, Rhaenyra launched herself across the room, grabbing Viserra by the throat. She was taller, stronger. There were muscles beneath her beautiful skin. It hurt, and her sister's stare was murderous, but Viserra vowed not to let her have her tears. "How do you know this? How?!" Her tone was desperate.

“There was a knight, Ser..Ser…” Viserra stared up at her sister, helplessly. “I’ve forgotten his name, but he told me, he told me..." she slurred her words. "She told me that Robert Arryn is going to marry off his girl-child to Ser Galladon. Rhaenyra, you must stop this." Her grip around her throat tightened. "Send word to the Eyrie, say you know their intentions, declare them enemies of the crown, you must-”

She loosened her grip, the sensation making Viserra feel as if she was touching back down on the ground after a flight. "I apologise. That was unworthy of me." She did not look her in the eye and set to pouring some water. Only one cup for herself. She raked a hand through the dark roots of her hair and wrinkled her nose as if she was deep in a game of Cyvasse. “I can’t do anything. Nor can mother. Especially not mother, at this moment in time. As you know.”

"Is she as injured as Drogon?"

"A burned arm. A few arrow wounds. She will heal. It is her mind that is sick. I am beginning to understand that." Her tone was curdled milk.
Viserra rubbed at her neck, where her sister's hands had been. Mother was well. She was in safe hands, she'd be fine without her.

“But as I was saying...this marriage. You must stop it. I love him. He has got a child on me. I'm begging you, you must."

“You’ve done an awful lot of begging of late.” She took a deep breath and raised one eyebrow, cooly. “Suppose I did. It is not in the crown's interest for this match to take place after all, but what does this mean for you? Do you think he’ll wed you instead?”

“I carry his child.”

“So you say. But he said all of these things to you when he was little more than an outlaw. Now he has men who see them as their lord, who recognise him as trueborn. Do you think he will take you for his lady? The soiled bastard daughter of a mad queen and sellsword scum?”

Viserra stepped backwards. “Rhaenyra, why are you saying these things?”

“Because it’s truth, and you know its the truth. Robert Arryn knew you weren’t good enough for his son and Galladon Lannister, as they call him now, won’t see you as a fit consort either.”

“He doesn’t want me as a consort. He wants me for-” Me. He loves me as I am.

“You’re right. He doesn’t. His people hate you, exactly they hate me and they hate mother. If you try and go to him, a mob will see your pretty silver hair and them and their horses will have you half a hundred times-”

“Shut up, Rhaenyra.”

“-and if there is any of you left, they’ll send you back to mother in pieces.”

“Shut up! They don’t hate me like they hate you. The common people adore me. They always have. They called me bastard when I was born, but I made them see past the stain. I made them love me.”

“Oh, and haven’t many loved you? Why would he believe that it is his child you are carrying in your belly?”

Salt stung at her eyes. Her sister had won. “You’re...a sour bitch, Rhaenyra! You never get what you want and neither must I.”

“We don’t always get what we want. You’d do well to learn that now. Mother may have raised you to give into your flights of fancy, fraternising with dirty peasants and giving pastries to poxy whores, but my father raised me to do my duty. You can forget your numerous acts of charity for there is nothing more humble than to do your duty. Your Lord of Lannister will do his by shunning you, and you will do yours and return to Mother.” Her sister's voice softened queerly. “I’ve arranged for a ship to take you to Dragonstone, to retrieve that beast of yours before he blazes all of my crops.” Rhaenyra placed a hand on her shoulder. Viserra batted it away.

“You can’t make me go.”

“I’m not going to make you go. It seems the more chains people place on you, the more you wish to shake them off. I’m going to trust you.”

“Trust me? Bastards are untrustworthy by nature, aren’t they?”

Rhaenyra sighed deeply, mopping her brow of a sheen that had pooled on her forehead. She turned on her heel and poured another goblet of water. “What started the War of the Usurper?”

“What?”

“I’m asking you a question. What started the War of the Usurper? Not what mother has rewritten history to say, but what really started it?”

“Mother’s father asking Jon Arryn for Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon’s heads.” Viserra snivelled; one hand on her belly, one wiping at her nose.

“And why did our grandsire want their heads?”

“You know why.”

“Do you?”

“Of course I know.” One sleeve of her gown was wet. “They wished Rhaegar dead, as Dead Ned’s brother and father did.”

“Why did they want Rhaegar dead? Why?”

“Why are you-”

“Answer me.” Rhaenyra snarled.

“He ran off Lyanna Stark, of Winterfell.”

“So you know the histories, yet you have come to me sprouting your self-indulgent nonsense. All of those lives, lost. Houses, extinct. Castles, crumbled. All because one person believed their wants and whims took precedent over everyone else’s.” Rhaenyra whispered. “Your lionknight will not want you any more. Save yourself the heartache and the realm some blood, and go home.”

Chapter Text

They'd escaped the great shadow of Casterly Rock and the sun was beating down on them as they trailed the streets of Lannisport. With every rise and fall of his trot, sunlight bounced off Galladon's gauntlets and into his eyes. He remembered the day that he was presented with this suit of golden armour. It was more suited to princelings than the likes of him. Clambering up the table, Tyrion had planted the helm upon his head and cackled with laughter. His visor was the powerful jaw of a lion, its plume rows and rows of crimson feathers styled to look like the beast's mane. Fussy but magnificent. His heart beat fast inside his golden cage, but he did not want to admit how splendid he felt.

"It's ridiculous," he feigned. "I look a gilded whore. I may as well have a painter craft a giant sign above my head, begging the queen to take me for her prisoner." The armourer had heeded him and began to unstrap his gauntlets.

"No, no, no! Ignore my nephew," Tyrion had interjected. "He'll play the gilded whore. It's for the greater good, after all."

"Is there anything more...simple?" Galladon asked. He knew it was his blue armour that he was hankering for, the plate that he had to leave behind in King's Landing. But the more he thought of the magnificent breastplate, inlaid with silver and wrought to resemble waves dancing on the sands, the more he realised it was anything but simple. It would have been an expense too far for even his lord father. His mother's lord father, he meant. "It's the gold," he said in haste. "Might I just have plain steel?"

"No." Tyrion was in his cups. "It must be gold."

It had been a moon since an armourer and squire had both helped him into that suit of armour and he'd repeated the ritual every morning since, ready to ride into Lannisport. The smallfolk rushed to him every day, but their hands weren’t grasping for the coins he carried around his waist, but for him. Both peasant girls and pretty merchants’ daughters wept into squares of cloth. Bakers would bring him fresh loaves of crusty bread, and fruit sellers crisp, red apples for Dayne. Children brought him flowers; gillyflowers and lady’s lace and goldencups. Viserra had stood in a meadow of goldencups, as naked as her nameday, with silver smoke around her shoulders. Sometimes they all ran after his horse until they tired, singing his father’s name as well as his own. Sometimes they called him their Lion of Lannister and begged him to save them from Daenerys Stormborn and her fire.

He longed to save them. He had wished to ride with Addam, and his 9000 men; a hotchpotch of his own retainers and Crag men and Lefford men and Brax men, as well soldiers from Crakehall and Kayce, who had answered the call, but Tyrion forbade him from joining them. Even Lord Addam Marbrand, who had kneeled to swear him fealty the day before, took him to one side, his face grey. He'd aged twenty years in a fortnight. "I will not disrespect you so to demand you stay, Ser Galladon, for as your vassal I am in no place to demand anything of you. However, as your father's friend, and his brother-in-arms, I am begging you to. Let me force the Tullys back for you, please."

Galladon had heeded him. Whilst the Lord of Ashemark marched on the Riverlands, the only route Galladon was permitted to take was the road from Casterly Rock to Lannisport, with sacks of golden dragons belted about his waist, to throw as he rode by. "They must love you," Tyrion had told him, but they did not need much convincing. 

“Gall,” shouted Conor Marbrand from his own horse. Addam had left his son as part of Galladon's personal guard. He was a rangy youth of about five-and-ten, with his father's copper hair and hazel eyes that twinkled with mischief. “Can we stop?” Galladon screwed up his face, considering the request. They had ridden every day for a moon, and today had circled Lannisport near four times.

“Gall?!” Cursed Fennick, a portly man of middling age who was the first to yield when they took Casterly Rock. “That’s your liege lord there, your liege lord, m’lord. I knew your father when he was young, my little lord Marbrand, he’d give you a clip round the ear for such disrespect out in the open."

“Alright Fennick, calm your tits. Can we stop, my lord? I’m parched.”

Galladon wheeled his horse around, unsure. Twenty faces looked back from under the helms, with the same degree of uncertainty. “Tyrion told us not to stop, not for too long.”

“You’re fine,” replied Conor. “You’ve one-and-twenty men guarding you, and you’re the Light of Lannisport already. I want a cool ale, dark, with lots of froth on top.” 

“The only thing you should want is my everlong health and safety." Galladon fired, taking off his helm and shaking out his hair. It had grown fast, just about tickling his shoulders. “Alright. We'll stop. Just for a while.”

They tied up the horses and ventured inside a gloomy looking winesink called The Goldsmith. There was nothing gold or glittering about it, mould bloomed upon the ceilings like great green lilies and the tables were thick and sticky with spilt ale and wine.

"I'm sorry to take you away from your lady wife to pace the same road every day." Galladon sighed, bowing his head to fit under the door. "I never did apologise for ruining your wedding."

"No need, my lord. No need. But....'Lady'!" He cackled. "She'd like to hear you say that. She's no lady, not really, but not a complete peasant either. Her father's friends found us...in an embrace...outside an inn in Pinkmaiden. Unfortunately for me, her father is the steward for Lord Piper...unfortunately for my father, both steward and lord were close with Lord Edmure himself. Her father was vexed, I mean, seriously vexed. He demanded I marry her to save her honour, and one thousand Tully swords showed up at Ashemark to push the matter. My father ended up coming to me and asking if I wouldn't mind bloody marrying the girl to save him some stress. Gods, he was a mouse before he saw you. You've sparked something in him."

"Did you mind?"

Conor cackled, shaking his hair. "Did I? Nah, she's a gem. Father wasn't best pleased, going on about how Lord Tywin wouldn't have his vassals appeasing the whims of stewards, but I didn't mind as much. Fair enough to look upon, and droll and lively where highborn maids aren't. I'd rather my lady wife was quick with a jape, rather than good on the high harp. Keep that in mind, my lord of Lannister, when you're looking for a wife of your own. I know everyone is sniffing around you."

"Sniffing around me?" He craned his neck under the second doorway.

"Oh yes! If your daughter can't be queen, being Lady of Casterly Rock will suffice nicely. Your vassals are sniffing around you, like hounds, I know it, hoping you'll take the hand of one of their daughters. Just to let you know, Lord Kayce's daughter smells of vegetable broth, by the way. I wouldn't spend too much time with her."

"I wouldn't care if she smelled like roses from Highgarden."

"Don't you like girls?!" Conor dropped his voice. "Even if you don't, you'll still need to-"

"I like girls plenty," he said defensively. "I have a woman already. That's all." And she's as beautiful as the moon, with winter-white hair. And she rides a dragon and has read every book there ever was. Conor opened his mouth to speak, but the inkeep approached them, smiling and bowing, claiming he'd tell his grandchildren about the day when Ser Jamie's son drank at his inn. Galladon felt the corners of his mouth creeping up to a grin. It felt good.

One-thousand leagues eastwards, men would slay him for who sired him, but here he was celebrated. He was told stories about how magnificent it was to watch Ser Jaime ride by garbed in gold and crimson. The other patrons asked him of his mother, courteously as well. They did not call her the Kingslayer's Whore. "My mother was Brienne of Tarth," he managed, chomping his way through the roasted kid and apricots that the serving girl had brought him in haste. "She was a warrior-maid. My father gave her this sword. Valyrian steel."

"Aye, we've heard," the inkeep beamed. "We heard all about your mother, and your father, and that bear."

Galladon forced the mouthful down his throat. "Bear?" 

"Do you not know that story?" Conor quirked an eyebrow.

"No?"

"I thought everyone in the realm knew that story." Called a punter, unsuccessfully holding his horn of ale upright.

"Remember, m'lord Marbrand, it's impossible to tell that story without our Jaime coming across well." Our Jaime, eh? The innkeep's eyes glowed with pride.

"Can you tell me?"

"Only if I can tell you exactly as my mother told me." Conor grinned, leaning in closer. "Our story begins at a tall and twisted castle, with five gigantic, jagged towers that pointed towards the skies like shattered glass. The keep was so large, that you would have thought it belonged to the giants, but it was instead ruled by an evil goat-"

"A goat?"

"Are you sure you haven't heard this story?" Asked Fennick, half-listening.

"A goat. An evil one, with coins, all dangling about his gruff and goaty neck. One day, the goat was roaming the woods with his band of grim companions, when they found Ser Jaime and his warrior-maid. He lopped off Ser Jaime's hand, to take away his strength and took them both for his prisoners. When they returned back to his keep, the goat's overlord, the Leech King, was waiting. He demanded that Ser Jaime be set free, due to his high birth, but the warrior-maid...the goat was allowed to keep as his plaything."

"What happened?"

"He tried to dishonour her, but the warrior-maid would not have it. She ripped off the goat's ears with her teeth, and was thrown into the bear pit for her insolence, forced to fight it naked with all but a wooden sword for protection-"

"A wooden sword?"

"Yes, a wooden sword, stop interrupting, Gall! When the maiden fair began to weep, wishing for Ser Jaime to come for her, he returned; vaulting into the bear pit to save the maiden fair with only one good hand."

"And did he?"

Conor sighed, but his eyes were laughing. "Aye. He did."

"Just in the story?"

"No, in truth. There was a bear, and a band of sellswords willing it to maul your lady mother to death, but your father came back for her and saved her."

Galladon was quiet all the way back to his apartments, not even lifting his eyes from the path to admire the sun-dappled Sunset Sea. He wiped off the grime of the day with a damp cloth and combed his hair into a stubby topknot. Viserra liked to play with his hair when it was longer, rubbing scented oils into his curls and braiding it like she was his handmaiden. When he deemed himself clean enough, Galladon peered into the looking glass; wondering if he really looked as much his father's son as everyone said. They had the same jaw, the same hair, the same nose. Very nearly the same eyes, but not quite, Tyrion had said. He stroked his cheek with his large hand, feeling the stubble against his skin; wondering if his mother had left anything of her in him or if he solely favoured the Lannisters. At least this was not a curse in Lannisport. His father was a great hero, he knew now, a legend like Galladon of Morne. Here they spoke of him saving warrior-maids, rather than bedding relatives. He slammed the looking glass down at the thought. No matter how much good he heard of the fabled Ser Jaime, the thought of him with Cersei would always make him feel sick.

In the lower layers of Casterly Rock, there was a merchants' quarter that had once been bustling. Jewellers, blacksmiths, dyers and tailors had toiled day in and day out to provide wears for the better-offs who lived above. For five-and-ten years, they'd remained stagnant, standing by in case the queen or their Lord Paramount paid them a visit; but they'd busied themselves once Galladon and Tyrion and their small army had stormed the Lion's Mouth. They had bent the knee to him as if he were some king. They had graced the Great Hall and presented him with golden helms with peacock plumes, jewels, rolls and rolls of samite and fine clothes in all colours. Galladon raked through a chest that had been brought up to him. There were plainer hues; stone and rain-grey and the green of olives, but fire-red and crimson and wine and blood as well. And gold. So much gold.

He dressed in black breeches, soft chestnut boots and a velvet doublet, crimson slashed with a darker red. His father's white cloak lay at the foot of his featherbed but he instead chose a cape of cloth-of-gold and dotted a ring on each finger. Casterly Rock certainly did not lack for gold. Like in his golden armour, he felt both wonderful and ridiculous at the same time, enjoying his hand on Oathkeeper's hilt and the swish of his cloak as he paced the halls. He would go to Tyrion now. They had not spoke since the night before.

"Seven save me, Galladon. Did you fall down the mines on your way here?" Tyrion sang once he saw him.

Galladon blushed. "What are you speaking of?"

"Nothing, my dear lord nephew. Although, you're surprisingly stoic. Conor Marbrand is an awful gossip. It didn't take long for me to hear that you had stopped at some grotty winesink. I expected you to be all singing and swaying."

"No swaying today, I'm afraid." Galladon took a seat, amongst the pots of ink and wax, were goblets tinged with red. He was surprised his uncle wasn't singing himself from the sheer amount of them.

"How unlike you. Alas, a bit of sobriety would not go a miss. Your council is meeting shortly. We did not anticipate your presence, so if you'd rather rest your eyes, I can treat with you later and let you know what was discussed."

"Why are you talking like this, uncle? You talk to me, you don't treat with me. I'm your brother's son."

"The westermen have declared you as their liege, and as long as I reside here, that makes you mine. I am merely giving you the respect you are entitled to. It seems I must be the most good-natured usurpee in history."

“Well, you needn't. You're my uncle. Talk to me like you would a nephew."

"And what would you have me say?"

"Nothing in particular," Galladon twiddled the rings on his fingers. Viserra plays with the chain of amber around her neck when she is thinking. "I just want your counsel, in truth. Am I doing alright? Am I saying the correct things? I am still unsure as to what is expected of me, what they want of me."

Tyrion sighed deeply. "They want you to sit at the end of their war table, looking gorgeous and golden with that sword on your hip, so they can all think that you’re my dear brother and they’re all twenty years younger themselves with flat stomachs and more hairs on their heads. Oh my, you certainly look like him today. Perhaps you'd like a golden hairnet, or a belt studded with nuggets, to go with all that bloody samite."

“Be serious, Uncle.”

“I wouldn’t dream of jesting. They’ve all got their own axes to grind, and your mere existence allows them to do that. You've inspired them to do what they've been scheming and plotting for bloody years. If Drogon is truly as maimed as they say, we stand a chance of defeating them in the field, especially if the Stormlander army resurfaces...under you, the westermen will have their riches back and the self-determination they have wanted for so long."

Lady Shireen's scattered armies. Without their lady, they were lost. He was lost. Tears pricked at his eyes. He blinked them away, furiously. I am a lion now. I have always been a lion, in truth. Lions should not cry. "What do you want, Tyrion?" He said, at once.

Tyrion wrinkled the knotted scar tissue that made up his nose. "I'd quite like to stay alive, and for you to stay alive, as well. I want to enjoy having the run of the Rock some more.” His face stirred. “I paid a dear price for it after all. I forsook my house, and the legacy my father wished to build, and I haven’t spent more than a moon here in five-and-ten years. What is it that you want? I know that none of this was your choice.”

"It said in the White Book that Ser Jaime went missing in the Riverlands. Does that just mean they never found a corpse?”

Tyrion tightened his mouth into a smile. A sad smile. “Is that what you wish, Galladon? That your father may be alive?" No. I wish my mother was. But I know for true that she is dead.

He did not respond, instead, he took long strides towards the window and stared out towards the black. There was no light in the world, just the whispering of the Sunset Sea as it broke against the rocks below. The faintest whisper, a dying breath. They were so very high up after all.

There was a knock at the door, and Tyrion bid they entered. A small council it was, until a new maester arrived from the Citadel. Lady Alysanne Lefford, Tytos Brax and red-faced Conor Marbrand, in lieu of his father. They piled in around the war table, set in the centre of Tyrion's chambers. It should have been in his, the Lord's apartments in truth, but he thought it best to delegate it to his uncle. For now, he knew much more than he did.

“Our outriders at the Crag have spotted some 5000 Northmen riding towards Riverrun." Said Tytos, as soon as he sat down. "Don't you worry, my lord. Lord Addam is aware. He will put them to the sword in no time.”

“What of the sellswords you procured, from across the Narrow Sea?” Lady Alysanne asked, twiddling a long strand of sand-coloured hair between her fingers.

“They were due to be stationed at Silverhill, but now Willas has bowed out, I’ve got them marching here.” He shrugged, his weighty shoulders rising and falling. “I doubt there are any fabled warriors amongst them, but can put them to work somehow."

“Now Willas has bowed out.” He could remember Tytos Brax coming to him gleefully on that awful, fateful day. “There was a massacre. Shireen Baratheon and a few hundred peasants, pushing rocks and burning barrels from the crags of the Red Mountains. All dead, either by dragonfire or the sword, but not before they decorated the wing of the Queen’s black beast with iron arrows and crushed some four thousand retainers from Highgarden at the foot of the hills. It was carnage. If big fucking rocks didn’t kill them, it was their own horses,” Tytos Brax had wiped his brow, not knowing the weight of his words. “And the Lady Shireen, they say that when they lifted her helm, the dragonflame had turned her to stone all over.” His tidings rang and rang in his ear.

“Has the Lady Margaery been returned, as promised?” Galladon rushed to speak, not wanting to dwell on his thoughts. His Lady charred in a blaze of dragonfire. I should have been with her. I should have died with her. For her.

“Not that we’re aware of.”

“If anything, the tales have gotten even more crazed,” offered Conor Marbrand.

“In what sense?” Tyrion tilted his head.

“They say that they left her hand in her chambers. Her hand clutching a message, demanding Reach to stop fighting the wars of the dragon if they wanted the rest of her back.”

Tyrion screwed up his face. “A hand?

Galladon drained his cup. He wouldn’t put it past Devan, or his father, especially if they had heard of Lady Shireen's demise. Devan especially. A blind man could see that he loved Shireen fiercely. They would have been the only men she’d trusted to conduct such a dangerous mission, the only ones capable of sailing up the Mander under black sails and a blacker sky.

“Our enemies are claiming that it was Galladon who sliced it off, himself.”

“What?" Galladon was appalled. "I would never-"

“Do not trouble yourself, my lord. It makes a good song for the singers. If true, it may have even been disgruntled bannermen. For years the Reach may as well swapped their green cloaks for black, for they have been used as another unit of Daenerys bloody Targaryen’s personal guard.”

Alysanne and Tytos and Conor exchanged quips and jibes about the dragon queen until the sun had set and the wax of the hour candle was melting. Galladon's thoughts were elsewhere, wondering where Viserra had flown off to on her great green dragon. He needed light thoughts, good thoughts. Like sunshine after days of cold rain, the thought of her with the wind in her hair was the only thing that could calm him after so much grief. He'd heard she was missing. Did the people below fear her, where her wings passed over their little, thatched houses? Not knowing how kind of heart and good she was?

“Is that all?” Tyrion put down his quill after some time, rubbing his eyes at the growing darkness.

“Very nearly all," Tytos responded. "The Tullys are still sending scouts westwards, but the peasants are doing a bloody good job of catching them for us. One little village in Silverhill has nearly covered their fences in Tully's heads, as to ward away more.”

"Save us, my Lion of Lannister! Protect us from the Mad Queen and her flames!" A thought came to him. “I’ve something to request,” he offered, jolting awake. He could feel his cheeks grow red and blotchy. “After…after Tarth, the smallfolk must find themselves scared. They cannot protect themselves from dragonfire. They have told me themselves.”

“We should not be so concerned of dragonfire, especially at present,” replied Alysanne. "The smallfolk's best protection will come from bearing arms themselves. They are being drilled and doing well, it sounds.”

“Aye.” Tytos looked up from his horn of ale. “My Lady tells it true. There are three dragons in the known world. We have one, chained atop the Rock, Shireen Baratheon maimed the other with a big bloody iron stick and Daenerys Targaryen’s whore of a daughter is still missing.”

Galladon grunted, gripping the table. Tyrion caught his eye and shook his head softly. He bit his tongue and hated himself for it. “T-that aside, I feel it would be best if we sheltered them.”

"Where?"

"Here. At Casterly Rock."

Tyrion snorted, but not unkindly. "My father is turning over in his tomb as we speak. Peasants in the Rock!"

"There is room enough. We've four or five levels just above the caverns, which are just rock and dust and darkness. We can light them with torches so villages can be moved and established in there. It's probably not pleasant, but preferable to the alternative...if Drogon heals sooner than we anticipate."

Silence fell over the table like a blanket of snow. “We could certainly gather those from Lannisport, and the surrounding fiefs-” Conor mused after some time had passed.

A true knight must protect those who cannot protect themselves. That’s not enough, I want to bring all of them here, all of them, from Crakehall to the Crag. There is room enough, I am sure of it.”

“There’s room enough, of course, but is there food enough?” Alysanne replied.

“Yes! Although, we’ll have them bring all they can. Send out messengers northwards and southwards, east and west, telling them to bring every sheep, sack of grain and turnip. We can gather the supplies into one pile and ration every piece."

“If that is what, my lord wishes.”

That is what I wish. “I do.”

Galladon left first, bidding them all a good even. “You’re popular, m’lord." A guardsman smiled as he escorted him back to your chambers. "Like your father was. All the maids in Lannisport wept for two years when Robb Stark took him captive.” Galladon's thoughts went to earlier, when children chased his horse until their little legs tired. Popular. "Talking of maids, we had one rowing with us guards at the Lion Mouth earlier." Rowing with guards? That sounds like someone I know.

"Who?" He walked lighter on his toes, as he did not want the thundering of his footsteps to prevent him from hearing the response.

“Some peasant girl you must have charmed earlier,” the guard shrugged. It might be her. It might be. She likes to dress like one, sometimes. You thought she was one, you fool.

“What did she want?”

“You want to know what she wanted, m’lord?”

"Yes."

“She was demanding words with you, m’lord. Strode up bold as banners, saying she needed words with Ser Galladon Storm.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said, 'Galladon Storm?' that's Lord Galladon of House Lannister, to you'...that's exactly what I said. Oh, and that you wouldn’t see petitioners until the morrow, that too.”

Someone from my past. Someone who knows me, and the first name I bore. The first mask I wore. “What did she look like?”

“Apologies, m’lord, I-I…did not get a good look. Small in stature, fair, very fair for a common girl, dressed in furs.”

“Her eyes, her hair? What was that like?”

“Her eyes? I don’t know, m’lord. And I didn’t see her hair, she’d a scarf wound around her head.” Hiding her hair. Targaryen hair. It must be her. It must.

Galladon realised he was gripping at the guard's pauldrons. He put him down. “Go and get her.”

“Eh, m’lord? It was a few hours past now, and it's dark.”

“That is what happens when night falls. Still, go and get her.”

“Are you soft in the fucking head, boy? How many times do you want to question, your lord?” Tytos Brax was eavesdropping, ten paces behind them.

“I don’t know where she went.”

“Please start looking then."

Soon, Galladon was waiting within the jaws of the Lion's Mouth, five rows of twenty riders guarding the steps. Amused by his desire to see his lowborn caller, Tyrion and Tytos chose to wait with him, despite his pleas. From inside the cavern, he could see cogs and galleys rocking against the waves, their anchorages at the port below barely standing against the storm that was coming. His palms were sweaty with excitement, and it took all of the strength he could muster to stop a smile spreading across his face. He cursed himself. It may not be her. It may be some common girl from Lannisport with sea-salt in her hair, instead of moonglow.

He had dreamed of Viserra every night and wished for her every day. Storms had battered the Rock every night since he had arrived, and he had often prayed that the thunder above him was actually the claws of a dragon, landing on the battlements. It never was. It would not be her this time either. He turned to leave, but there was movement below him. The riders parted, a dozen men on foot surrounding a figure wrapped up in cloth and furs.

"Galladon!" Screamed a voice, a pretty voice. Clipped and highborn and clear as crystal, but full of mirth as well. A voice he would never tire of hearing. His favourite voice.

"Viserra!" He called back.

Despite her state of disarray, she looked well; her creamy skin glowing in his guard's torchlight. “Galladon," she said again. When she smiled, her eyes twinkled like ten-thousand stars and roses bloomed in her cheeks. She reached upwards, pulling off the mantle she wore on her head. Silver-gold curls tumbled out. A mistake.

“Well, speak of the bloody dragon and you stand on its tail!” Screeched Tytos Brax.

Galladon went to go to her, wanting to hold her, touch her, but it was Tyrion who held his hand, tugging him backwards.

“Galladon, you can’t, not in front of-“ Tyrion hurried, but Galladon’s eyes were fixated on Tytos Brax, who was now walking down the stairs to her. He'd never seen the man move so fast. The portly westerlord grabbed the princess' jaw with his hammy hand, wrenching it up to look him in the eye. There was no fear in her own, but Galladon could not bear his hands on her. Brax whispered to her, he could not hear what it was, but it was something that made her spit in his face like a stray cat.

“You little bastarding whore,” Brax groaned, gripping her neck tighter. Galladon reached for his sword.

“You’d use your sword on a man that has sent his retainers, as well as his own sons to fight for your cause?” Tyrion whispered. “I know how you feel, gods, I know how you feel, but you cannot be seen to be defending her. You can’t!"

His mouth was dry, his lips ripping apart as he rushed to speak. “Guards, place Viserra Targaryen in a cell,” he boomed. He hated himself. He hated himself. He hated himself. This is not becoming of a true knight. But as a lord, as Lannister, he knew it was the only way to keep her safe.

“What?!" The guards seized her. "This is how you greet me?” She screamed, wrenching her face free of Brax’s grip. Even twisted with fury, no one could say that she was not anything less than beautiful. “Seven. Bloody. Hells! Not you. Not you as well! Not you as well! ”

“My lord, your grandsire would have had her do the rounds at the barracks, to be sure she learns her place.” Bring her honour into disregard again, and I’ll have you doing the bloody rounds with honey on your nipples.

“A fine idea, Lord Brax. I’m sure she’ll be a worthy reward for Addam’s men after they smash the Tullys at Tumbleton,” he heard himself say,
startled with himself at where it had come from. Whilst the men laughed gleefully, his stomach wrenched as he watched her eyes fill with hurt. I don’t mean it, of course, I don’t mean, he thought as she was led away. She seemed more sparrow than dragon. He’d just thrown a pail of water on her flame.

He excused himself from Tyrion and his vassals, for any longer in Lord Tytos Brax's company and he would have really cut off someone's hands, to be sure he did not lay his on Viserra again. His head whirling, he wandered the winding corridors until he deemed enough time had passed. The stairs to the gaols were not as wide as the ones leading up to the Lion's Mouth, and he had to pay close attention to ensure that he did not trip. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the cells and dismissed the goalkeepers, not before demanding the keys. They complied without question. This obedience...he did not think he would ever get used to it. He often pondered asking them to do a cartwheel, or to make him a raspberry pie, to see if they would do it.

His hands shook at he turned the key in the only occupied cell. What would he say to her? He did not know. Nor did he have any time to ponder, for as soon as the door swung open with a resounding creek, her hands were clawing at him.

“The Others take you, Galladon! What was that?” Her tiny fists pummelled on his chest and her eyes were red with tears. She had been crying for some time, mucus trailing from her nose.

“I didn’t want to. I wanted to kiss you as soon as I saw you, but Tyrion…Tyrion said I could not be seen to be defending you. It would make my men lose faith in me.”

“You have men now?” She mocked, but he took her in his arms all of the same, planting kisses on the top of her head. She smelled of fresh grass and cookfire.

I have near 20,000 of them and their lords have tempers worse than yours. “Yes.”

“Rhaenyra told me you had taken Casterly Rock," she said, her voice muffled from his chest. "How? Even Aegon and his sister-wives couldn’t manage that.”

“Your mother left more gold miners than fighting men. There were a few hundred men at the Lion’s Mouth, and most of them knelt and pledged their swords as soon as they saw us.” Knelt to me, pledged their swords to me. That had felt good. Almost as good as being knighted. He felt like some king or a god. Like he deserved to wear that golden armour and rubies on every finger.

“That sounds like Mother. ‘A dragon is worth one-hundred thousand men',  that’s what she said. It works so long as everyone has their fear. Your people-”

“My people.” It still sounded strange.

“Your people,” she repeated. “They’ve nought left to fear. They seem hard. Harder than the folks in King’s Landing. I landed in the mountains north of here, Rhaegal waits for me. So I wandered on foot, riding on farmer’s carts until I reached you. There was plenty of room.” She drifted closer the torches, its flames lighting her face with warmth. “They say the land never recovered. Mother scorched it black and dead. A man told me how he and his family resorted to catching the rats in their cottage towards the end of last winter.”

“So they should have done, rats spread the plague.”

Viserra looked at him as if he was in bells and motley. “…to eat, Galladon. They caught them to eat. Not for a clean hearth and home.”

He felt a fool in motley. Resisting the urge to slam his face into the bricks, he reached for her hand instead. He couldn't stop touching her.

“Freckles…” She stroked his face tenderly. “I don’t remember you having freckles.”

He blushed at her touch. “I get them when I’m out in the sun.”

“I can’t imagine you get much sun here,” she looked around the cell, windowless and bleak. “What a gloomy place.”

“It is a cell.”

“I didn’t think much of your Great Hall. I was dragged through it by my hair to get here. Lovely tapestries, and Myrish rugs, but…” she sighed. “I thought everything would be covered in gold.”

“Parts of it are,” Galladon admitted, through gritted teeth, trying to conjure up the names and faces of the men who had taken her by the arms and treated her so roughly. “The mines themselves, the Hall of Heroes, the ballroom, the Lord’s Chambers.”

“The Lord’s Chambers?” She asked, her eyes wide.

“Yes. The sheets and drapes are cloth-of-gold, and the tables…” his voice trailed off as she fluttered her eyelashes. She’d no care for the sheets themselves. He could feel his cheeks grow hot, but he could not look away from her. “Viserra, I-I…”

“You-you?”

He jerked to his knees, gazing up at her and clasping her hands again.

“I’ve yearned for you every single day."

“Galladon, stop. There is going to be a wedding.” Her nimble fingers twisted her chunk of amber round and round on its chain.

“What?” Artys Arryn? Did they change their minds? No, no, no. Artys Arryn was a mewling, moaning child. The Wingless Knight. Forget arms, the boy looked like he couldn’t slice his own beef with a feasting knife. No. Galladon gritted his teeth. “Artys Arryn, he-”

“Not that Arryn. Not my wedding,” she said, fussing at his doublet, using the silk ties to pull her closer to him. “Yours.”

“How do you know?” He blushed, remembering his conversation with Conor earlier, and the lords who wanted their daughters to be his lady.

“Robert Arryn is going to offer you his daughter. A child of one-and-ten. I’d imagine he’ll send her here as a sign of good faith until she’s old enough to wed. I am sure she’ll make you happy when she stops playing come-into-my-castle and puts her straw dolls to one side.” 

Robert Arryn? Conor knew the westerlords wanted Galladon for their daughters, but he seemed to know nothing of the Vale. “Why would he offer his daughter to me? They haven't declared for us.”

“Not yet. They still may. My mother looks finished. She’s lost two dragons; Tyrion is with you, and I’m still missing. He wishes to side you with now, as to say he’s been on your side all the while. He will offer you swords for making her the Lady of Casterly Rock. You’ll have all of the Knights of the Vale at your beck-and-call.”

The Knights of the Vale? He thought of Lord Addam before he set off with his army. His face was pale beneath his battle cry. “How many swords?”

Viserra looked as if he’d hit her. “You are considering this? In truth?”

“Of course not, but if it means more fighting men, I have to be seen to consider it-”

“But you don’t need men,” she winced. The amber pendant unravelled, like Viserra shaking out her own braids. “You have Tyrion and Viserion. You only need me, and Rhaegal and then none will dare dispute you or try and bring you to harm again.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so. House Targaryen forged their rule with fire and blood. As dragons kept my ancestors sitting prettily on their Iron Throne, it will keep you in Casterly Rock.”

“Why do you wish to help me so? You’d betray your own House…for me?”

“No one needs to lose, no one. My mother will keep her throne, and you can have your Rock, and it will be a new chapter for House Lannister. An honourable chapter, full of valour and good deeds.”

“How?”

“By being you. You don’t have to be a Tywin or the Kingslayer. You can be a Jon Stark, or an Aemon the Dragonknight, or an Arthur Dayne or…or a Brienne of Tarth.”

His heart fluttered at the mention of her name. How did she know? He did not remember mentioning her by name. “I’m trying.” Galladon looked at the damp, dark ceiling, hoping the tears would roll back into his head. He was sick of crying, sick of it. Lions do not cry, he told himself again, but it was no use. It was unfair, it was all so unfair. His mother in a tomb and the woman he loved, in a cell. He’d an army, and all of the gold in Casterly Rock, in truth; so why did he feel so helpless?

Viserra shrugged off her furs and set to yanking her stained gown above her head. With every piece of garb she lost, Galladon’s worries escaped him. He could feel himself stiffen in his breeches, and felt ashamed for it. If it wasn’t unknightly enough to place the woman he loved behind a cell door, it was really the froth atop the ale to be having those kinds of thoughts at this very moment.

“What are you-” He shifted on his feet, turning to look at the door he had shut her behind. “We can’t, I want to so much. I’ve thought of you every day for nearly half a year, but it is not right-”

“Galladon.”

“Viserra, please, I must keep you safe, there will be time fo-”

“Galladon!” Her voice was a whip, slicing into him. “Look at me. Look at me.”

He took a deep breath. He’d tried. He rose his hand to his chest to steady his heart. It thumped and thumped and thumped like a battering ram. Calm. You are no green boy now, he told himself, but nothing would have prepared him for the sight that he was about to see. Her Targaryen hair was longer. Without braids or oil or ribbon; it curled at the tips, framing her face like feathers. I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair. He looked down, admiring it from root to tip. His breath caught in his throat. Longer tendrils grazed a swollen belly which was once so tiny he could wrap his hands around her with ease. She was with child. His child. His child.

“Oh…” was all he could manage, but he felt like his heart would burst. “You’re with child. Aren’t you? My child.”

She nodded. Her eyes were wide as if she was waiting for him to say something else. “Yes. Yours,” she choked. "There have been no others, not since you, I swear it. Please, please I-”

“Why are you crying?” He brushed them away with his thumb.

“I just need you to know that the child I carry inside me is yours-”

“I do not doubt you.”

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t come to you maiden.”

“I don’t care. I want you now, I want you forever. Both of you.” He felt to his knees, tracing the grey and mauve that striped her once milk-white skin. “Don’t you dare marry Artys, no matter what your mother says, I won’t stand for it.”

“I don’t think he’ll have me. No one will now.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” his voice was fervent. He looked into her eyes. Beautiful eyes. Summer skies. Her eyes could make him do anything, and he knew it. Did she know, though?

“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it? Everything Rhaenyra said was true. I saw how your bannerman looked at me. I know what they wished to do with me.”

“I would not let them. Not before, not now, not ever.”

Her eyelashes were fluttering, tiny silver butterflies. “But what of Lady Aemma Arryn? And her father, and his fighting men?”

“I don’t want her. I wouldn’t take her. I won’t wed anyone else but you, not for all of the swords in the realm. That is…if you wish to wed me?” He kissed her stomach, making her shiver.

“I would,” she whispered down to him. “I would. Because in truth, it is only us who can stop this fighting, only us who can bring peace to this realm. Even before the blood feud began, Targaryens never married into House Lannister for the Valyrians believed your gold would be our downfall. My mother might still believe that, in truth. But we can stop this war, both of us, all three of us."

Her words were sweet. “Is that the only reason you wish to wed? To stop this fighting?” He rested his head on her belly, nuzzling into her. She reached down and scratched the stubble beneath his chin.

“Just one of many reasons. I love you. Like I've never loved anyone before. You could be a Storm or a Lannister or have no name at all, and I would love you all the same...because you are you, and no one else."

He stood up, kissing her deeply. One hand in the small of her back, the other feeling the silk of her hair. His dragon-princess. They would bring the realm peace, eventually, but first, they had to make everyone wroth. There was no calm without a storm first.

“I’ll return soon, I swear it, I cannot bear to see you in this damp, dark place.” He planted a last kiss on her lips, sweeping on hand across her belly as he passed her by.

"I know you will, my love." Her voice was as solemn as any prayer but still pretty, so pretty.

He charged out of the cells with urgency. He'd tell them now. He'd make them wroth now, to get it over and done with. Galladon's stomach lurched with each yank of the hoist that carried him to the uppermost levels.

Tyrion’s door. Galladon brushed his hands against the wood of the door, feeling the splinters against the tips of his fingers. He steadied his breathing, drumming one hand against his hip to keep it in rhythm. It was no use. None. She made him headier than any wine or ale he had ever drunk, and he was drunk on her scent and her kisses and the dark stripes across her swollen belly. He was to have a daughter or a son, and they would be trueborn, knowing their father and mother. The door swung open on its hinges, crashing into the wall behind it. Tyrion jumped, barely visible behind strewn candles and books and wineskins.

“If you think I’m going to marry some child from the Vale, then you can bloody well think again.” Galladon fired, jabbing his finger.

Tyrion looked up from his parchments, his face twitching. “What?”

“This Aemma Arryn, I don’t want her.”

“Close the door, Galladon.” His nephew obliged, striding up to his desk. “Viserra's been gossiping already, has she?"

“I don't call informing me about plans made on my behalf, gossip."

"No plans have been made for you. We only received the raven from the Vale less than a fortnight ago. I have been considering the offer since."

"Well, I am glad she has told me."

“I’d imagine she’s gladder.”

“What do you mean?”

“Viserra does not like to have her toys taken away from her. She’d wander into an enemy stronghold, undefended, to stop that from happening.”

I am the only defence she needs. Her armour, her shield.  “I will not have Viserra taken from me. I do not want this Aemma Arryn.”

"What is there not to want?" Tyrion asked, incredulously. "I knew her aunt or cousin, or whatever she is to her…” he snorted into a belch. He was drunk. He was drunk more often than not nowadays, it seemed. “Knew! Knew! I was married, married, to her, when they were of an age. If the girl looks as Tully as they say, I can assure you that she will one day be most beautiful."

"One day, exactly, she is a child. If you think I will-"

"A child? And you're little more than one, yourself. A bedding will wait a few years, of course. Your little wife will come here with her septa and her puppies and will learn to be your lady."

"She's better off learning the Ibbenese tongue for all the good it will do her."

Tyrion clutched one roll of parchment so tightly in his hand that it bent at the middle. “This is not just about pretty maids and what one you like the most. You’ve usurped me, dear nephew, and Casterly Rock is yours. It will only be yours as long as you make alliances. A marriage to the Vale will mean tens of thousands of swords, think of the good that will do for your vassals, your people. This is not about you-"

Galladon could feel his neck twitch. About him? About him? He thought of all of the times that it was definitely not about him. He thought of his mother clutching her belly by the light of the moon and the secret she held in her heart. He thought of his first maester, who spent more time teaching him that he was dense than anything else. He thought of trueborn lordlings who had tried to bully him before he grew two heads taller than them. He thought of the old rusty haired knight who called him 'bastard' in the melee circle and said filthy things of him and Lady Shireen. He thought of the nights spent on stormy seas, sweat and blood slick across his skin, getting jabbed at by Aurane Waters' pirate scum who waved swords like butchers did cleavers. He thought of the queen, and the men she sent after him. It had never been about him. It had never been about him. “I. Don't. Want. Her.”

"I could have her head bleached with lye and train her in spear if that suits my lord. Perhaps some rumours of bastardy as well, and some court gossip involving her, a mountain of hay and a stable lad who was hung as a horse himse-”

Galladon screamed, kicking a solid gold stool to the far corner of the room."Aemma Arryn may help us win this war. Serra will help me end it."

“Serra,” he mocked, lips stained red. “Marrying her would be throwing wildfire on it."

"Not wildfire. Dragon fire. We'd have superiority in the air. And that's not all, no-"

"Ooooh, tell me."

"She's with child. My child." Even in his rage, it made his heart swell with joy. The gods had blessed him. His family had been taken by the queen, all of them, but the Mother above had seen fit to grant him with the chance for his own. He thought of a little girl, as pretty as Viserra, waving a sword. She could have Oathkeeper if she was strong enough to wield it. But Tyrion's black eye glinted with malice, his look cutting through him and making his happiness drain away like a slashed wineskin on a tavern floor.

"Your child?" He said, cooly. Galladon had never taken the time to truly study Tyrion's face, but at this very moment, it seemed monstrous. "You're a bit bloody sure about that, aren't you? You do not know Viserra as I do. Her spirited nature may be charming for now, but her fickleness will soon become grating. She's a slave to her whims, and behind that pretty smile is a manipulative and deceitful creature who creates drama wherever she much as points her bejewelled slippers." Tyrion stopped to breathe, as if he was awaiting a reaction. "...and if she wasn't Daenerys Targaryen's daughter, she'd be lifting her skirts for a halfpenny."

Galladon turned, not saying a word, the only sound coming from shattering wood; the door wrenching from its hinges as he kicked it clean from the frame to take his leave.

Chapter Text

"Pick up the pace, you useless sons of whores! I'd like to get to Casterly Rock before the bedding!" Walder Brax boomed, wearing a surcoat that bore the purple unicorn of his house. As would I, Ser. They would have been there last night if Brax wasn't so tightfisted, and bought them all some bloody horses. Unbeknownst to this lordling, who had got the shitty end of the stick in escorting this band of merry misfits to Casterly Rock, he was not the only one in a rush.

Jaime wiped sweat from his brow and ploughed on. He had become accustomed to the dry heat of Tyrosh, and the red dust it left in its wake, but he only ever paced the same cobbled road to the dye house and home again. The sun was taking its toll on today's northwards march, its rays so fierce that it scalded his skin through his tunic. He was nearing fifty now, and felt every year his age today as he dragged himself over the rolling hills. No matter. It would be worth the aches and stiffness. Tommen was to wed today, he had heard, and he would be there amongst the other faces. What he would say when he saw him, he did not know.

Xhallalla groaned, his breath pained as he lumbered up the hill beside him. "On the Summer Isles, we drink palm wine and dance and make love until the sun rises. I have heard Westerosi weddings can be grim."

"They can be." He had the right of it. Jaime thought of another wedding, a wedding he did not attend. He did not arrive in time and Cersei never forgave him for it. As if he could have done anything. It was a wonder no one had put Joff down sooner. At least Tommen sounded nothing like him. He stopped for a moment, retching with his exertion, spitting up magenta mucus on his sleeve. Flailing around, he wiped it on his breeches. Xhallalla watched him, concern showing in the whites of his eyes.

"How long have you been mixing dyes?" The Summer Islander asked.

"Five-and-ten years, a while more, perhaps."

"Does that happen to everyone?"

Before they die. "What is it to you? You're not going back there, are you? You're getting your gold mine, your patch of land and your bride with yellow hair."

Xhallalla laughed. He was an erratic fellow, going from melancholy to delight in the blink of an eye. "I like how you think, Jaime. I even like your name. Why did you wait so long to share it with me?" You did not ask. No one did. No one cared for a maimed man of no great house. "My ray of sunshine, Jaaaaaime! You remind why this trek is so worthwhile." Jaime sighed, as Xhallalla clapped him on the shoulder. If he found this walk too arduous, Jaime did not think that he stood much of a chance of slaying any dragons.

"Talking of brides," called Sayoon, the man from Yi-Ti with a penchant for stories. Despite his youth, his long hair was sticking flat to his head with sweat. "This Lord of Lannister's intended is the fairest women in the world. I brought my sword instead of my harp, but I may have to sing her a song, an ode to her beauty."

"How would you know?" Jaime fired. He remembered Tommen's first bride, the Tyrell girl. She was pretty and clever and Cersei hated her. He remembered his twin, scowling and bleating of how they should not have let him wed so young. She was drunk on Arbor gold and rage, berating everyone, including him. She would not dance with me. She spurned me for Osmund fucking Kettleblack. He still did not know how Tommen had remained hidden, all this time, but thanked the Stranger that it was not Cersei who had risen from the grave. He hoped. He'd see.

"I don't, not first-hand, but I've heard of the stories."

"Aye, there's e-bloody-nough of those. Have you not spoken to anyone?" Shrieked a peasant lad with straggly hair that had joined their party in Silverhill. "It's all everyone is talking about, the lion and his dragon-princess. She better be fairer than the Maiden herself for the grief she's given him."

"A princess?" Asked one of the younger boys, with brightly dyed hair, not unlike Jaime's own.

"Yes," said the lad, through gritted teeth. "She's a princess, a real one, Daenerys Targaryen's youngest daughter. She ran away from her castle to be with him, you see."

Jaime could scarcely hide his amusement every time he heard it. How sweet. He'd put down her mad father, and now his son had stolen her daughter, despite her best efforts to kill them all. His own father would have found it just as sweet, knowing who he truly wished Cersei to marry. He could still remember the perfume bottles shatter onto the marble floor whilst Aunt Genna fussed to calm her. "Your father will find you a better man than Rhaegar," she had pleaded, as Cersei screamed and cried.

"I'm glad you find it droll, Tyroshi, no one else bloody does. My sister is a servant for my Lord of Serrett, and she says he was bloody raging when he found out. He was saying that the Princess Viserra should be burned alive, and her ashes sent back to King's Landing in a jewelled pot, for all the Westerland children that her mother slew with her flames."

As they came up over the top of the hill, he could see a place that he had once called home. At first glance, it seemed like any other mountain, set in the turquoise sea, towering up towards the clouds. It was only when you rode closer that you could see that this was unlike any other great lump of stone. Its fortress was very much within the layers upon layers of heavy rock, but there were other signs of life studded outside it. Battlements banded around the tip of the rock, like a crown, where watchmen would once gaze out for approaching ironborn. Swaying in the breeze was the rope bridge that led out to the sept-above-the-sea, set on its own island of rock. There were a few balconies too, where he had once sat with his father and Cersei, high above the Sunset Sea during happier times.

He remembered the last time that he had seen this sight. All because of Catelyn Stark and her poor Dead Ned who couldn't stay atop his horse. He'd left his place at Robert's side, and set off Casterly Rock to raise his armies, to get his brother back. If he closed his eyes, he was there. He was twenty years younger and there. He could feel rise and fall of his horse; the salt of the seaspray and freshly baked bread; banners of red and steamers gold, flapping in the breeze; women weeping, horns blowing and his men cheering for him. They were walking faster now, Brax's men riding up behind them and hurrying them along. He obliged them, for he had his own urgency. There would be no fanfare this time, but that didn't matter. He was so close to Tommen now, the closest that had been to family in so many years. He did not want to think of Cersei or Father. Or Baratheons or Starks. He just wished for his son, and now, he would be his.

They arrived after the sun had set. Despite being a Lion of the Rock himself, Casterly Rock itself had succeeded in making him feel small. He was not the only one craning his neck up to look at the great slab of rock above them, disappearing into the clouds. Queerly, there were throngs of peasants everywhere, carrying children on their hips and sacks containing all of their worldly possession on their backs, walking into the Lion's Mouth. Father used to round them up the smallfolk for disobedience and send them to work in the mines, but Jaime did not remember them smiling like these did. The Brax men shoved them along to joining the fray, cold and shadow passing over them as they entered through the lion's jaws.

"I've sellswords, from Silverhill," stuttered their escort. "No, no, not actually from Silverhill, they were sent there....by way of Oldtown....no, they're not Reachmen either, they're Essosi. What do you want to be done with them?" The guards at the Lion's Mouth, in cobbled-together red plate did not seem to know the answer to Walder Brax's question. They shrugged, and shouted over them as if they were not there, before deciding to lead them down steep steps and deep into the bowels of the Rock. With every step, he felt colder, more aware of the great pressure above him. There were some who lived in the Rock, at the same time he did, but who rarely saw the sun. Those who never had a chance to sit on one of those balconies over the Sunset Sea, feeling its gentle kiss on their face.

Jaime knew where they had emerged. This was where the menagerie once was, where he had played dares with Cersei and his father's pages. Great golden cages lined the sides, but instead of lions, they housed people. People living under canopies of tourney pavilions, of all hues and all persuasions. They were singing and dancing, kissing and embracing. He could feel a sense of relief fanning from them, but he did not understand why they were here, or what they were smiling about. Children ran around with both tourney swords and straw dolls, whilst their mothers chased them. Jaime did not know why they were there, but he could not remember such love and joy at the Rock. He certainly did not expect to find such warmth in the deep, cold pits of it.

"What is this?" Jaime asked Walder, who was watching Xhallala struggle with the bindings on his bedroll. They had been given a patch of ground, and a cloth tourney pavilion to house them. Jaime hung back, letting the younger, fitter men do the job of stomping the iron pegs into the hard ground. "Are children fighting Daenerys Targaryen? I had no idea that situation was that grave."

"How promising did you think the situation was if we're going all the way to Essos for one-handed men?" He snorted, the mucus escaping from his throat audible to Jaime. "His lordship is a charitable fellow. Anyone who wishes to shelter themselves from Daenerys' flames has bread and salt and shelter. Even peasants from the Reach and the Riverlands are permitted safe haven from the wars to come, that is, if they proclaim him the rightful Lord of Casterly Rock."

"And they trust him to uphold this guest right?"

"He's no Lord Tywin," Walder said, quietly.

"No? What is he like?"

"See for yourself. The Darling of the Westerlands is up there." He nodded upwards, before sighing so deeply that Jaime could hear the mucus rattle around in his chest once more. Tommen?

He saw two men, both dressed finely in hues the colour of sunset. They were murmuring from a raised platform directly above them, a slab of carved rock that allowed them to survey the sights below. The tallest one balanced parchment on his forearm; writing then scribbling out, writing then scribbling out. Jaime back towards the rocky walls behind him, and craned his neck to hear them over the bustle of the menagerie.

"Everyone is in, calm yourself," the smaller one said. "You need to ready yourself. I heard Princess Viserra kicking off at your nuncle this morning. I'd hate for you to be late to the sept and on the receiving end of that."

"He deserves all he gets," came a sullen reply. He took a step forward, looking down. Jaime backed into the wall, hoping he would disappear. Could it be? "Who are these men?"

"Sellswords, apparently, Fennick was telling me. They're the ones Brax brought in, from across the Narrow Sea. They don't look like any sellswords I've ever seen before, though. What will you wish them do?"

"What do I wish to do with them? None of my business. They're Brax men, as far as I'm concerned-"

"You are our liege lord. It's your business whether you like it or not, mate."

"I'd rather not step on his toes, not after last night."

"Oh, fuck him. You could have struck his head off for treason after that tirade of his. What would you have this sorry lot do?"

The boy turned, looking down at them with wide eyes. Kind eyes. Jaime's heart stopped, for all he could see in the boy's face was Cersei. She was in his jaw and his straight nose. He could see her in his high cheekbones and the golden curls about his shoulders. It was him. It was his son. Tommen. My son. Tommen turned to the boy who was with him and said something that made him laugh. Tommen laughed with him, throwing his hair back and grinning. Cersei would laugh the same when she was trying hard to make those around her love her, but there was something more sincere about their son. Tommen was light on his feet as he danced down the stone steps, and walked into crowds. It was only then that Jaime noticed that some twenty men in red cloaks were at his back, guarding him. He should be with them. He should be protecting him.

"Tommen!" He heard himself shout after him. "Tommen!" His voice cracked, rattling around in his aching throat. Jaime cupped his hand and stump around his mouth and screamed it once more. "Tommen!" He screamed with such ferocity, that he began to cough, retching red and pink. He felt hands on him, slapping his back and pummeling on his chest before all the torches went out and his sight grew dark. He wished for a dream he had once. A dream where his sister and his father and all the Lannisters that came before him abandoned him, and where his Kingsguard brothers and his Prince judged him. He would have taken their accusing looks and hateful glares with good grace, if he could see his wench with her flaming sword once more.

Despite his wishes, he did not dream. He woke in water, shaking. Tommen, Tommen, I must get to him. 

"Be still, Westerosi," cursed one of the younger boys, who had sailed with him on the Tallest Tree from Tyrosh. He was scrubbing at his arms and stump with a rough sponge and pink-speckled soap. Green droplets licked down his torso where his hair dye had displaced, but his arms remained green as they ever were.

He tried to stay still, blinking through the steam that rose from the great stone tub. The bathhouse. He had been here before. He felt fragile, dizzy from the heat, as his back slid down the gentle marble slope of the tub. Xhallala appeared in the mists, hoisting him up by his underarms.

"You had the shakes, screaming someone's name," he said, gripping Jaime so sight that it began to pain. He longed for gentler hands. "One of the lordlings heard you shouting and came to offer you a maester. They wanted you to lay down, and rest, but I knew you would not want to miss the feast."

"The feast?"

"The wedding feast. This Lord of Lannister and his dragon princess."

Ah. It was all their escorts had spoken of since Silverhill, but he did not think he would be in attendance. "We're allowed in Great Hall?" Jaime asked.

"This king has invited everyone." Jaime could hear the excitement in the pink-haired boy's voice, as he squeezed the green out of his own.

"Lord," said Sayoon, from the far corner of the tub. His hair was undyed, the shiny blue-black of Yi-Ti. It poured down his shoulders like ink. "They do not have kings here, they have a queen. One queen."

There was fresh garb that they were permitted to dress in. Old, used, faded in colour, but clean, and did not itch the skin. Feeling more alive, he trimmed his beard and dragged a comb through his hair in front of one of the looking glasses. They spread from wall to wall, like great slabs of ice. The green had gone, faded away from salt-water and heat, as all dyes tended to do. It had left a tinge in his curls, though, making it look more sand than gold. He cupped his face, tracing over the lines with his little finger, emerald eyes staring back at him. He felt himself, he felt at home, yet he felt so so lost. He would feel better once he spoke to Tommen, and told him who he was. He waited for the others to dress, his feet itching. He had to get to his son. As soon as the last boot was on the last foot, he bolted.

"Where are you going?!" Huffed Xhallala. "There were guardsmen leading up the peasants, back where the cages were. They wanted us to follow them, said they would show u-"

"They wanted to herd us like cattle. It'll take us an hour to get up to the Great Hall from the way they were going." They were headed for the south stairs, a winding spiral that allowed access to every other level, but from there they would need to walk a league across the length of the Rock. Jaime knew a slanted tunnel, meant for horses and servants' carts, that would bring them there in half the time. He remembered humouring Tyrion, when he was about twelve, swapping his muddy riding boots for his lady mother's old silken slippers and sliding down the marble like tumbling fools. The servants pulling carts of goats milk up the stairs had found it hilarious. His father did not.

They arrived through the kitchens, chased out by shrieking cook with a wooden spoon. Upon stepping out to Great Hall, Jaime doubted that it had ever seen such temperance. There were no servants, no seventy-seven courses, but a wooden table, nearly a league long, filled with cheese and bread and blushed apples. There were troughs of stew bulked out with barley and lentils and carrots in place of swan or suckling pig. Banners hung from the ceilings, just about grazing the tables, but they were nothing that would have come out of his dye house in Tyrosh. Roughspun cloth, hastily dyed, with blooms of discolour. There was the Lannister lion, roaring on its crimson field, as well as strange device on black that Jaime did not know; the Targaryen three-headed dragon, but gold, with feathered wings.

He could hear the bells and the drums and singer spouting some bawdy tavern song, that Jaime once knew the words to. Losing the others, he dove into the dancing crowds, feeling his toes bruise beneath his boots with the enthusiastic changing of partners. Jaime battled through, hoping to get closer to the high table so he could catch a glimpse of Tommen. When he reached the far end of the hall, he was dashed to find the Lord and Lady's seats empty, the only mark of their presence empty plates, flattened wineskins and alms for their health and happiness. Amongst soft riding boots, sizeable books, wonky stoneware and bound flowers, a white lion cub with a satin collar, that Jaime could only assume was a bizarre bride's gift, prowled the length of the table, knocking over goblets as it padded by.

He heard a shrill giggle and eye went to a girl on the floor. A swan amongst sparrows, he could only assume that she was the fabled dragon princess. It must have been her personal arms that were the strange bird-dragon. He wondered who her father might have been, for her arms seemed to be the only part of her he had any influence on. A true Targaryen, with light eyes and crown of white roses atop her silver-gold head. She looked startlingly familiar, like Queen Rhaella come again, but he had never seen his queen as happy as this girl did. She swayed with the beat of the drum, a peasant-babe on her hip and another child in her other hand. It was then he saw his son, he saw Tommen, gazing down at her with pride, surrounding by men and women who wished to talk him. It was him. More youthful to look upon that he had expected, and stronger and taller than he could have pictured his plump little boy to have grown up to be, but plainly him. Tommen.

"Look at her," someone spat, to his left. "Carrying on like she's Good Queen Alysanne. I don't remember Good Queen Alysanne being a common whore. Do you?"

It took some time for Jaime to realise that the voice was talking to him. It belonged to a lord, in all shades of purple with a chain of amethysts around his neck. His breath was foul and his face was red with drink. Jaime misliked looking at it, choosing to stare over the man's shoulder to his son, watching him from afar. He was garbed handsomely in crimson and gold, a pale cloak swimming behind him.

"She was before my time, my lord, I don't remember Good Queen Alysanne doing anything at all." There was something about being home, so close to his son. Some magic of the Rock that made him all the more brazen.

The man ignored him. "His lordship has taken her to every bloody village, where she has been begging forgiveness for her sins in that awful, simpering voice of hers."

"Has it worked?"

"Eh?" The man swayed, his eyes darting around the room.

"I said," Jaime repeated, more loudly this time, "...has it worked?"

"What do you think? Of course, they've been won over by her. I bet they couldn't believe their eyes, the blood of the dragonlords, on her knees." Tommen certainly looked at her like he could not believe his eyes. His Targaryen girl had put down the peasant babes and was in his arms now, much to the delight of the smallfolk around them. They sang along to the singers and kissed in a way that would make a septon pray to the Mother above. Jaime's mouth quirked into a smile. He was thankful that Tommen did not have to hide his love.

The red-faced lord scoffed, draining the wineskin he was carrying. When he grimaced his teeth were stained red, like some wolf or lion who had made a fresh kill. He peered closer into Jaime's face, and he found himself leaning him, doing the same.

"Who are you?" Tytos Brax. That was it. Brax. They'd been taken together, at the Whispering Wood, but the Starks allowed to have him ransomed. The years had not been kind, Jaime thought, as he studied his blotchy red neck. If the Westerlands had been starving, the famine certainly hadn't hit Hornvale.

"A dyer from Tyrosh," he said blankly, looking him in the eye. He was curious to see whether he would know him or not. He did not even know why he was still hiding. He could have announced himself at the gates, after all.

Tytos Brax did not know him. "All sorts of waifs and strays they're letting in here then, Lord Tywin would-" He staggered off, walking into the corner of the table, limping and cursing as he went. Lord Tywin would most like be delighted, you lackwit. It was no different than what he had Tyrion do to Sansa Stark. He felt a chill all over. When he said wolf-girl's name to himself, it was not she who came to mind. It was another maid, his maid, who he had sent on a quest to find her. Jaime shook his head as if he was trying to shake away his thoughts.

Tommen. It is Tommen who needs my full attention, for now. He looked upon them again. However kindly Tommen treated his bride and however willingly she came, the girl had made herself a hostage by marrying. Even though he could see him dance with her chastely, whispering sweet words in her ear, he could just as easily rip their child from her breast, shove her off the top of the Rock and claim the throne through her line. That was what his father would have done. 

Jaime backed up against the wall, his neck grazing against some great tapestry showing one of the Kings of the Rock of old; King Gerold, returning home with his some one-hundred ironborn hostages. His breathing was shallow. His interaction with Tytos Brax had left him more shaken than he had thought. He tried to steady his breathing, downing a cup of wine, then two or three more. Dizzy, he scanned the room looking for his travelling companions that he had left behind. He could see Xhallala, at least, whirling around one of the yellow-haired peasant girls that he desired so. He was happy. Everyone seemed happy, bar a handful of lords and ladies sat on a high table, below the lord's dais. Some were smiling upon the young lovers, but at least half seemed as sour-faced as Tytos. A fair woman in her early thirties, with seashells in her curling hair was sat upright, her face doused in worry, whilst a handsome, older woman sought to comfort her. It was not working, for the younger maid continued to stare ahead as if she was engrossed in some grim mummer's show that she had seen before but could not look away from.

Jaime heard a happier sound that distracted him. A laugh, a laugh brighter than all of the gold leaf glinting on the ceilings. Tommen. He really was all Cersei; her nose, her jaw, her golden curls. His wife had been swept off her feet by another, or perhaps it was she that did the sweeping. Tommen laughed, kissing her on her silver head as he passed her and her new dancing partner by. He walked through a sea of revellers, of birth high and low, them parting beneath him as if he was a great rock in the bay. They either clapped him on the back or bowed, depending on how brave they were. However plucky or meek they were towards their superior, Jaime could tell that they loved him. Cersei would not have liked how comfortable the smallfolk were with him, or how he went to fetch his own ale.

Now was his chance. Tommen was stood at the feasting table, his guardsmen distracted by teats and wine of other merrymakers. Jaime drained his own goblet and bolted towards him. His heart pounded everywhere. He could feel it in his throat, in his ears and hammering away in his chest. His son. He was so close he could reach him. So close he could smell him, sweat ringing off his curls, made sodden by his vigorous dancing. Jaime wiped one clammy hand on the leg of his breeches and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Yes?" His voice was warm and kind, but he sounded Stormlander. He sounded like Robert. That irked him. Nonetheless, he greeted Jaime like he was his friend, but he knew his eyes did not recognise him at all. 

"Tommen," he whispered. His mouth was sand. "It's...me."

"Good evening....you!" He raised his eyebrows, laughing. "Ale?"

He took it, clutching it as tightly as he would a sword. "Tommen? Do...do you not remember?" It's Uncle Ser, your father.

"Tommen?" He was puzzled. "My name is not Tommen, Ser, although I do hate to disappoint."

"What name are you using now?" Jaime pressed, lowering his voice.

"I warned you of this, my lord, let anyone in and-" A boy with gleaming red hair, and the burning tree of House Marbrand at his breast, had staggered over to them. Addam? No, it couldn't be Addam. It was the boy he was with earlier, in the menagerie. A younger brother, a cousin. Mayhaps, a son?

"Oh Conor, if I was being too selective, I would have had you bar you." He jested, flashing his companion a smile that would have been beautiful on any maid. It soon fell as he turned to look Jaime in the eye. "I think you ought to take a lie down, Ser. There are people sleeping off the wine in the stables, there's no shame in it. It's better than the gutter, and I've woken up in one of those before. Terrible for your back."

"Tommen-"

Tommen blinked. "You were the one who was shrieking that name earlier, were you not? I'm telling it true, Ser, you have me confused."

Jaime was the one who was confused. He did not understand. It was Tommen. It had to be Tommen. He had claimed him. They had been talking of it across the Narrow Sea. The Kingslayer's son, off to claim his birthright, against the wroth of Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of Her Name. His head pained, he clutched it, looking down. Something shone, catching his eye. Rubies, set in a golden lion. "Oathkeeper," he stuttered, in disbelief. "Tommen, how did-"

"Did you not hear what I said?" Guards had circled them now, at the sound of their lord's voice being raised. But how was he lord? If he was not Tommen? Was he Tyrion's, mayhaps? Or a cousin who had survived the slaughter? And how was he wearing the sword? Brienne's sword. His wench's sword. It was still in its cherrywood scabbard, the same that his own father had made for him. With goblet in his good hand, he used his stump to reach out and graze the length of it. The boy reached down, cupping it. His grip was firm but gentle. They looked up, their eyes meeting.

"How did you lose your hand?" All warmth had drained from his face. His handsome, jovial smile gone. "How did you lose your hand?" He repeated.

"Saving a maiden," he said, after some time. As soon as the words escaped his lips, Jaime found himself on the floor, feeling ribbons of wetness stream from his mouth and brow. He'd bitten his own tongue in the fall.

"Where is my uncle?" the boy roared, lording over him. "Where is Lord Tyrion?"

The singers had stopped, as had the drums and bells, and there was more room on the floor than he remembered. They had an audience. The merrymakers had them in a chokehold, circling around them, wishing to see what would happen next.

"I need Lord Tyrion, now." Jaime could see the boy's boots slapping around on the marble tiles as he paced a circle around him. "Tyrion," the boy shouted. "Is this my father, Lord Tyrion? "

'My father'. Jaime hauled himself up. "If you are not Tommen-" Jaime spat blood on the floor and clutched at his cheek. "-Then who are you? You can't be Joffrey can-" Crack. He was on the floor again, his head pounding. Looking up, he could see Oathkeeper. Ruby eyes bore down him, accusingly.Tommen. That sword, how? Why?

"So it is true. You do only think of your vile sister, and what she gave you."

"What do you mean? Where did you get that, that-" He tried to get up, but the boy struck him again. He could feel a tooth loose with his tongue. Jaime spat it on the floor, a pearl in a pool of blood. His ears rang and his face throbbed. It had to be Tommen, it simply had to be. His eyes were as crazed as his mother's were, but he threw large, resounding blows with his giant paws, whereas as she flung insults and wine.

"I'm here," replied a voice, a familiar voice, after what had seemed like an eternity. "Galladon, what is the meaning of this?"

Jaime managed to rise to his feet this time, to see his brother standing before him. Tyrion. This boy may, or may not have been Tommen, but he could be certain that the dwarf in front of him was his brother. Jaime had little time to survey his blinking mismatched eyes and the twisted scar tissue that scathed his face, for the boy lashed out again. His fists were stone, but Jaime caught his punch with his left hand, cat-quick. That startled him, seeing his useless hand deflect such a relentless blow. He could not remember having so much dexterity.

"Galladon," screamed a woman's voice, no, a girl's voice. "Stop this madness. He is not worth it, I tell you." 

It was only then that the boy cast Jaime's hand aside and turned on his heels. A white cloak streamed behind him, a Kingsguard cloak, like the tail of some falling star. Before the heavy doors parted for him, his woman stayed, her eyes blue fire. She looked at him with hate.

Jaime rushed to pick up the cloak the boy had discarded, rubbing his fingers over the threads. He knew this cloak. On closer inspection, the white was off, like milk that had turned, and littered with snags and stains, but it felt like home. He knew this cloak. It was the cloak King Aerys had fashioned around his shoulders. The cloak he'd pulled over one shoulder as he yanked up his sister's skirts. The cloak that had soiled him. All the same, it was the one he had pulled from his saddlebags and draped his wench-wife with, for she would not have red and gold. It had looked purer on her than it ever did on him.

"Guards. Escort this man to my chambers, at haste." Commanded Tyrion, his voice wavering, as if he was on the verge of vomiting. He looks as if he's seen a ghost. Perhaps I am a ghost.

The Lady of Casterly Rock, whoever's wife she was, looked at him too, deep inside him. Her hate was palpable, and her stare was worse than all of the sideways looks that he'd received in his life. But he knew those eyes and knew that she had once not looked upon him with such loathing. He could not place where.

"You, I know you," he said through bloody teeth, jabbing his finger. He felt weak, aching everywhere. Guards in red plate had hoisted him up and were the only things keeping him on his feet.

"You don't," she said, stoically, but Jaime could sense that it had taken all of her strength to not claw his eyes out. Her blue eyes were ice. "And I've no wish to know you." She followed her lord husband, leaving a strange, heady scent that reminded him of the Free Cities.

Tyrion's men removed him from the hall. He heard voices behind him whisper his name, cheers as well, as he was led up winding stairs and endless corridors. He wished for his brother to look at him, but Tyrion looked straight ahead. As soon as a gilded door slammed behind them, Jaime collapsed to his knees, pulling his brother close to him. "Tyrion," he breathed. "Tommen, why does he deny me?"

"I've been very well, thank you for asking. How are you?"

"Tyrion..." His voice wobbled. "Who is he?" His brother's stunned face softened.

"Your son, brother." He reached out to stroke his face. "Your son."

"My son? But he denies vehemently that he is Tommen, and he can't be Joff, I know he can't be Joff-"

"He is right to do so. He is not Tommen, nor is he Joff, but he is your son all the same."

My son? How? "Then who is his mother?"

"There aren't a lot of candidates, are there?"

"Don't you dare, Tyrion." He was weak and throbbing, yet walked a silken thread between anguish and anger. "I am going to forget you killed Father, and the rest of our house, I have heard, for just one evening. Do not jest when an apparent son of mine is involved. Please, did I leave Cersei with chi-"

"Cersei?" Tyrion made a face. "You did not leave Cersei with any more cubs. I am talking of your warrior maid."

"My warrior maid?" Mine. And she was. She was mine. But she died.

"Brienne of Tarth."

"You do not deserve to speak her name." And neither do I.

"It will be impossible to explain who that boy is without doing so. That boy, the new Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and my darling usurper, who you seem to think is Tommen, is....yours, and hers too."

Jaime could feel his lip quiver. He steadied it, but it spasmed uncontrollably all the same. "That's impossible. She died." It was I who let it happen. I could not keep her safe. I left her to get caught up in a war that she had no business in.

Tyrion's black eye blinked, he began to pace the length of the room. He poured a goblet of wine as he passed his desk, downed it, then poured another.

It came pouring out of Jaime like a slash to the wrist. His own hands were shaking. "I took a fresh horse, ink and quill from Tytos Blackwood, as well as his silence, in return for his son's release," Jaime gushed, lip twitching. "I gave her a message for Daven in Lannisport, explaining all, as best I could, and told her to ride west. She was to catch a ship to Tarth, to her father..." He thought of telling him of Stoneheart, but he did not want to speak of anything less. He would not be believed anyway. "On my own travels, I heard Tarly men, talking of how she was caught up in Daenerys' taking of the Westerlands." Despite the blood, his mouth grew dry. His brother had paced over to him now, clutching a cloth for his bleeding mouth. Jaime reached to grasp his hand. "Was it...lies? She lives? We have a son, and she lives? Why are you looking me like that, where is she?" Jaime cried, standing up. He couldn't bear it. He'd stared across the Narrow Sea, wishing for her, wanting her...and she had been there all the while. Had she waited for him? Prayed for his return?

"She's dead, Jaime." His words were the dagger in the throat of a dying stag; putting him out of his misery. He sat down. He'd grieved for her for nearly seven-and-ten years. There were no tears in his eyes, no anguish in heart, no searing pain; just a return of the same dull ache that he had learned to live with for so very long.

"But...if it was not in the wars, how?"

"The birthing bed." Tyrion drained his goblet.

"You're lying. Don't you dare lie about her." Jaime could feel his blood boil. "You kill our father, then you li-"

"I wish I was. That boy deserves the world."

So did Brienne. "I don't understand."

"She did not find herself in the midst of any battle, despite what you have been told. It seems she made it to Lannisport and was taken to Tarth. There, Lady Brienne passed bringing him forth. Bringing your son forth."

"She couldn't have possibly died like that. Not like Mother." He'd seen her wrench a boulder from a cliffside, fight a bear with a wooden sword and best him in a fight. Tears were pricking at his eyes now, but he blinked them away furiously. 

"You don't wish him any ill, do you?"

"I am not Cersei." I thought I was seeing her in the boy, but I was really seeing myself.  "If I wish anyone ill, it is myself. If what you say is true, if she died birthing...our, our son, then I did this. I caused this. I killed her. I should have left her well alone."

"So Father killed Mother, did he?"

"No, I didn't-"

"That's what you are saying, Jaime. You did not kill your warrior-wife...if that is what she was to you. I am the only Lannister of our generation who has kinslayed and meant to do so."

It was not the same. He should have left her be. She was not even twenty. Young, idealistic, full of promise. He had loved her, oh, he had loved her, but he'd used her too. His muse, his maiden; helping a jaded, one-handed knight find his honour. I should have left her. Sent her back to Tarth as soon as we got to King's Landing. There was wetness on his face now, a wetness that tasted of salt instead of copper. "Tyrion, if what you are saying is true, and this boy...this boy is mine, and Brienne's, then who has raised him? Where has he been?"

"With the Evenstar. He raised him as his son."

Jaime's chest ached. "Tarth? He's been on Tarth all the while?" He thought of that day in Oldtown, where he took a journey bound for Tyrosh instead. Why? Why did he do that? If he had gone to Tarth, he may have seen her. Alive, her blue eyes shining and her belly big with a child. His child. One he could hold, who he did not have to hide.

"Yes," Tyrion went on. "He came to me after Lord Selwyn told him who he really was. He wanted to know if you really were as big and bad as people say."

My son, Jaime wept to himself, openly now. My son. And her son too. He did not deserve someone so pure. He did not deserve all she had given him. "And what the bloody hell have you told him?" He gripped his swollen cheek. He'd bested him. Like his mother had. But that had not been a fair fight either. His self-imposed imprisonment had been longer. The chains in his mind much heavier than whatever Robb Stark could have shackled him with.

"The truth."

"And what is that? Not that I care, in truth. Tell me of him, more of him, I want to know everything."

"His name is Galladon. He'll be seven-and-ten, next moon. He is better with oars and sails than he is atop a horse. He likes to dance, and drink, and chat to all manners of randoms. He's too kind for his own good, but with a terrible temper. He enjoys the glory of the melee circle but takes no joy in killing. He's the most stubborn creature I've ever met but will do anything his silver princess tells him to."

"This is the Targaryen girl?" He knew her from somewhere, he was certain.

"You've heard?"

"I've heard that everyone has heard," Jaime said, wiping his eyes. Tyrion rolled his own, pouring another glass of wine. "I am awares that you are not the only one is displeased."

"She'll bewitch the smallfolk in no time," his brother hiccupped. "Our vassals will need more convincing. As will I, I've argued with her thrice since breakfast."

"That suggests a level of familiarity." I have missed so much. He's a man grown, a man wed. I should have bought him his first horse, and taught him how to swing a sword.

"She was essentially my ward. She learned her letters and numbers with her maesters but came to me for her histories. She'd bring me spiceflowers from the glass gardens, bundled with twine and sing me songs, and I'd give her sour red, half water..." He smiled. "She was a delight, she is a delight, but an unbelievably poor choice for a match given the fact that she is hated here, and the other kingdoms believe that we've taken her as some kind of bloody hostage. I've tried all I can to have him set her aside, but I have not succeeded. I should have known that that horse had bolted when I found out that she was with child." He stopped to study Jaime's face. "Oh, you're to be a grandfather. May I offer my congratulations?"

Jaime choked. He really had missed so much. His son was to be a father himself. He wished there was some sorcery, some dark magic, to turn back time and make the giant of a boy small again. Small enough to sit in Jaime's lap, to hear stories of Ser Arthur Dayne and the Kingswood Brotherhood.

"I've spoken enough," he dragged his hand through his hair. Tyrion was nine years his younger, but his hair was shot through with a great deal more grey than Jaime's own. "Where have you been?"

"How long do you have? I think there are other topics that we needs must talk about as well." Your crofter's daughter. Tysha. Father. The destruction of House Lannister as I knew it.His son, some more. His and Brienne's son. He doubted that he'd ever tire of hearing of him.

"As long as you need."

"Well, I only have until my son will allow me to go to him." He may be too old for that, and try and strike me if I come within five paces of him, but I'm going to bloody try and hold this one all the same.

Chapter Text

"Viserion," he breathed, offering out his hand as if the beast was a rather small dog.

Every syllable of his dragon's name had come out in little clouds of fog. The chill of the morning was all around him, cold clammy hands that reached through his heavy cloth cloak, making him shiver. He was on top of the world, in the main courtyard atop Casterly Rock, surrounded by battlements for watchmen and marksmen. When his dragon's gaze became too heavy, he looked out towards the water and the light dancing across it. Splintered sunlight was creeping over the Sunset Sea, as if someone had taken a hammer to it, but Tyrion himself was shrouded in the darkness of his dragon's wing. Viserion loomed above him, chained at the neck, wisps of smoke pouring from his nostrils before they faded into the breeze.

"Viserion..." he said again, reaching backwards for the lamb's leg he'd brought up with him, but even when he waved it around like a silk standard, the dragon spurned him. Bending his neck and curving it within the cave of his chest. His tail dangled, slithering across the stone like a some monstrously sized snake. He'd gone particularly wild yesterday morning, thrashing it backwards and forth so much that it crushed the stone lion statues that bordered the courtyard. He could feel the jagged crumbs of stone through his soft boots.

"Why won't you come?" He groaned, throwing the lamb leg at the ground. Grit and dust clung to the marbled fat and flesh like some peppered crust. He kicked it. He was past his fortieth year now, but he still felt like stamping his feet like a child.

After Jaime was escorted from the Great Hall yesterday eve, peasants and lords alike had celebrated his return. They'd thanked the gods above, and drank to his health. It was his golden son that had been the only one displeased to see him. Jaime had been his own father's golden lad. His true heir. But Jaime had lost a hand along the way, and now was well-past middling age with grey in his hair and disease in his lungs. That was what the maester had said. As soon as they got him into his chambers, they'd had him bent over a vat of boiling water and peppermint with a heavy cloak over his head. Tyrion had pissed himself with laughter when Jaime said he'd been working at a dyers but seeing him retching pink spittle tinged with blood had soon put a stop to his chuckles. He'd made it home, but his brother was unwell, his journey taxing on his health.

Tyrion was thankful for his own health. It was the first time in his life that he was in a superior physical condition to his older brother, which felt strange. He was younger than Jaime. He'd the benefit of not being in some strange, self-imposed exile for a decade and a half.  But another way that they were set apart were their steeds. Where Jaime rode horses, Tyrion had a dragon. He was one of the three dragon riders in the world, and the only one in history without a drop of Valyrian blood. Viserion bowing to him had been a miracle, his wildest dream, come true. And it wasn't even his nameday when he was allowed to climb upon his cream-coloured back. If only Uncle Kevan had lived, had lived to see him fly.

Well, if Uncle Kevan rose from his grave today, it would have been an utter waste. Am I still a dragon rider, if my dragon does not let me ride? He'd thought not. He'd been trying, he'd been trying every morning after they came to the Rock, but Viserion continued to ignore him. He'd never snap his jaws, or loose his flame, but instead retreat as far as his chains would allow him.

I have to keep trying. Tyrion approached him again, reaching out to gently touch his tail but the dragon shuddered away. It's sudden lurch made the rock quake below his claws. You know, don't you? You know, I'm at war with your mother. Your loyalty never was to me, was it?

The dragon was so disinterested, that it did not even grant him a roar. It half-closed its slitted, golden eyes and started to beat his wings. He took flight, perching on the highest battlement, his claws gripping each side of it in a bid to support his huge body. His wings, as pale as milk, flapped nonchalantly, the winds giving Viserion just enough help to stop the stone crumbling below his mass.

"M'lord," called a guardsman from the door. It seemed as if he was too terrified to come any closer. "There are riders at the gates, an envoy is with them. They wish to see Lord Galladon, but they can't find him, they can't find him anywhere."

"Ahhh, you." Tyrion grinned toothily, to save face. He'd hoped he hadn't seen his dragon flee from his grasp. It was not something he could do in complete secret. Viserion's head was the side of a litter, his wings as wide as a small village.

"I don't know how you can ride that thing, m'lord." The guardsman took one tentative step into the courtyard before, retreating and groaning. "The black one destroyed our village, not that I remember myself, but my grandfather told me the story. They're terrifying. Don't you think you'll fall, m'lord?"

No fear of that anytime soon. "I'm quite accustomed to it now. These riders, who are they?"

"I didn't ask their names."

"Whose banners do they hold?"

"I dunno m'lord. Blue banners, blue and white."

"House Bywater? House Hawick of the Saltpans? The crouching leopard of House Santagar on a field of blue and white?"

"I-I-I...dunno m'lord. I didn't ask. Should I have asked?"

They should have told you. Bloody Galladon. He had given every peasant and their fourth cousin who has asked for it, employ and a roof over their heads.

"I'll come shortly. But for now, tell them to leave their swords at the Lion's Mouth and do not leave them unattended."

It took him an hour to reach the lower levels, but it gave him time to think. He'd have to try another tact. He thought of the first Queen Rhaenyra, and how her dragonspawn had brought the wild dragons of Dragonstone to their cause. He thought of the girl, Nettles, and the sheep she'd brought her mount. Perhaps he'd been too stingy. He'd bring Viserion a whole lamb tomorrow. He smirked to himself, but it was forced. His japes rang empty in his head.

"Where is the envoy?" He announced, gripping his temples. At least the dark was somewhat calming. Inside the Rock, it could be day or night, and you would not know it. The only light came from torches, generously dotted amongst the stone walls, beneath them, a line of guards looked at each other blankly. Torchlight bounced from their helms and into Tyrion's eyes.

"In the feasting hall-" I said, do not leave them un-. The guard saw Tyrion's face. "He's guarded, of course, m'lord. And he's a lord of somewhere or other, he wished for refreshment. Claims he's ridden day and night from Storm's End."

"A lord or other of somewhere. Thank you for your detailed briefing, Ser." Not that he looked like a Ser at all. Unless Galladon had started giving out knighthoods like kindly grandfathers did candied plums.

But...Storm's End? He hadn't heard much about it in a while. Last he was told, Rhaenyra was leading a pitiful siege against it. Not that it was any reflection on her military prowess. Any siege would have been pitiful against that keep and its thick stone walls, assuming their supplies were bountiful.

Blue banners? Storm's End? Could it be Selwyn Tarth? He pondered as his feet pounded against stone. He hoped for Galladon's sake that it would be. He wore a brave face like it was a great helm, but when Tyrion sometimes called for him, his eyes were red with tears.

When the doors were opened, he did not see the old stormlord but a man much younger, slim as a whip, clad in sumptuous robes of silver and charcoal. He stood alone in the hall, surrounded by the signs of the wedding feast they'd had the night before. The lion of Lannister and Viserra's own standard dangled from the ceilings whilst discarded goblets littered the floor. The torches still burned bright, their flames radiating upwards to the gold-leaf ceiling, making light dance everywhere. It felt light, it felt warm, it felt like all of the feasts of Tyrion's childhood and how he cartwheeled and tumbled on the tables when his father's gold-flecked eyes were elsewhere. This lord's eyes were looking at Tyrion, studying him intently. They were as calm as polished jade, glinting like the mockingbird pin at his breast.

"Lord Baelish, it has been such a very long, long, long time."

Time. Time. Time. His voice echoed around the hall.

"Five-and-ten years, more or less." Littlefinger strode closer. He did not look happy to see him. Tyrion did not blame him.

"I'm surprised you don't remember it to the last hour."

"I try not to dwell on it too...my lord, my Lord Hand? Forgive me, I do not know what call you anymore. "

Petyr Baelish's own lands and titles were stripped from him in one fell swoop. After an impassioned plea from Edmure Tully, when they'd freed him from Casterly Rock, Daenerys had decided that Baelish had no true claim any of his lands. They'd had been granted in ill-faith by Lannister hands, she'd decreed. Lord Paramountship of the Trident, had been promptly given back House Tully, as well as the Lordship of Harrenhal which had never belonged to them, to begin with. There was only one title Baelish was permitted to keep; that of a lowly lord of a nameless tower in the Fingers. He'd shuffled off to the Vale, silent and stoic, and had not been seen in the capital since.

"Tyrion is fine. As it always was. How are you?"

Littlefinger picked up a goblet from, wine-stained red, and let it fall from his fingers. "I've been well," he said, above the clattering of crockery. "All your gold, and you can't even afford servants to clear away the clutter and sweep the floors?"

"I'd imagine the servants are sleeping off the ale in the stables. The feast only ended a few hours ago."

"The realm holds its breath, as the westermen feast and dance."

"Has your decade and a half of what was essentially exile made you more sensitive to the plight of the realm, my lord?"

Baelish stroked his pointed beard. It was near-silver now. "The Vale is certainly sensitive to your plight. Jaime's boy. He did receive our raven, did he not?"

Tyrion turned to the guards, nodding to dismiss them. He waited until the doors slammed behind them. "He did."

"And he did not think to reply?"

"There has not been the time. I was considering the offer for some time, and after I brought it to him, he was wed to another within three days."

"You were considering the offer? The message was addressed to the Lord of Casterly Rock. It seems that you are not the Lord of Casterly Rock anymore."

"My liege is a boy, and a rash one."

"Then the hasty wedding makes sense," Littlefinger smirked. "Young men, eh? Do you remember being like that?" I do. From the way Littlefinger was smirking, Tyrion would lay coin on the fact that he somehow knew of his first wife. One more than one occasion, he'd gone down to the menagerie where Galladon was housing the peasants, just to see if there any dark-haired women with clear blue eyes and faces to break his heart. No luck. Whores did not go to the bowels of Casterly Rock.

Littlefinger continued to smile, but his greyish-green eyes did not. He walked closer to Tyrion, the whispers of a snigger escaped from his lips. "Although, his dragon princess is just as impatient."

"You are acquainted with Princess Viserra?"

"She insulted me at Storm's End, shrieking and jabbing her finger like some bawdy inkeep's wife. Do you consider that acquainted?"

"What were you doing at Storm's End?"

"Telling tales on Sweetrobin," Littlefinger sighed, wandering the length of the feasting table. "He's been wanting your nephew and his daughter to wed for some time. I was hoping to curry favour with the queen-to-be by telling her..."

"And now you are here, yourself, trying to broker this marriage."

"Not for the reason you think." Littlefinger reached into his pocket, handing him a square of parchment. Curiously, Tyrion unrolled it, expecting a message, but he was faced only with a wax seal. Purple, embossed with a Targaryen three-headed dragon and Ghiscari runes. It crumbled when he moved his fingers over it.

"This is Rhaenyra's seal."

"She wished me to broker the marriage myself." Littlefinger crouched down, noticing movement under the table. "Is that a lion cub?" He stuck his head under it. "My, this certainly was a celebration."

"Broker the marriage yourself?" Littlefinger ignored him and lifted the table cloth. He clicked his tongue and waggled his fingers, beckoning the cub over. It's little teeth, sharp as needles, gnawed at his knuckles before it darted back down the length of the table. "You?" It did not make sense.

Tyrion thought so hard, that he feared it would not show on his face. No, it did not make sense at all. The Vale was already hated by the crown after they refused to wed Artys to Viserra. Why would they want another marriage, a different marriage, to the enemy, to go ahead? The Valemen had the largest army out of all of the Seven Kingdoms, made up of the Knights of the Vale and seasoned soldiers. They were not a force that you wanted on the opposing side.

"You?" Tyrion asked again.

"I."

"Why would Rhaenyra want a union between the Eyrie and Casterly Rock? It would be a blow to Daenerys, a huge blow, especially since Drogon is wounded."

"She is confident that they could be overpowered by the Crown's forces. She is not concerned. Whom she is concerned for is her sister. She wants her set aside."

"Set aside?" Tyrion croaked.

"Rhaenyra loves her sister. She wants her back in the Red Keep, safe and well. She knows as soon as her mother has her health, she's going to burn Casterly Rock black, even if her bastard daughter is inside."

"What did she offer you to broker this marriage? This has put you in a perilous position, has it not?"

"That would be most unchivalrous for me to disclose."

"I didn't know that you were a paragon of knightly values, Lord Baelish."

"I suppose I'm not," Baelish shrugged, and swept towards him. Silken skirts brushed against the floor as he crossed the school. "And in truth, why shouldn't I let you in on it? We're alone, are we not? And her offer was so utterly ridiculous that no one would believe you if you told them." He leant so close that Tyrion could taste the mint on his breath. "She said, that if I managed to broker such a marriage that would result in her sister being put aside...well, she offered to wed me herself, my lord."

"You?" Tyrion spluttered.

"I could scarcely believe it myself, I still don't, but I am an only child, Lord Tyrion. The affections born between siblings are lost on me. I do not know what would drive someone to do such a thing for their sisters...or their brothers. Brothers. I heard last night was not just a wedding, but a homecoming. Is what I've heard true? Your brother, Ser Jaime, the Kingslayer, he has returned?"

Tyrion ignored him again. "Rhaenyra Targaryen, the blood of Old Ghis and Old Valyria, soon-to-be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and an otherwise fair maid of seven-and-ten...offered to wed you?"

Her beauty was not as obvious as her sister's. She was the Visenya to Viserra's Rhaenys. Stern purple eyes, framed with thick dark brows that were oft-furrowed, but her face was fair and noble.

"On the other hand, it is not a ridiculous suggestion," he stroked the hair on his chin as if he were talking to himself. "I'm a minor lord. I'm not going to insist that any children born of our marriage will have my name, nor my ways, nor my gods. I'm the perfect consort. I'll sit by her side, and keep my mouth shut."

Only opening it to whisper in her ear. "But she is promised to Trystane Martell, it's common knowledge. Everyone from Winterfell to the Arbor knows why Trystane is approaching thirty and unwed."

"Oh, that betrothal is long-broken." He smiled. This time his eyes did the same. 

King Littlefinger. What a bloody ghastly thought if true. "I don't know the game you are playing."

Littlefinger shrugged. "I'm playing my own game, as I always have. I don't care if Sweetrobin's gallant knights get burned to crisp parsnips, nor do I care if Jaime Lannister's bastard gets to sit on a throne of gold eating lemon cakes for the rest of his days. All that has been asked of me if to broker a match between this boy and literally any other maid. My future queen has commanded me to do all that I could to ensure that the match went ahead. 'For my sister', she said. 'To keep her safe, Lord Baelish, my Viserra needs must be set aside'. My wife-to-be has such a soft heart."

It must be absolute bollocks, all of it. Rhaenyra, 'a soft heart'. "If what you are saying isn't complete poppycock, I don't understand why you are telling me this, my lord."

"I suppose I always was a closed book-"

"No." Tyrion cut him off. "You were not a closed book. You were a book of fantasies, of lies, of songs. We thought you jovial and good-tempered. Always quick to offer help to those who needed it. In truth, we did not know the real Petyr Baelish until he shuffled off penniless to the Vale. Tell me, seeing as you are so talkative now. Is it revenge you want?"

"It's not revenge that I want, Lord Tyrion. I want chaos. I've waited so long for chaos."

"Well, Lord Baelish, all of your dreams have come true." Indeed, there was chaos. Daenerys' reign had been calm, prosperous, fruitful. Well, that could not be said if you were a stonemason from Kayce or a shepherd from Silverhill. Your fields were black and your future, blacker.

"And so have yours," he smiled. "You needn't secrete yourself here anymore, cowering in fear. I've come here offering you enough swords to march on King's Landing, whilst the queen is unable to fight from her dragon. I may not care if you live or die, but-"

"On the contrary, Lord Baelish. You do care very much if I live. You've tried to have me killed on a fair few occasions. That bloody dagger, your lovely Lady Lysa's justice, Mandon Moore....and spiriting away my dear Northern wife in my hour of need."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He raised a dark eyebrow. "Alas, we are united on this matter. I have my sources, even now, and I know you and the other westermen are not happy with his choice of bride. My men are out in your halls now, telling your men about Sweetrobin's offer but telling them that they must keep it a secret. If they weren't calling for this Lord Galladon to send her back to King's Landing before, they will certainly be doing it now."

"Lord Galladon is married. They said the words in front of one hundred witnesses. Even if it was for one sword or one hundred thousand, the prospect of him marrying someone else would not even by worth debating, Lord Baelish."

"But it makes an interesting debate, does it not? Who is the best consort? A bastard of the enemy, carrying a child of dubious parentage, whose very presence here will invoke the queen's wrath? Or a trueborn girl of the purest Andal blood who comes with a maidenhead and twenty thousand swords? Assuming Daenerys does not recover, and we move fast, the Vale and the Westerlands, even without your dragon, could sack King's Landing. He could even take the Iron Throne himself, brazenly claiming it through his late aunt, Queen Cersei."

My dragon is about as much use as a one-eyed palfrey with no legs. It really was not worth debating, for it pained him to do so. Lady Aemma was the clear winner in that tourney. He cursed himself. He should have brought the raven to him sooner. Viserra would have shown up when the deed was done, and he was a man wed. Galladon's honour wouldn't have had him put his Arryn bride aside, even if his princess had shown up with her swollen belly. Tyrion clenched his fists and cleared his throat. There was no point debating it in his head. Galladon had wed his Viserra, and there would be no alliance with the Vale. "Need I repeat myself? My lord nephew is already wed. You are too late."

"Too late for what?" A voice bounced around the hall. Galladon himself, strode out of the kitchens casually chomping a whole capon, grease running down his fingers. His shirt unbuttoned to his navel and his hair tousled in a way that looked both filthy and magnificent. Tyrion groaned with despair, for he could smell the wine from ten feet away. Here he was again, always blundering his way into sensitive situations. Like he'd stumbled into his solar, into the queen's gaze, into the halls of Ashemark.

"My Lord of Lannister," Littlefinger tipped his head into a bow. "It is my pleasure to meet your acquaintance. Dare I say, you are the image of your father, the very same. I can only imagine that you are as gallant a knight, and a natural swordsman as well-"

Galladon snorted as he climbed the dais, the sound of his disgust was still even audible over the scraping of his chair against marble. He plonked himself down in it, discarding the carcass and scratching at the stubble on his sharp chin. Viserra had left her mark, heart-shaped bruises, as dark as plums, up and down his neck.

"Spare me, my lord. We both know my father was not gallant. He was an oathbreaker, an oathbreaker obsessed with his sister's cunt." He said drolly. Looking up, he acknowledged Tyrion for the first time. "Uncle, who is this?"

Tyrion chortled. "My Lord Nephew, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the Fingers.

"Forgive me for not announcing myself, my lord." If Littlefinger was taken aback, he did not show it. "I come here as an envoy for Lord Robert, of House of Arryn, Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie."

"That's...Artys' father, is it not Lord Baelish?"

His smile was pearls in his mouth. He strode up to the dais, still beaming. "Why yes, my lord, are you two acquainted?" Oh Littlefinger, we'd underestimated you. You rose so high, always quick with a jape and to offer a favour, but that made your fall so bitter, for everyone to see.

"Lady Shireen's nameday, a year or so past. They were a surprise party of riders from the Vale. We did not get many visitors in the Stormlands. Unfortunately, we didn't have the chance to be acquainted. I was in the melee circle, and he was sat on a bench, scrubbing his master's mail in a bucket of sand." His eyes continued to gleam. "I hear his father is sitting on a similar fence."

"Well, I have good news for you, my Lord of Lannister. Lord Robert has decided to come off the fence, and into your circle. He has an offer for you."

"Galladon-"

"You forget yourself, my lord uncle. You can call me your 'little squidgy applecake', or whatever you wish, but in front of such...esteemed guests, I'll have to demand you call me my title."

In truth, you have no title and neither do I. You could call yourself Galladon the Golden, King of the bloody Rock, but unless the queen permits it, you're a rebel leader.

"My lord," Tyrion nodded. "Lord Baelish made such an arduous journey. Might I suggest that we give him rooms, for him and his men, and we leave such matters until they are better rested?"

Galladon frowned at him, before turning to Littlefinger with a dazzling smile. He patted the chair next to him. "An offer? I want to hear it! Sit with me! Drink with me." He ignored me. Littlefinger looked to Tyrion, the ghost of a smile on his face, but only for a moment. He is laughing at me. I would not smile, my lord. He knows of your offer already, and he made clear he was not interested. My shattered door will be a testament to that.

"I hear you were married yesterday, may I offer my congratulations?"

"I thank you, my lord," said Galladon, curtly. He poured two goblets of wine, overfilling them. It splashed over the side of the table, and onto the floor, but if his nephew had noticed, he did not care.

"In light of my congratulations, the offer I bring to you from my liege lord may be somewhat confusing, but I politely beg that you keep an open mind."

"An open mind? Have you come to declare your love for me, Lord Baelish?"

Littlefinger tittered. "Perhaps I will end up doing just that, my lord, if I can return to my liege singing the good news."

"I'm intrigued."

"You are? Then I shant beat around the bush, as it were, my lord. It grieves me that I have arrived a day too late, but I shall bring you the intended offer all the same." He gripped the side of his chair and leant forward as if he wished to see his response at once. "Lord Arryn wishes that you marry his daughter, the Lady Aemma."

"You were right when you spoke earlier, Lord Baelish. This certainly is somewhat confusing. I do not understand. I am a man wed." He lolled back in his chair, one eyebrow arched.

"Lord Robert sees the state of war the realm is in as an opportunity to create a bond between the West and the Vale. As part of this new relationship, you will have the Knights of the Vale join your cause."

Galladon's eyes were shining, with arrogance, with insolence. This was not the boy he knew. This was a mummer's act. He was up to something. But Littlefinger kept talking. Laughing, smiling, nodding. Tyrion wanted to scream at Galladon for being so overt, Littlefinger would know something was strange, But he remembered. He remembered that Petyr Baelish knew Cersei, and Joffrey, and Jaime when he was all golden and rash. Why would he think this little Lannister was any different? He did not know of Ser Galladon Storm, the bastard boy from the Stormlands who once nearly cried when thanking his uncle for a pretty pony.

"My liege assures me that when you cloak his daughter and bring her under your protection, and march your forces eastwards, he will join your cause-"

"So, I must set my pregnant wife aside, marry Lady Aemma, then march the armies I am raising here towards King's Landing? I have to say, my lord, I'm not the one begging for a marriage. You are. Your offer requires an awful amount of action on my part."

"I can assure you, my lord, take these small steps and his Valemen will take Harrenhal on our way down to King's Landing. We must work together to subdue the Tullys, as well as the wolves creeping down the Neck-"

Something stirred in Galladon's face. "But you used to love those wolves so well, didn't you? Who did you yearn for more? The she-wolf or her trout lady mother? "

"I misunderstand you, my lord." Littlefinger never faltered, it was not in his nature, but his lips twitched.

"House Stark has declared for the crown, as has Lady Sansa's uncle, Lord Edmure. Tell me Lord Baelish, have you been waiting for the opportunity to crush them in the field?"

"I am a loyal servant of House Arryn, what I wish does not matter. I have come here to extend an offer from my liege."

"You have come here to insult my honour. You have insulted to think that I would set my wife aside, and you have insulted the seven gods that bound us together. And your liege, your liege has insulted me by sending someone so incredibly biased as an envoy. Trouts and wolves shunned your bed and took your lands. Given your past with both Houses Stark and Tully, how am I supposed to believe a bloody word you're saying? You say you will join my cause when I march my forces East. That would undoubtedly mean killing some Tully men."

"You will not be able to keep your Lordship without shedding some Tully blood. Daenerys holds his daughter Minisa, part handmaiden, part hostage. He will always keep the queen's corner if it means his daughter's life."

"I understand that, and I'll have to shed some. But I will move my forces on my own terms, not to satisfy House Arryn. Tell your liege that his offer has insulted me gravely, as has his choice of messenger. Tell him that I don't want his child. Or his men. And if he wants to broach either subject again, he'd best not send you. Goodbye, Lord Baelish."

Littlefinger left them, muttering and shaking his head. Any grace he had maintained was lost as he struggled with the heavy doors. Graceless himself, Galladon kicked the golden table leg in rage, but soon regretted it, realising his deerskin boots were softer than they seemed. He shouted and swore and hobbled back to his chair, wincing with each and every single step.

"You're going to let him walk out of here, alive?" Tyrion said blankly, after some time had passed.

"He's an envoy. He's nothing to me." He poured himself another goblet of wine.

"He knows about your father. Daenerys would dig herself out of a grave if she knew he was here."

"Everyone knows he is here already. He saw to that, with his ridiculous outburst last night." His voice was ice. "And don't call him that."

"He is your father."

"Well, he doesn't consider me one of his sons."

"He'd no clue who you were, what did you expect-"

"I expected him to see this sword, the sword he gave my mother, and for him to know-"

"He thought your mother was dead."

"And she did die. And he was not there for her, he was not there for me. You know, the more I think about my mother and father, the more that I hate him. If he cared about her one bit, he'd have sent her back to her Tarth. Not sent her into the wars, hunting for Sansa bloody Stark, to save his own shattered honour."

"He's more aware of that than you think. It is his deepest regret."

"Do you know what my regret is? That he didn't come to that conclusion when he found her again. Instead, he fucked a child into her, palmed her off on some random cousins then ran off to Tyrosh from Daenerys like some mewling craven cunt."

"I was not there, so I cannot comment. Neither were you. He was, though. Perhaps you'd best direct your questions to him. He's asked for you constantly."

"I don't want to be near him," Galladon boomed, gripping the table as he stood. "Knowing we're within this slab of rock together makes me feel ill."

Tyrion would not press the matter any more. "How did you know about Sansa Stark and Littlefinger. And her mother, and Littlefinger?"

"Serra," he said, his face softening. He sipped his wine. "I don't just love her because she is pretty to look at, you know. She tells me stories, real stories, about everything. All she has to do is read a book, and the words just stay in her head. She's clever like that. Much more clever than me. "

Because she has had me to guide her, her whole life. Oh, Galladon, the things we could have done if I knew about you. "You love her, truly, don't you?"

"Yes. And she loves me. She loved me when I was a bastard and she loves me as I am now. That means the most. I couldn't entertain the idea of being with someone else, ever."

"You only have to, once," Tyrion gritted his teeth as he made his suggestion. "Set Viserra aside as your wife, and keep her as a paramour. Marry Aemma Arryn, as Lord Robert has offered."

Galladon's eyebrows contorted, his face stricken with repulsion. "I am going to pretend you never said that," he said blankly, but disgust showed in his eyes and Tyrion's suggestion hung in the air like rotting flesh. 

"You may not get another army just offered to you again," Tyrion chanced.

"We have dragons, we don't need another army."

We have dragons, but one who will not be mounted. I needs must tell him. "Galladon, I-"

A creak filled the hall, accompanied by heavy panting. "My...lords," shouted Conor Marband from the doors. He looked similarly worse for wear, the bags under his eyes clear from across the hall. "Word from Lady Alysanne, at the Golden Tooth. My father has just passed through. His host is half a day's ride away, at the very most."

At least someone Jaime loves will be here and happy to see him. Galladon gasped, and bolted to follow Conor; without so much as a word, leaving him alone. He didn't blame him. 

The next time they saw each other, they were high on the hills, overlooking the river road. Despite the height, they were still very much in the shadow of the rock. Galladon was clad in his Lannister armour, with half a dozen squires at his hooves, as he gripped reins of his steed for dear life. He cut a formidable figure, sat atop his trappings of gold and gleaming white. Yet he somehow looked lost, craning his neck around to search for something or someone.

"Have you been waiting long?" Tyrion asked, riding up to him, on his bay palfrey. He was armoured as well, in Lannister colours. His red cloak rippled in the wind behind him.

"I can't find her," he chewed his lip. Tyrion could see the worry below the crimson feathers of his helm.

"Can't find who?"

"Viserra." Of bloody course.

"Don't trouble yourself," he forced a smile. "She's probably playing handmaidens with little peasant girls in the menagerie."

"I looked there already."

"She is well. She has her guards."

"She can allude any guard, you know what."

"Calm yourself. You can rush to look for her later. Right now, you need to greet your returning men, and thank them for their loyalty."

They did not have to wait for long. They heard the hooves and cheers before they saw them; Addam's army winding out of the mountains, marching under banners of red and crimson.

He could see his nephew, his face plastered with amazement, itching to gallop towards them. He looked to Tyrion for reassurance, even the hooves of his sand-steed twitching with excitement beneath his weight. "Go," Tyrion smirked. Galladon smiled, sweet as any maid. He dug in his spurs and rode down the hill and towards the column, yelling his gratitude and encouragement.

"It was a success, Tyrion," Addam announced as soon as the leading unit reached them. He swung down from his horse and unhelmed, his reddish hair had turned mahogany with sweat. "We could not send word any sooner, I'm afraid. But I bring good tidings. We've taken back the lands lost to the trouts, undammed the Tumblestone river, and left enough men to ensure that this will not happen again."

"How many did you lose?" Tyrion hoped the fear would not show in his voice. They were a dragon down, and with every passing day, that truth became more apparent. Every passing day that Viserion would not come to him. Any man, whether they were a peasant with a sword or seasoned knight, was valued.

"You should be asking how many we gained, my lord," Addam replied, knowingly.

"What do you mean?"

He nodded backwards. "Look."

Tyrion trotted forward. There was not just crimson, but yellow. Yellow emblazoned with the seven-pointed star and a leaping black stag. The personal standard of Shireen Baratheon.

"Uncle!" Cried a voice. Tyrion jolted his head, Galladon was thundering towards him with an armoured woman on the front of his sand-steed, riding side-saddle. If the banners, butter-yellow, flapping in the breeze did not not give it away, the scars that ravaged her face did. She was pretty, despite her maiming, with full lips and masses of raven hair. Her cheeks were pink with the cold and her eyes twinkled. Shireen Baratheon. Tytos Brax was wrong. She had not been turned to stone all over, she was very much full of life.

Galladon had been brought to life too. His lady's arrival had made him bolder, braver. He sat up straighter atop his horse, his feathered helm under his arm, as he galloped up and down. Addam blew a command through his horn, and they were breaking out of column formation now; descending into lines and lines and lines.  Their swords were pointed towards him, and they cried his name, the roars of both lion and stagmen only quieting to hear him address them.

"They said she was dead, but it was lies! Lies! Smears from supporters of the Mad Queen," he shouted to them. "Lady Shireen lives! She maimed a dragon, and lived to tell the tale!" He lifted Lady Shireen down from his steed and charged up and down the ranks. "They wanted to make us think we were alone. That we had no allies. That it was us against the other six kingdoms of Westeros...but it is not the case." To Tyrion's ear, Galladon's war cry was shaky, unsure, but that sentiment was not felt by his men. They looked upon him, with lover's eyes, deadly still and silent. They wanted to hear him, listen to him, follow him. "House Baratheon stands with us against the tyranny of Daenerys, First of her Name, and her misrule ends now. For too long, she has starved you. For too long, she has left your villages without protection. For too long, you have been denied the fruits granted to the other kingdoms. It all ends now. There will be food, there will be order and you will have your share of our riches. I have taken her dragons, and her daughter, and now I will take the Westerlands back. I will kill any man; Arryn, Tully or Stark, who dares fight her battles for her. Not for me, not for glory, for you. For you!"

They erupted in cheers, pummelling their spears against the ground in a steady beat and thumping their shields alongside them. "Tarth!" One Stormlander called. "Tarth! Tarth!" "Casterly Rock!" "Ser Jaime!" "Storm's End!" It was if East and West were fighting over him, wishing to claim him as their own son. "Stormlion," offered one. That stuck, and suited him well. He was a cub of Casterly Rock, after all, but born amidst the thunder of war. The details of his birth shrouded in dark clouds of secrecy. "Stormlion! Stormlion! Stormlion!"

"The small Northern force that was sent down the Neck had been slaughtered by the time we were due to meet them on the field," Addam had to lean close, shouting in Tyrion's ear over the crowds. "The Stormlander Fleet has been hiding in Ironman's Bay for some time. They'd rowed out to have themselves a wolf hunt. It was a gift from the gods that we were able to meet, and to join our forces. The father and warrior are truly looking down on us. We went to smash the Tullys together...and we were triumphant. Edmure has suffered heavy losses."

"But Shireen was spotted at the Boneway, was there no truth to that?"

"Aye, she was, and she'll tell you all about that. I've heard it thrice, it's such a great tale. She and the hundred-or-so men who took down that dragon managed to make it across the Reach and Riverlands unmolested."

Unmolested. Willas Tyrell really did stand down his armies, and close his eyes. The crowds were still chanting, chanting Galladon's name, chanting 'Stormlion' with the odd voice singing 'House Lannister!' and 'Tarth!' and 'Ser Jaime'. Instead of making his heart swell with pride, he felt ill. His nephew had promised them dragons and victory, but they had only one dragon in truth. One dragon, ridden by a Targaryen. Whether or not she had a lion cub in her belly, Tyrion did not know whether Viserra would truly move against her mother. Victory could not be promised in the same way bread and shelter could.

Someone came up behind him, and gripped his shoulders, lifting him off the ground. "What were you saying earlier, nuncle?" Galladon whispered in Tyrion's ear. "I would not have another army offered to me?"

"Yes, yes, you golden brute. I am certainly eating humble pie."

Shireen Baratheon was aside him and opened her mouth to speak, but his nephew soon dragged her away.

"Come, come, my lady." Galladon gushed, taking Shireen by the hand. "You must rest, and bathe, and eat. And I want you to meet my lady wife, you'll love her. You will, you will, you will!"

"Go see your father!" Tyrion called after him, but Galladon ignored him, strolling back to the Rock on foot, surrounded by his adoring crowd and his liege lady. A little squire hurried after him, dragging Dayne along by his reins.

"Where should the Baratheon forces make camp, Lord Tyrion?" Asked one of the Stormlanders, stepping forward, a black half-cape over his muddied armour.

"I don't know," he replied. He couldn't help himself. "Go ask the Lord of Casterly Rock."

Chapter Text

Jaime woke up to cold; a cold stare and the cold of a knife's edge. The owner of both was wearing her bridal gown from the night before, ripped at the shoulder; her hair wild and powder crumbling at her neck. Her face was a deathly pallor, and her knuckles were white around the blade she grasped. Jaime smiled. This dragon princess did not.

"Is that my gooddaughter, come to bid me good morrow?”

"I told my mother that I would bring her your head." Her voice was a harp that only played one note.

"And what will you tell the guards at my door?"

"I'll say you attacked me."

"So you come to my chambers, without an invitation, yet I am the one who attacked you? That may stand up in King's Landing, sweetling. It won't here. I’ve heard that here they hate you, just as much as they hate me, the realm over."

She did not even blink. Her gaze was intense. Heavy. Tyrion said that his son would do anything that his dragon princess told him to, and now he knew why. Suddenly, he knew where he'd seen those eyes before. A smell came to him, the smell of burning and too-sweet porridge; lank seaweed and wood being sawn. Her wedding silks were billowing, but the septa's garb he'd seen her in that day was pulled tight across her stomach, for all to see.

"-although, you didn't hate me the first time we met. Do you remember that day, princess?”

"Did I not? I thought my hate would be quite palpable, especially after you distressed my lord husband so."

"No, that wasn't the first time we met."

"I would have known if I'd met you before. If I had met you before, you'd be dead."

"Fierce," he took a breath to ponder the phrase. "Zaldrīzo ānogar iksā, kessa?” He stumbled. The Valyrian he spoke was a bastard dialect, he'd learned by ear at the docks and markets of Tyrosh, but she'd understood him the last time they had met.You are the blood of the dragon, aren’t you?

Her eyes widened. "Konir sagon kostos daor. Konir sagon kostos daor," she repeated. That’s not possible.

“What isn't?"

She studied him for a moment, before bursting out laughing. Pitiful, cruel laughter. "I remember you now, Kingslayer, I do. I remember you flailing that vile green stump of yours around. Was carrying some barrels up a hill your way of making amends for abandoning him and his mother? Thank the Seven that you fucked off Tarth before you caused that poor old Lord Selwyn any undue stress. It's a shame that boat of yours didn't sink."

Jaime made a fist beneath the sheets. Why am I allowing this child provoke me to anger? "I can't have given him any more stress than your mother did. She's gone a bit mad in her recent years, hasn't she? What was it you said to me? 'Zaldrīzoti. Zaldrīzoti massitas kesīr.' 'Dragons, dragons happened here!' I'm so glad the Targaryen restoration has not lacked any of Aerys' mercy."

"If I agreed with my mother's actions, I would not be here, Kingslayer."

"You say that name with such disdain. You're a clever girl, I'm told, you know your histories, your grandsire was-"

"Don't patronise me, Kingslayer. I know full well what my grandsire was, as does my mother, in truth. Your sword at his throat is not what makes me wroth, it was what your sword did. My mother lost her mother, her labouring made undoubtedly more stressful by her king's demise. My mother was forced to live like some beggar, wandering the Free Cities, looking for someone, anyone, to take them in. My mother was sold like a broodmare, just so she could return home-"

"You forget something, gooddaughter. You would not exist if it wasn't for my sword."

“You forget I have a knife to your throat, and I will not hesitate in slicing it open. I was not supposed to exist. I would rather not exist if it meant my mother could have had a real childhood and some semblance of happiness. And do not call me gooddaughter, Kingslayer."

"Are you not wed to my son?"

"He is not your son."

"Is he not?"

"You don't get to call him that, Kingslayer. You're nothing more than the cock that squirted the seed. I've met his father, his real father, the man who raised him to noble and good and gallant....and he hates you!"

Before she had been trying to be ice. Cool, collected. But the truth of it was, she was fire. She lifted the dagger from his throat and threw it at the wall.

"You come into his halls and insult him. You do not even ask his name. You call him Tommen, you call him Joffrey. You compare him to your bastard spawn. If he'd let you flounder there for a moment more, before he knocked you on your arse, I bet you'd have called him Myrcella and asked if he had a eunuch's cock grafted on him."

"I didn't know about him-"

"And I wish it would have stayed that way, Kingslayer. I wish you'd have left us well alone. We've our own legacy to build. I may carry your blood in me, but all I wish she has of yours is your cheekbones."

He gazed up at the dagger above his head, jutting out of the wall like a nail. "I would not expect you to dwell on the past. I don't wish to either."

“How could I not dwell on it when it's smirking and crippled in front of me? I love the son you made, Kingslayer, I do, I really do, but I would not have come to him if I'd have known that you would come soon after."

"Oh, don't tell him that. You'll break his heart."

"I already have."

Marvellous. I'll be getting the blame for that. Another reason for him to take out some more of my teeth. His tongue felt the gap his blows had left.

Suddenly, she jolted sideways, landing on the floor with a smack; clutching at her stomach and crying out. Silver silk pooled around her legs as she writhed. Jaime lurched to his feet, stump outstretched, to support her neck but she backed away from him, smacking her head against a marble table edged in gold. "I'm fine. I'm fine! Do not come near me, you hear me?" Blood stained her pale hair crimson where it had clipped her temple. "Stay away!" She cried, waving her red-smeared fingers. "Henujās! Henujās!" 

"I'm nowhere near you, nowhere." He waved his hands, darted to the dresser and rang a bejewelled serving bell like he was trying to wake the dead. At once, guards and maids rushed in, their faces bewildered beneath their red-enamelled helms.

“What in seven hells happened here, m’lord? Princess Viserra, my lady? Are you quite alright?” She began shrieking things that he could not understand before they hauled her out of the room like a babe in arms.

What a bizarre child. He could not believe that this was the absolute delight Tyrion was telling him of. He could not imagine her bringing anyone flowers unless they were some breed of poisonous vine from the Southyrosi jungles.

The chambers in which they’d placed him were so grand that he thought he was dreaming. A nicer dream, a happier dream, than the one he had had that night. He had grown accustomed to lice and cloth spun so roughly that it scratched like stone. His little room in Tyrosh, above the stall where a man sold peppers stuffed with salted fish, could have fit in these lodgings ten times over and still had room to spare. It had windows too, a luxury not granted to many in Casterly Rock. He opened the shutters and leant over, hooking onto the sill with his good hand. Salt and cold hit him round the face like a paddle and he could hear the waves frolicking below.

He heard footsteps, guards, creaking across the tiles. "Whatever she said, she knocked her own bloody head."

"She's not saying anything," said a woman's voice. A soft voice, with the rolls and lilt of the Westerlands. "She begged they put her down and walked down the halls scowling, clutching one of their cloaks to her head. I apologise, Ser. The maester has said that no one should see you, that you are to be left alone until you are well rested, but-"

His visitor was thin-wristed and pale, with a mop of brown curls and the seashells of House Westerling strung around her neck and embroidered on her skirts. Lady Jeyne. Queen of the North for less a half-year. She'd been a pretty child when he saw her, and she didn't look much more than one now.

"Lady Jeyne, how are you?"

"Well," she perched herself on a velvet stool. "How is it being home once again?"

"I did not get the welcome that I was anticipating," he rubbed his jaw, where his son had struck him. "What are you doing at Casterly Rock?"

"Most of your son's bannermen and their smallfolk are here, for our own protection."

"Your father, Lord Gawen?

"Dead, long dead," she said briskly, coughing. "I won't let you ponder my presence much longer. I've come to thank you, Ser."

"Thank me? I am confused, my lady. I don't think you have any reason to thank House Lannister."

"Not House Lannister," she said, steelily. "My brother and my husband were slaughtered in the fray that your sire architected, but you..." She paused, looking into her hands. "You defended me, Ser. I never forgot it. I remember it, clear as day. My mother went to strike me for my insolence, and you put yourself between me and her. You said that I was worth ten of her."

"I'd have likely said that you were worth one thousand of her, if I had to talk with her for a moment longer."

"I'm sure that was probably just a...throwaway comment to you. My mother was being insufferable, and no one liked to hear her go on when she was in one of her moods, but...but that meant something to me, to hear you say that. The Northmen never saw me as a queen, and the people I grew up with saw me as a traitor. I certainly did not expect any kindness from you."

"I suppose I was not known for my gentle heart."

"You were certainly not. What became of you, Ser Jaime?"

"You'll hear the stories in due course, my lady. I am pleased to see you alive, and well, given the stories I heave heard-"

"The rest of my kin were not so lucky," she said, matter-of-factly. "Daenerys Targaryen's Tyroshi butcher pushed my father, and my mother, over the side of Casterly Rock.

"I hope he will get brought to justice in the wars to come."

"The only thing he got was a child on the queen."

"A Tyroshi sellsword fathered the heir to the Iron Throne?"

She tittered, glancing at the ceiling. "You do not know?"

"His was the spare," he croaked, eventually.

“Your son's silver princess. After Daenerys burned the fields and the armies, it was for him to take the lords who hid behind their stone walls. Many of them had still declared for Cersei, even after the fighting. If you did not surrender, and they succeeded in storming your keep and castle, the Tyroshi was the one who’d take you alive. They’d dangle you off the side of Casterly Rock, like conkers on twine. They say.....they say, that even if you swore fealty to Daenerys, the First of Her Name, from the end of the rope, he’d cut you loose and watch you fall, all the same."

Jaime furrowed his brows in response. Tytos Brax's anger at the wedding feast seemed somewhat justified now. Why could have not chosen a simple, simpering bannerman's daughter to get a child on out of wedlock? But Jaime did not find those girls particularly interesting himself.

“I wish the girl no ill will,” Lady Jeyne said firmly. “It was not her sin, and truth be told, I had no love for my parents. Not after what they did to Robb, what they did to me...but I am very much in the minority. She's won over the smallfolk with tears and gold, but the high lords are less swayed. There are some here who wish her dead."

Jaime eyed the dagger above his head once more, unawares if Jeyne had noticed it. "Has anyone tried?"

"Not yet. She has a personal guard which is not supposed to leave her side, but after that child is born, I fear for her. If you wish to be on amicable terms with your son, I suggest you be seen defending her."

She would not even allow me to protect her from the sharp corner of a dresser. "I don't believe me and my son will be amicable anytime soon." It was a cold truth that rang through the air. It pained him to hear it aloud.

“He'll soften. He is a sweet boy, good of heart."

Jaime scratched the inside of his palm, trying not to sigh. He should know how sweet and good he was. He was his father, yet a string of random vassals seemed to know him better than he did. His brother knew him better than he did. "How did you become acquainted with him, my lady?"

"I was at a wedding, Addam Marbrand's son's-"

"Addam has a son?" Too? The world has moved on without you.

"Yes. Conor. A blithe, lanky creature. And he and your boy are inseparable as well," she smiled. "There was this giant of a hedge knight, at least a head taller than the others. I noticed him as soon as I came into the hall. After the bedding, the queen's men burst in, demanding 'the Kingslayer's bastard'. The hall did not give him the answer that they wanted, so they grabbed some maidens by the hair. They began to undress them, grope them, but then that same hedge knight stood up and declared who he was for all to hear. Galladon, he'd been hiding, and somehow ended up in the halls of your dear friend. He said he'd go willingly. He begged them to leave the women be. That's when we declared for him and pledged our swords to him. We slaughtered them like poultry, leaving one to relay our dissent to Daenerys. That was the point that the wars started, I suppose."

"What loyalty do you have to House Lannister?"

"More loyalty than I have to House Targaryen. Her conquest was cruel, and her rule has been crueller," she said curtly. "I fear for you when word of you reaches King's Landing."

"I doubt their feelings have changed much towards me."

"No, they haven't, but that's the problem, Ser. We're all at the Rock for our own safety, folk of birth high and low. The peasants are free to come and go as they please. The women and children tend to stay, but the men will wander for some daylight and merriment, before the curfew. You made quite a scene yesterday, in front of all of Lannisport. It's a matter of time before one of them talks to a sailor or two, heading East, not knowing the weight of their words."

The weight of his own return was on his shoulders; like the immense pressure of Casterly Rock and he was languishing in the caverns below. He hadn't considered that.

"Daenerys has been looking for you, for years," she went on. "She's spent dragons and dragons on sellswords and spymasters, wandering from Pyke to Asshai for any trace of you."

Jaime's heart pounded. I have put him in danger, exactly as I put his mother. His little princess probably knew for she knew this Daenerys Stormborn better than anyone after all. Perhaps her slitting his throat would have been a kindness. Quick, clean, apart for the washerwomen who'd have to scrub the crimson out of the sheets. He wondered what Daenerys had in mind for him. Knowing her father, it probably involved trickery and fire.

He remembered Brandon Stark and old Rickard. All he had to do was close his eyes and he could feel his heart hammering under his armour, the smell of burning flesh and the glow of the wildfire; basking the slit of his helm with green light. He'd tried to go away inside, but some morbid curiosity had him sneak a glance. Brandon's bulging eyes as he slowly strangled himself to death. He'd forced them closed once more.

A picture crept into his mind, of his golden son with Brienne's freckles and Brienne's rope burn around his neck, struggling as Stark did, as the life was squeezed out from him.

Would his son do that for him? Give up his life, to save that of his father's. Jaime doubted it. At this current moment in time, Galladon would have probably offered to study alchemy, produce the bloody substance and then light it himself.

Jeyne Westerling left him, blushing apologies for taking his time. He dressed in burgundy from head to toe. Red, still, but the most muted offering that the maids had brought him. They'd bought him boots too, but they were too hard and far too small, making his toenails scrape at the point of them. A lifetime ago, he'd have sent for more and had five squires dangling five separate leathers in front of him. For now, his faithful old ones would do. They were wilting like cabbage in the corner, but still bright blue beneath the dust, despite the leagues trod in them.

He had to laugh at the self-admiration of his own work has he pulled them on. Tyrion had chortled so hard at the thought of Jaime toiling over the dye baths that he'd spluttered wine in Jaime's face. That was all they had discussed, that and his boy. They didn't talk about Tysha, nor Joffrey, nor their Lord Father, as they said that. It did not matter anymore. They were ghosts, and they did not intend to make any more.

Dressed, Jaime side-eyed the door; studying every splinter and imagining the golden doorknob in his hand. Twisting it, turning it, pacing down the familiar halls and then upwards on the North Stairs to the Lord's Chambers, where his father and lady mother had once resided. Perhaps he would find his son in there, his hair a squirrel's next and still befuddled with wine. Perhaps he'd talk to him, see him.

Perhaps. More than once, he lifted himself to only sink back down again.

"Are you so craven?" Brienne had said to him once, on a beautiful night, alive with one thousand twinkling stars and the stench of his withering hand.

"No," he groaned to himself, knowing she was not there in vision or spirit or truth. "No. I was the very opposite of craven. I was reckless, I was stupid. I was desperate to have someone who claimed me, who wanted me."

He wondered if Brienne got to hold their son, for a moment or an hour. Did he bring her comfort, was she happy? She'd probably thought him dead too. Did she look at you, as I looked on you yesterday, my boy, thinking that this all I have left? The only piece of the person I loved and loved me in return?

Three broken betrothal and more suitors and men who made wagers behind sweet looks and smiles, but she wanted him. An ageing knight with no hand and no honour. She saw some semblance of it, though. She saw past the crimson and gold and blood on the banner of his house, she saw goodness and promise. She loved him and defended him and bore him a son. Stupid, stubborn wench. She should have left me alone, and I should have left her.

How long had he loved her? Did it start when she cleaned the shit from his legs and the vomit from his beard? When he'd jumped into the bear pit? When he'd given her a sword, a sword their son now bore, with golden lion pommel?

He'd remembered when he'd scrambled to his feet, giddy and excited to see her again, and what came after that would be forever engrained his mind. Jaime had often wondered if it had happened at all, whether their time together had just been a dream that he'd conjured up in captivity.

But no, it was real. They were real. They may have been separated by leagues and oaths and despair, but it was real. There may not have been one thousand witnesses at their wedding and a bloodied sheet to show them all, but it was real. For a few days, they'd existed, their love breathing and living and whole. Their son was a testament to that. The son they'd made by firelight where he'd cared for her battered and bitten body in more ways than one. Their son with the sun in his hair and the sea in his eyes. Theirs. Theirs. Theirs.

Or if you would rather stay, I could perchance find some place for you at court. Stupid, stupid, selfish. Why did he keep her around? He should have sent her back Tarth, each limb bound with rope; not sent her questing for his honour, bearing that ruby-eyed sword that was to be her death sentence. 

There was another visitor shortly afterwards, a fresh-faced maester, who filled a copper vat with boiling water and indiscernible green leaves. He forced Jaime to sit over it, with a roughspun cloak creating a pavilion above him. He had to take deep breaths every time the maester beat a small deerskin drum. Jaime was in two minds whether to send for a singer and a harpist to accompany him for he never stopped bloody beating it.

“Who are you?” Jaime stuck his head from under the sheet.

“My name is Maester Gyles.”

"Is Maester Creylen still here?"

"I'm afraid not. He perished of a sickness of the bowels late last year, and no one bothered to replace him. Lord Tyrion requested someone from the Citadel shortly after they took back the castle, and I was the only one willing to go."

"Are you a Lannisport boy, maester?”

“Gulltown.”

“Then why were you so keen to come here, during wartime?

He shook his head. "Do you know what a copper link in a maester's chain means, my lord?"

"No, but I think you are going to tell me," Jaime choked between gasps of steam.

“I’ll tell you if you get your head back under that cloth, my lord.” Jaime obliged. "It means I've mastered my studies of history. That of House Lannister, and its eventual fall from grace, has always intrigued me.”

“Were you sat by candlelight reading books of my father when the other boys were outside talking to girls?” He lifted the cloak, to ask him about Galladon. The babe-maester covered it before he could.

“Daenerys burned the books about your father, anything that showed House Lannister in a favourable light, my lord. Well, most of them. Some still exist at the Citadel. Once I got my hand on those tomes, only Cersei Lannister herself would have been able to distract me from them."

"Clearly you never met her."

"No, but she arouses my curiosity all the same. It takes certain audaciousness to steal your child's throne."

Oh Tommen, he'd not thought about him since. He hadn't cared to, and it didn't shame him to say it. He was never his, after all. He might have been if things had been different. If he'd returned to King's Landing after freeing Brienne's little squire and her travelling companion. They'd have still made Galladon. Tommen and him would have been brothers, nearly the same difference in namedays between Tyrion and himself.

"What do you think she would have made of all of this? This War for the Westerlands, and your boy leading it?"

The maester's question jolted him out of his daydreams.Wishful bloody thinking, Lannister. Cersei would not have allowed them to be brothers. He remembered the bruise she bore on her cheek, gained during one of her more severe disagreements with Robert.

"He wanted to bring his bastard to court, Jaime," she'd murmured, her emerald eyes shining with defiance as she tore at his doublet. Her nails were like needles. "I had to tell him what would happen, what would happen if he shamed me so."

Jaime had pulled his sister's hair over one shoulder and trailed kisses along her pale throat. He'd told her that he loved her. He offered to kill Robert. To kill the girl himself if he did not heed the warning that Cersei had given him. The shame of it pained him, right to his core. He thought of the Stark children, the boy he'd flung from the window and the younger girl who he very nearly maimed.

Even if Daenerys Targaryen hadn't crossed the Narrow Sea with her dragons and horselords and armies, would Galladon have been safe, truly? Cersei would have had him poisoned or strangled in his sleep, or arranged for him to meet a foe in the melee circle who would have been bribed to not accept his yield. Jaime shuddered in his realisation. No wonder Robert had struck her. The sot had been kind. If she'd threatened Galladon, he'd have smashed her in the face until his golden hand turned red.

Jaime ignored the maester's question, clearing his throat beneath the cloak. Warm, hot fog filled his lungs as he took a breath. “For all your interest, if we are to lose...you do know the queen may have your head along with ours? She does not seem the type to allow for a maester’s neutrality.”

Gyles did not pause for thought. “Most maesters find themselves serving doughy old lords in the shittest of places," he said, with bite. "Even after years and years of study, I may find myself in their shoes. Only a few are blessed enough to serve at the greatest of keeps. The Red Keep for starters, Highgarden, Winterfell. Sunspear, The Eyrie. Casterly Rock. If I get a chance to serve somewhere, straight out of the Age of Heroes, alongside names that I have only read of in my books before my fifth-and-twentieth nameday, I’m going. Even if there were ten thousand dragons loosing their flames at the gates." He stopped beating the drum. "Here I am, wittering on. Any more peppermint and the rest of you will turn green as well. That will be enough for now."

Gyles yanked the cloak off. “Have you seen my son today, maester?” Jaime asked him, as soon as their eyes met.

“I have my lord, an hour past, walking the to armoury with Conor Marbrand. Or running to the armoury, I suppose.
"

"Where are they going?” He mouthed, between retches into a square of cloth. The spittle was clearer now, pinkish.

"I do not know, my lord. Truth be told, they do not completely trust me beyond healing duties. Lord Tyrion has even taken to manning the ravens himself. Although, we are anticipating Lord Addam's return. There is a strong chance they are going to meet him."

"Addam Marbrand?"

"Yes, my lord. He was a page at Casterly Rock when you were of an age, I have read."

He nodded. That was a world away, a world where they were boys with scabbed knees and tourney swords. Now Addam was the Lord of Ashemark, with sons and daughters who he had loved and held. He'd missed so much.

"He's been leading a host of 8000 men upwards to Riverrun. Daenerys has been using the Tullys to give us the chase, whilst her dragonmen roam what is left of the Stormlands, and lay siege to Storm's End."

"Why is the Crown laying siege to Storm's End?"

"They declared for Lord Galladon."

"Why would they concern themselves with who runs the Westerlands?"

"Your son squired there and was knighted by Lady Baratheon's own castellan. Your son is fond of her, it seems. Very fond. When we've spoken of her, he gushes like a lover. It would be in Shireen's interest to have a head of a Great House who is allied with her."

Knighted. A knight so young. Brienne would have likely cried with joy at news of that. A precious gift bestowed on a child of her body. Their bodies. "Stannis Baratheon's Shireen? Shireen, the little girl with the greyscale?" Stannis had kept her on Dragonstone, away from prying eyes.

"She's not a little girl anymore, my lord. She is a mother-of-three and a widow of her own making."

"Of her own making?"

"She had her husband's head placed on the spike above the Stone Drum at Storm's End. They say he tried to usurp her. "

Gods, what an affection for violent women he has. His liege lady had shortened her husband by a head, and his little wife had threatened to saw Jaime's off as he lay in bed.

But a child of Stannis' line, seated at Storm's End? Her sire would have ground his teeth in joy. It had always wounded Stannis' pride that his foppish little brother was given the family holdfast over him. "Is she holding the castle as well as her sire did from the Tyrells?"

"Who knows who is holding Storm's End? The most commonly repeated tale is that she was roasted by dragonfire, fighting both Tyrell and Targaryen in the Red Mountains." He handed Jaime another cloth to dab at his mouth with.

Jaime grimaced through the folds of fabric, before phlegming into a bucket; clearing his throat. He remembered Brienne and the deadness in her eyes when she heard the Starks had been slaughtered at supper. The direwolf was not her sigil, but her loss had been greater than his for Joffrey's.

"Should the tale be believed, maester?"

"But there has been no body, nor that of her host of Stormlanders. They've fallen off the map, but if they'd fallen for real, then the realm would have known about it. Daenerys would ride Drogon through the skies, screaming Shireen's demise to all and sundry."

Jaime sighed with relief. The maester left him, saying that he'd allow his brother to call for him later that eve but that he needed to rest for now. Jaime did not need convincing. The featherbed was much softer than the pallet that he'd slept on for a decade and a half, and his head was cloudy with steam. Still in his boots, he climbed between the furs and dreamt.

In his dreams, the sky was red and so were the fields. The stench of burning filled his lungs, more potent than any dye he had hunched over in the Tyroshi sun. He wandered, choking, trying to find some light in the darkness, but all he could see was death. Corpses were at his feet, and no matter how delicately he moved, as to not molest them, he couldn't help but tread upon them. There were numerous, and they were nameless, rendered smoke silver, where the heat had mingled flesh and plate.

He walked for some time, struggling through the flames around him and the groans of the nearly-dead when at once he saw a corpse with a name. Galladon. His son. He was dying. His son was dying. Blood came from a hole in his chest where his heart should have been, and it was flowing thick and black. Jaime searched for something, anything, to stem the gushing. He felt his cloak above his shoulders, his Kingsguard cloak. When he ripped it from its fastenings, it was so filthy and soiled that it glowed grey in the firelight. He pressed it against Galladon's chest, folding and folding and pinning it down with all his strength, but blood bloomed like fires around him growing larger, wilder. Soon enough, his hand and stump were warm and wet to his forearms and deep in the cavern of his son’s ribcage, but Galladon did not stir. He was gone. He was gone. He was gone.

He woke up, this time alone, with no blade to his throat. His only company was the cloak that he'd dreamed of, crumpled beneath the pillows. The day had long past, and silver streamed through his window. His head felt clearer, his chest, lighter than it had been in years. As he pulled himself from the bed he could hear the faintest sound of singing dancing up to his chambers, but what was unaware as to where it was coming from.

The copper vat lay in the same place, the herbs sodden and rotting on the top. When he dipped his stump in, the water was stone cold. Without thought, he stuck his whole arm in, making a whirlpool amidst the greenery, soaking him up to his shoulder. He had an idea.

The vat scraped in a way that rattled Jaime's ears as he dragged it across the marble floor. He grappled it upwards to the window and poured its contents over the windowsill. So high up, he did not hear it splatter below. When it was empty, he didn't bother to shake off his arm, striding to the door with foliage stuck to him and wet sopping all over his breeches. A maid soon arrived, moments after he'd had the guards send for one.

"I want shears, sharp ones. And beets, and fermented indigo, if you have it...or," he saw the woman's eyebrows rise into her hairline. Jaime looked downwards and yanked his lurid blue boots from his feet. "No need for indigo, actually, but a thread of gold will do nicely. And more water, much more, it must be scalding."

"Ser Jaime, if you need any sewing done, or washing please, I-" She fussed, looking at him as if he was mad. He was mad, he supposed.

"You can thread the needle," he waved his stump, "but otherwise, I'm quite capable. I wish to make something for my son."

Chapter Text

Willas sighed as one of Sarella's acolytes pulled back the sheet. He knew from the crown of his head that this was not the man that they were looking for. He was dark of hair, Willas could tell from the stubble about his face, despite whoever had brought him in having a stab at clumsily shearing his hair and brows. Not to mention he was ugly as sin.

"No, no thank you Jyana, you can stop right there." He waved his hands before she could expose any more of the ugly gash about his neck.

The rest of him was a mountain, snow covered from the white sheet that drenched all seven foot of him. He must have been simple, or soft-headed, or simply just too trusting for a man of his size to be taken down like that. Willas shuddered, for he did not have a mind for murder. Or the stomach. He did not want to dwell on it anymore.

His eyes danced to the three men who cowered by the doorway, regretting their decision already. Willas swore beneath his breath. Why must you make me do this? Have you not heard what happened to the ones before you?

"I speak with the queen's own voice. Any action taken towards me should be interpreted with as much severity as if the queen stood here herself." He'd said the phrase countless times before, but he would never get used to it. "By presenting me with the body of some poor, undoubtedly innocent fellow, and attempting to pass it off as the rebel leader Galladon Storm, you have committed an act of treason."

The middle one, with a rainbow of stains on his doublet, cried and fell at his feet, grasping at Willas' boots. He waved him off with his cane. He'd enough tears for the day, his sympathy worn out.

"I thought it was him m'lord, I tell it true, I didn't want to, I swear it."

As they squabbled amongst themselves, Willas nodded to the guards, who dragged them away, presumably to the Black Cells, with the others who'd claimed they had captured the princess and the Lannister boy. And the fake Viserras. And the unhinged man who ran up Aegon's Hill, waving a cloth with a crudely stitched lion.

The army that he had so-say cobbled together could certainly be defeated in the field; their forces still dwarfed by the Crown, even without his own men- but it still meant capturing him nigh on impossible. It didn't help he was shut up in the Rock either. Willas grimaced down at the corpse before him, before pulling the sheet over his head.

He cast his strides towards the window, looking out towards the city below. A red comet was slicing through the heavens, like blood blooming from a wound. He used to draw pictures of the night sky for Margaery, all its stars and swirls of silver and its moon glowing like a great pearl, jewelled in the sky forever. Never comets, though. Especially not blood-red comets, dousing the sky in its flame.

"My Lord Hand?" Sarella asked. He could smell her loitering behind him.

"What does it mean?" He said, not stirring, his eyes continuing to trace its tail.

"The smallfolk call it the Red Messenger. It has been seen before, some say its message is war. War and battle and bloodshed."

"The comet has the right of it, it seems."

"Indeed. But at least it is red. Red, for the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. A sign of Daenerys' victory, in these wars to come."

Lannister banners are just as red, he thought to himself, lemon-tart. "I hope they tell it true."

"A raven came, my Lord Hand."

He finally turned, to look upon her whilst they spoke. Her hair was freshly shaved, cropped close to her head, which made her look strange next to even her woman acolytes. All of them seemed to have masses of hair. All the same, there was something appealing about her. Her neck was lovely, like a swan. Even her head had a nice shape.

"Did you hear what I said, Will?" She quirked a brow. "It's from Riverrun."

Riverrun? Willas' stomach flipped. As he cast glances around the room, he could see that Sarella's grey pigeons had fled, leaving them be. "Seven heavens," his voice still hushed despite their privacy, "don't tell me, the lions and stags have returned to lay siege?"

Baratheon and Lannister had somehow joined their forces in the Riverlands; clashing along the southern banks of the Tumblestone and forcing Edmure's men back behind the walls of Riverrun. Out of archer's reach, they'd also managed to remove the dam from the river that Daenerys had ordered blocked with wood and stone. Ser Addam Marband, who had left the charge, would have since long returned to Casterly Rock with more men than he set off with. Willas had been the one to tell the queen.

"This is your fault," she had snarled, her teeth blue and glistening. "Your outriders are as ineffectual as you, how on earth did they manage to allow an army to move from the Reach to the Riverlands?! And your Lord Redwyne, useless! There have been no sightings of the Stormlander fleet either. Tell me, how does a bloody army go missing?"

My Lord Redwyne?! The last moon you were saying how he answered solely to the crown. He rebelled against me to blockade Storm End with Rhaenyra. He'd nodded meekly and apologised and pleaded, but she was still wroth. Willas feared she'd put him in the Black Cells, but she threw a piece of silverware at him instead. In a moment of not-often-found agility, he was out the door before he knew whether it was a cup, plate or serving platter.

That meeting hadn't all been anger, but anguish as well. Along with the news of the defeat, Lord Edmure felt need to notify the queen of the songs he had heard sung by the Lannister soldiers. Actual songs, real songs. Bawdy songs that were both for a battle charge and to be danced to around a cookfire to, about how Galladon Lannister had managed to tame and ride the dragon. And another, about a Mother of Lions, not Mother of Dragons.

More news had made its way from west to east since. News of a wedding; a red and gold cloak on Viserra's pale shoulders and the fabled swell underneath her silks. If the queen had been broken by her departure, now she was truly shattered. She'd been sat atop the Maidenvault with her dragon, raven-in-hand; the skin exposed by her slip of a gown red-raw with the cold. He'd hobbled up there himself, to bring her a fur. She'd thanked him, and taken it, her violet eyes as kind as he remembered when he first came to her court.

They'd rebuilt this city together. His father was the one with the title, but he had done nothing. It was him, and Sarella, and Tyrion who had made a paradise for folk born high and low behind the great red walls. They'd got rid of the disease and the squalor that the other Lannisters had allowed to spiral out of control. It had been his idea to approach the Citadel, asking for what he would call 'wandering maesters'. Not tied to one lord or another, they would be paid a wage to work in Fleabottom, healing and teaching. The Queen had thanked him and fawned over him, kissing him on both cheeks.

The Queen I cared so much for is still there, she must be. She would not walk back her chambers, despite her dragon healed and right as rain. Not that everyone else knew that. Sarella had him chained and his great wing wrapped in cloth for a mummer's show. And it worked. Without doubt, it seemed the realm thought the dragon maimed, and the queen mad. He hoped the latter was a lie as well.

"No siege," Sarella answered. "The majority of the host went westwards, all the way back to Casterly Rock. They have not even touched the Reach since you bowed out." His brother would not have given him such counsel. "Staying too long in one place makes a soldier long for his land and love. Allow them to get restless, and your forces will be pissed away soon enough. You must always keep moving, pressing on," Loras had once told him.

"The Lord Paramount of the Stormlands has advised Edmure to steer clear of the westerly villages," Sarella went on. "The peasants are brazen, and Edmure's parties have been so small that they've been able to pull Riverrun knights from their horses with rope and club them to death with stumps of wood."

Surprisingly sensible advice from a ridiculous person. Red Ronnet Connington, appeared at court all swagger and burgundy silks, before crying at Daenerys' feet. In half-a-heartbeat, she had stripped Shireen of her titles and granted them to him in her stead. Willas would have advised her against it, if she had stopped to seek his counsel. After the wars, the Stormlords would never kneel to a Connington for they were no more than landed knights. Now he was a upjumped landed knight who had betrayed them.

Connington was now raising the Crownlands army, combined with his Stormlander rebels, with his bastard boy. All of the fighting men that Daenerys could muster, from King's Landing to Maidenpool, were at the Blackwater Rush, a host thirty thousand strong. Very few of those were real soldiers, but that could not be said of the West either. What he was going to do with them, he was not sure. Terrifyingly, Willas doubted that Connington, the new Master of War, knew either.

"I'd agree with him. There is little point losing good men now, for no gain-"

"Willas," she said softly. His first name fell to the floor like petals. "I took the liberties of reading it, I hope you do not mind. This raven from Riverrun, it regards your sister."

"Margaery?" He was taken aback. At that time, he did not care the seal was broken on a raven meant for his eyes only. He fumbled for his words. "What of her? What news of her would come from Riverrun."

"Do you not want to read it yourself?"

"Your eyes are as good as mine. Better, even."

Sarella cleared her throat, unfurling the parchment. "I am informing you that your sister, Lady Margaery of the House Tyrell, has been relinquished to my care on the command of Shireen of the House Baratheon, former Lady Paramount of the Stormlands and Enemy of the Crown. She is unharmed, whole and well-nourished. Signed, Lord Edmure of House Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and Lord of Riverrun."

She handed it to him when she was done, and he took it. Hungrily. Willas held the seal up to the candlelight, checking it once over. It was the trout of House Tully that was crumbling mud-red wax on his on his fingertips; that could not be disputed. "Why Edmure?"

"I'd chance a guess that Lady Margaery was captive, with the Baratheon forces in the Riverlands. Shireen probably thought it best for the Lady Margaery's wellbeing to free her to one of your allies, rather than drag her across leagues and leagues of war."

Her wellbeing. Willas would have snorted if he had forgotten his courtesies. Shireen Baratheon cared not for my sister's wellbeing. Shireen Baratheon's men scaled the walls of Highgarden with grappling hook and rope and slew our men. They tied up her children in their nursery and held daggers to their throat, threatening to take their little heads off if she did not go with them. She'd have had to go willingly, to some degree. The ascent from window to water was treacherous. If she was kicking and screaming...he shuddered. It was not worth thinking about. She was with the Tullys. They'd given her back. But...

"Lord Edmure is not one of my allies," he said softly. "I've rendered the Reach neutral in our queen's war"

"And we all understand why." Sarella gripped his forearms, her voice hushed. "All of us. With Garlan's passing a few years ago, and Loras..." She stopped herself, and Willas was thankful. It was all still so raw. They'd managed to retrieve his broken body from beneath the rocks of the Boneway. He was sent back to Highgarden and buried beneath the roses. Willas hadn't yet the chance to visit him yet. "What I am trying to say is, and failing, Will, is that nobody thinks ill of you for doing all you can to save your sister. Edmure is your ally, your ally, and he will look after Lady Margaery. All her whims and wishes will be seen to."

Someone blames me. He daren't hide these tidings from her. He could leave now, ride back to Highgarden and gather his men...but he would just pay for it later. "I have to tell Daenerys of this letter."

"Now?" She widened her eyes. "But, Will-"

"Now."

He left her, his head spinning. He could not comprehend how his sister could be returned to him so soon. It did not make sense, not really. He had expected no reward for the standing down of the Reach forces, anticipating that the Baratheons would draw out Margaery's return until the wars had ended. He made his way to the Royal Apartments, pausing on the Serpentine Stairs for a moment to watch the comet burn across the sky. The more he peered, the more it looked like dragonsbreath. The dragonsbreath of the Boneway that came far too late. When he'd arrived, past twelve sets of guards he stopped once more, pondering what he would do. What he would say. 

"My Lord Hand?" said a small voice, held back by the sounds and snivels of a blocked nose.

Minisa Tully emerged from the shadowy alcoves that lined the walls outside the queen's apartments. Her hair was fire, burning brightly behind her, and her eyes were just as red. When she rubbed them, the powder came loose, crumbling onto her hands.

"Lady Minisa?" He stuttered, craning his neck downwards so it was better placed to look upon her face. "I won't insult your intelligence by asking if you're alright, because you aren't, so please, what has happened to you?"

"Nothing," she stuttered, blinking away her tears. "I'm just being silly, that's all. I'm a silly girl really, and far too sensitive."

"You're anything but silly," he offered her a square of silk from his breast pocket. "Why, I've heard from the grand maester, that you have quite the head for figures, and as the queen's handmaiden, her confidante, you're practically running the Seven Kingdoms with her."

"You're too kind, my lord," she dabbed at her eyes and gave him a weak smile. "I am alright at numbers, I suppose, but...I don't think the queen wants me as her handmaiden anymore."

"Now you sound silly," he chuckled, sitting down beside her. "Why would you say such a thing?"

"Because I'm useless, I can't do anything right."

"Minisa, what has she said to you?"

"She hasn't...hasn't said anything, just..." Her eyes were blue and big. "I can't speak ill of the queen my lord."

"We needn't be afraid of speaking ill of someone, even if they wear a crown upon their head if it is the truth, my lady." He offered her his hand. "Please, I swear to you, it's all right."

She took his hand and now it was her cheeks turn to change the same colour as her hair. "It's...Rhaenyra." He could see the ghost of a scowl on her face, through the tears. "She's displeased her. Since Rhaenyra found out about the broken betrothal with the Dornish lord, she's told her mother that from this point, she wishes to make her own match."

Oh, seven hells. Seven. Fucking. Hells. "When was this?" He stuttered.

"This morning, she's been in a bad mood ever since..." She dropped her voice. "Breaking things, throwing things, saying cruel things."

To give Rhaenyra credit, a maid of seven-and-ten was leading a siege of the strongest castle in the realm and succeeding in starving them out. She was months away from breaking them, he'd heard. It'd be a nice reward for her to choose her own husband. Not that Daenerys would see it that way. She hated disobedience. She'd accepted Viserra's ways for so long, knowing that she was as flighty as the crows on her father's company's banners- but Rhaenyra? Oh, Rhaenyra. You had your mother's fire, but when it came to duties and order and justice, you were as unwavering as the great stone pyramids of Meereen were built to be. Daenerys rested so much on you when she refused to wed again, oh I tried to convince her to, although it pained me. She could not have those stone walls tumbling and blowing in the wind like leaves, not now.

"You won't tell her that I told you, will you?" Her voice was hushed. "I like you, my lord, I do, and I don't want you to go in there, not when she is like this, not like this." Her little nails stung through his doublet. "She's scaring me of late, but I love her. She has been like a mother to me, really she has. And Viserra was like a sister. But since...since the Kingslayer's bastard kidnapped and raped her, the queen has been so grieved. I don't blame her for how she is acting, really I don't, but it's scary, all of the same. I don't like it when she shouts. She never used to shout."

He looked around, just to make sure no one was around to gossip, before putting his arm around her. At his touch, she seemed to collapse, sobbing into his doublet and leaving pale white marks. He shushed her, and there-there'd her, but what she'd said was playing on his mind.

'Since the Kingslayer's bastard kidnapped and raped her'? In truth? She ran to him, most like. Viserra goes where she bloody well wants to; she always has, and she always will. But the smallfolk, the smallfolk might believe it. She'd been throwing golden dragons, buying tankards of ale and delivering foodstuff to peasants since she was a child. It was said that she had a group of men in her employ; tradesmen, merchants and sellswords. Their duties were to ensure the smallfolk of Fleabottom would be sheltered and kept; their roofs always thatched and their homes always warm and safe. Woe beholds anyone who they thought had captured and besmirched their Fair Viserra. There would be riots. He'd need to speak to Hos later.

"My lord? My Lord Hand? You won't tell her, will you?"

He sighed a deep sigh that stung at his lungs. "Of course not, of course, but I need to see the queen all of the same. At once. Could you please tell her that I wish to speak with her? And Minisa, I thank you for telling me more of her mood, though, really, I do."

"Yes, my lord. Do I look alright, do like I've been...crying?"

He offered her another silk to dab at her eyes, but it was futile. She'd cried herself crimson. "You look radiant, as always," he lied, "-but gods, tell her that you stubbed your toe, or burnt yourself drawing water for her bath."

He paced the corridors outside the queen's apartments, waiting for him to be permitted entry. Minisa emerged abruptly. "She...bids me to let you in, my lord."

When Willas found her, the queen was splayed out on the sill of her window, her face still proud and regal and beautiful. Her delicate ankles peeked from beneath her black gown; layers upon layers of Myrish lace, studded with diamonds. Braziers burned brightly, either side of her, making her glow with them. A maiden made from moonbeam.

"My queen."

"My hand." She said sourly. She was a world away from the woman who had cowered within the splinted wing of her dragon. They were wrong, Willas thought, they were wrong when they said that the gods flipped a coin to see if a Targaryen could be mad or great. They were the coin, two-faced, constantly flipping and turning in a gambler's sweaty hand.

"How are you feeling? I've not called on you for a couple of days." She seemed well, the burns had long healed on her arm and hadn't left any scars or cracking.

She ignored him. "You have a spring in your step, my Lord Hand."

His queen was beautiful, even now, even after all she had done, with the ghost of blue on her lips. Sarella would be wroth. Moonlight danced through the silver-gold crown she'd been born with and along the opal spiderweb of her hairnet.

"I don't think I've had a spring in my step since Oberyn knocked me from my horse. I have news, of my sister..." he gripped the parchment in his hand. "Shireen upheld her promise. I was wary, but...she has." He handed the queen the raven, for her to snatch it, greedily devouring the text. She threw it on the brazier when she was done.

"I'm glad your sacrifice to our cause has yielded some good results from you. The Lannisters have Casterly Rock, the Baratheon forces at their command and our gold supply, but your sweet sister is back. Let us drink to her health." Daenerys raised the goblet that was in her hand. Willas hoped it was water. He did not think it was.

He gritted his teeth. "I've come to beg leave to go, Your Grace. I have to send word to Highgarden, my men-"

"What is left of your men." She said, curtly.

"I need to send a party to Riverrun, to bring her home. I'd like to be there, ideally."

"Take your leave then, my Lord Hand," she shrugged.

She would not just let him go. She just wouldn't. "Your Grace?"

"I understand more than anyone, what it is like to be separated from your family. Please, take your leave."

"I'll be back as soon as-"

She held up her hand. "Go."

"I thank you, Dany. I really do."

He bowed and turned, hobbling back towards the door. His heart was pounding. Her erratic nature had played in his favour, for once, he had thought. But no sooner, no sooner than when he had tucked his cane beneath his arm and had two hands groping at the doorknob, she spoke again.

"You shan't be getting her back? You are awares of that, aren't you?"

"I beg pardons? Lady Shireen-"

"You need lands to be a Lady. She is nothing. She is no one."

"How could I forget, all Baratheon lands are now owned by the most gallant Lord Ronnet of House Connington. The Laughing Storm come again. Please, do explain why I shant be getting her back?"

"You forget yourself, my lord."

"You have forgotten, your Grace, that Shireen Baratheon, titles or not, has returned my sister. I have lost my brother, who was a loyal servant of yours. I shant lose my sister too. I will be getting her back." He fumbled at the doorknob again.

"Lord Edmure is under orders not to return her."

That struck him like a pail of ice water. "What?"

"And he will not be returning her until you do as I wish."

"I am done doing what you wish," he braved. "I came back here to fulfil my duty, even after Loras, and I've tried, but-"

She scoffed. "Why on earth did you think I wanted you back? I was thankful when your oafish father died, Willas. He was a chain around my neck. I expected you to return to Highgarden when he passed, to take your place there, but you didn't. A rose of Highgarden you are, but you're a thorn in my bloody side."

"Then why did you keep me here?"

"Keep you here?! I did not keep you here. You chose to stay, you chose to serve-"

It was lies. All lies and he couldn't stand it. He gripped his cane. "You used to be a queen worth serving."

"And what counsel did you give me? It sounds a terrible jape, but Tyrion was twice the man you were. The most use you could have been to me in the past year was to marry Rhaenyra. You couldn't even do that. Useless. Spineless. Even after your brother was killed in one of my battles, you're back here, licking my shoes. You'd have done best to run back to Highgarden with Loras' body."

"I'm surprised you even want me for your daughter," he said, aghast. "Given the disdain that you seem to have for me."

"Do you know why I wanted you to? You are completely beige. Malleable. Pathetic. We'd have had your second child in control of the Reach, and you wouldn't have even wished it to have your name."

Willas had heard enough. He went to take the pin, declaring to all that he was the Lord Hand of Queen Daenerys, First of Her Name. "If you take that pin from your chest, I cannot guarantee the safety of your sister."

He did not understand. She did not wish me to return but now does not bid me to resign? 

"Edmure Tully has her, not you. And he would not do anything that risks the might of the Reach. Not with the lions at his door. You know as well as-"

Daenerys rang a bell. At haste, Minisa Tully rushed into the queen's chambers.

"Your Grace?" She stood there, engraved with worry. Willas stared straight ahead, towards the queen and her cold, cold eyes; he could feel the Tully girl's eyes on him, all over him, fearing he'd told on her.

"Get out, Minisa." She said, after letting her dangle there for some moments, not lifting her eyes from Willas'. The handmaiden darted back out, her little feet quick under her sage green satin.

"Carry on, my Lord Hand, you were saying?" 

Don't you dare lay a finger on that sweet girl. "What is it you want? Or do you wish me to just sit here whilst you sling insults and silverware at me?"

"Margaery is not wanting for anything at the moment. She has been reassured that she will be returned to her children when it is safer. But all I need to do is give the command; she loses her pretty head, and I blame it on the Lannisters," she shrugged. "His Minisa means more to him than your Margaery does."

Oh, Margie. My sweet sister. You used to curl up in my lap like a cat and listen to my silly stories. When I was maimed and mangled and laying in bed, you come in every morning and open my windows, so I could feel the sun on my face. How have I allowed this to happen to you? Garlan may be the only one of us whose death I had no part in.

He was defeated. Margaery could not be harmed. "What do you wish me do?"

"I want my bastard daughter and that lion in her belly. And I want my Rhaegal."

"And being the useless, beige cripple that I am, how do you propose that I do that?"

"She considers you less useless than I do. She's always thought highly of you. Ride tonight under a peace banner, and bid she comes to meet you-"

"They won't let her. She's a hostage, Your Grace, a hostage who they have put in the Lord's bed instead of the cells."

Willas watched her face stir under her powder. "I know my daughter. She'll force his hand. She'll want to see you. Tyrion will want to know what you have to say as well."

"And what happens when I see her?"

"You'll convince her that it is in her interest to come home."

"Wouldn't it be best to send me with an army, to seize her?"

"Brute force does not work, nor does captivity. She must want to come home, I needs must try this first. If you fail, when I march on the Rock then I shall drag her kicking and screaming then."

"When you march on the Rock?" She smiled at his question. The pearls of her teeth made him wroth. How dare you smile. How dare you. Last time, they'd marched somewhere he'd lost-

"Will you have white or red?"

"Water," he tried to sound stern, but it was impossible. She was the dragon and everyone else were lizards crawling beneath her.

"Beige," she taunted, pouring him a glass of red. She was still smiling. Being in the same room as her was the emotional equivalent of being swung about on a quintain. He'd no idea which way he'd end up next. "You'll be going first. My armies will follow afterwards. I've told Rhaenyra to call off the siege."

"Call off the siege? What a waste of resources. Give your daughter a couple more moons, and she'll be giving you Storm's End and the three Baratheon children that hide behind its walls. It does not make sense to turn on our tails and leave."

"It is a shame, Willas, but your departure from this war has put a great deal of pressure on me. I need the men of Stonedance and Dragonstone and Sharp Point and Duskendale, and I need them West, not East."

"Will you be with them, in the West?"

"When they least expect it, yes."

Willas pictured her, in her silk pavilion in a gleaming new set of armour studded with black diamonds. Waiting for the latest possible time that she had to go, that she had to leave. He could still remember the taste of incense in his mouth when he burst in at the Boneway, still mounted. But it had been too late. Loras had died, with other fine young men; Drogon and the queen escaping with mere scratches. He couldn't talk about it anymore. He couldn't think about it anymore. He would play the diplomat, and that's all he would play in her game. Until it was over. Until she set him free.

"When I see Viserra, what do you want me to say? How do you wish me to convince her?"

She stopped smiling then. "I am assuming the rumours are true. That there is no smoke without fire...and-" Her voice stumbled, and her violet eyes filled with tears. After all she had done to him, after all, he had sacrificed, how insufferable she was being right now, he just wanted to comfort her. No. Stop. Do not let yourself be beguiled by her, not after all these years. She is the dragon, not some weeping handmaiden. "I want you to tell her, that if she comes home, I will love her child. He will be disinherited, but he could still be a great maester or unwed Hand of the Queen."

She was mocking him. Something sparked, deep in his belly. He'd been called crippled and boring and useless. He would not be called pathetic.

"Or Knight of the Queensguard, like his grandsire before him." As soon as the words left his lips, he had realised that they would have been better placed in his head. She threw her goblet at him, and he wasn't agile enough to dash aside.

He fluttered his eyelashes, wet with strongwine. "But what happens if she still doesn't want to come back to the capital?" It dripped into his mouth and down his chin.

"Tell her, that when I take Casterly Rock back, and I will, I will not differentiate any child of her body from any of the usurper's dogs or their sympathisers."

"That would be kinslaying, Your Grace."

"Any child born into House Lannister is no kin of mine."

Willas flared his nostrils. Shade of the evening and too much wine would always put her in these moods. To help her headaches, and the pains and the screams he'd heard the servants talking about. But what of all of us? All of us who needs must deal with her in this state? 

"If you are going to talk like that, I believe she and her babe are safer at Casterly Rock if the rumours are indeed true."

She ignored him. She was looking out towards the city now, it's spires and towers and roofs both thatched and flat. He could see the comet tail from here too, setting the sky alight.

"I saw this bleeding star when I was a child, shierak qiya, we call it in Dothraki," she said, dreamily. "My blood riders told me it was the star of my sun and stars, but I knew it was mine. A dragon's tail, red with fire and blood. It guided me across the Red Waste and led me to Qarth, then Meereen, then here. Eventually." She sipped her goblet. "Once again, it calls me. It calls me West, to secure my birthright, and that of my children. Viserra could be your child, you know."

He lurched like she'd hit him. "Don't say that, Dany."

"She could. You comforted me so when my captain was away. Don't you remember?"

Willas gritted his teeth. He remembered. How could he forget? He'd loved Daenerys the Conquerer from the moment she opened her mouth, but Daario Naharis was always at her side. He was a peacock of a man, tall and strong and proud, with a hand that rested on the hilt of a Myrish stiletto instead of a cane. All the same, Daenerys has lusted over the Crippled Rose once. One night, she'd climbed in between his furs whilst Naharis was fighting in the West. It was clumsy and over in a heartbeat but so sweet, he thought it a dream until he found silver-gold hairs on his pillow the next morning.

She never mentioned it again, and he did not blame her, but when her belly began to swell beneath her silks, he'd asked her. Asked her if the child she carried could have been his. Daenerys had said no. But he'd asked her again when Viserra was born. She was a happy, chubby, beautiful little thing that never mewled or cried. He got to hold her and smell her and stroke her pale hair. Oh, he wanted her to be his. 

And she could have been, he supposed, his mother was a Hightower of Oldtown, after all, with flaxen hair and eyes of a summer's day. He told the queen this, but she rolled her eyes. Said he was ridiculous. Said never to mention it, or that night, ever again. 

"She isn't mine, you know it, and so do I. You told me yourself," he stuttered. She was Naharis'. She had to be. She had his eyes and his swagger and his easy smile.

"I'm not sure," she whimpered. "I'm not."

"What do you mean you're not sure?"

"I mean I'm not sure."

"You've threatened my sister's life," his voice broke. "You've made her a captive of someone else, as soon as I thought I had her back. Spare me this utter nonsense, Dany, please. You do not need to tell me that Viserra is my...is my....is mine. I am going to get her all the same, so I am free to get my sister afterwards. I act as you command, you have my word."

"It's nothing to do with that, Will. Nothing. I-I-I..." Her face caved into tears. She was wailing and sobbing, candles of mucus dribbling from her nose. "I just don't know if I'll see her again...if we will see her again. If the lions hurt her, or killed her, before I told you, told you the secret that I've been hiding in my heart, for so long...I'd never forgive myself, I just wouldn't."

"I'll ride tonight," he said, weakly, after some time had passed. She was clutching at his hand now, her pretty lips grazing at his knuckles. He did not know how she'd got there. Daenerys looked up at him, her violet eyes pleading. For half-a-heartbeat, he was her king and they had a daughter with silvery hair.

She wiped her nose and smiled weakly. She'd heard what she wished to hear. "One more thing." She swung her legs down from the stone sill and strolled over to her desk, lace rustling as she sashayed. She collected a stack of papers, bundled in twine, as well as a lacquered black box that contained her red wax and seal. "Familiarise yourself with these decrees, bind them, seal them and present them to Viserra when you see her. When you plead her return, you must let her know what she will lose."

Chapter Text

Viserra clutched the raven in her hand. It had rarely left her palm for the past two days. The purple wax has begun to crumble from all of the times she had unfurled it to read, staining the tips of her fingers. Every letter was torture, but she could not stop her eyes from pouring over her sister's neat hand. Not even signing off her tidings with Rhaenyra, Princess of Dragonstone, she’d only written four words, in the common tongue. "You stupid, stupid girl."

"Serra?" Her lord husband murmured into her hair, before leaving a trail of kisses down her back, soft as snowflakes. "Are you reading that raven again?"

"Yes."

"She does not mean it," Galladon frowned.

"She does."

She grabbed the furs from the featherbed and wrapped it around her, like some wildling princess' gown. Galladon shrieked at the sudden chill, but he did not demand it back. Her thighs slapped as she walked, slick with both his seed and the oil he'd coated her with, as to soften her skin.

"Why are you even vertical?" Her husband yawned, as she waddled across the across the expanse of pinkish marble. She could see him in her looking glass, sprawled out on the sheets. His golden hair was tied high on his head, and every inch of his sculpted body was glistening. "You needn't exert yourself so much, you must rest."

"Gally," she tilted her head, softly. "I've just walked ten paces to brush my hair."

He leapt up, as fervently as he would do as if she was in some great danger. "You are Viserra Targaryen. Princess of the Iron Throne, Lady of Casterly Rock. You needn't brush your own hair."

"I won't burden a handmaiden to tease out my knots-"

"Who said anything about handmaidens? I helped put them there, and I'll get them out."

He lifted her, squealing, to a throne of crimson velvet and knelt in between her legs. Taking breaks to plant more kisses on her striped belly, he gently combed the silvery feathers about her face with a brush hilted with whalebone and gold. She felt flutters in her stomach, but it was not the flutters she'd felt when she first laid eyes on her golden bastard watchman.

"Stop," Viserra reached for his hand, taking the brush from him. She led his paw to her stomach to feel the movements in her womb.

His eyes widened and promptly burst into tears, as he had all of the other times that she'd done the same. He's too gentle for a man so giant. Her Lord Husband would need to harden. Not just yet, though, she thought, as she wrapped her arms around her neck, allowing him to carry her back to the featherbed that they now shared every night. Their babe somersaulted like some tumbling fool, knowing their parents were close, touching; their fingertips seemed to sizzle and burn every time they touched. You were made in love and lust and longing, she thought, feeling for her husband's paw on her belly. You are the lion and the dragon both.

A blushing maidservant found them, in tangled sheets. "My lord, my princess," she curtsied, not knowing where to look. "Lord Tyrion begs your presence in his solar in an hours time."

"No," she cried, turning to her husband, in mock anguish. "Don't leave me. I don't wish us to be separated ever again." She laced their fingers together and squeezed with all her might.

"My princess, Lord Tyrion bids to see you as well."

They dressed quickly, as to arrive promptly. It would not do if their vassals were there before they were. Her husband wore crimson and she wore white, with swirls of emeralds dancing up her sleeves. It was ill-fitting, cut for someone with much fuller breasts and much longer legs, but she found it beautiful all the same. She'd found a cape, the same green as the jewels on her gown, and wrapped it around her shoulders to hide where it gaped.

Her hands were jittery as the paced the halls. Her and Tyrion had barely spoken since she'd arrived at Casterly Rock, and when she had, the conversation had been stilted and cold. He'd been her guardian, who'd taught her all she knew. Tytos buggering Brax could call her a bastard and beg her husband to set her aside, but she couldn't cope with Tyrion being mistrustful of her.

When they arrived, Tyrion was sat down at his desk, flanked by the maester and the Kingslayer. Kingslayer. Rage simmered her chest. Why was he still here? Despite her anger, she doused the flames within, stilling her face and folding her arms.

"What is he doing here?" Galladon seemed to echo, snarling upon seeing him.

The Kingslayer stayed silent. It was Tyrion who spoke for him.

"He has a great deal more experience in martial matters than you."

Galladon went to turn on his heel, but Viserra grabbed the sleeve of his doublet. No, she told him with her eyes. No. You have a job that you needs must do. To his chagrin, he understood. They understood each other so well. The gods must have planned for your kin to slay mine, for otherwise, things would have been far too blissful between us.

Whilst a blind man could have seen Galladon stew beneath his velvet, his great fists twitching. Viserra kept her composure. She decided she would ignore his presence entirely, taking a seat where he would not be in her line of sight. The Kingslayer may have his rage, but he would not have hers. He'd already had enough of that. She rubbed where she had smacked her head days before, remembering the panic in his emerald eyes when she had fallen. An act. A good one.

"Will anyone else be joining us, Lord Tyrion?" She'd asked.

"I wanted to keep it intimate," he jested. "Maester? If you will..."

"My lords, my lady." Maester Gyles unfurled his parchment. He was not jesting. His long face grave, he addressed Galladon. "The Hand of the Queen is half a day's ride south of Tarbeck Hall. He wishes to treat with Princess Viserra."

"And who is that nowadays?" Her husband spat.

"Still Lord Willas Tyrell."

"Hold on," Viserra raised an eyebrow in Tyrion's direction. "How has Willas Tyrell even managed to get this far West? Unless you approach on dragonback, the only way north of us is through the-"

"Golden Tooth," the Kingslayer finished. Viserra ignored him.

"Indeed," Tyrion sighed. "I bid Lady Alysanne give him passage."

"Was that your decision to make?" Viserra fired.

"It was one I had to."

She turned to Galladon, aghast. Tyrion was no longer Lord Paramount. Her husband was, for he had been named as the rightful ruler by all of the Lords of the Westerlands. Yet it was Tyrion who was controlling both borders and ravens and seemed to be pulling every string. She bit her tongue and smiled as thinly as the last scraping of butter. Tyrion may infantilise him and have no qualms about it, but I shant call him out for this weakness, not in front of the maester. Nor the Kingslayer, for that matter.

"When do you wish I leave?"

"Today, if-"

"What?" Galladon roared. "She's not going. I'll treat with him myself."

"No, you bloody won't." The Kingslayer growled, from the window. She did not turn her head to look upon him.

"Sorry, my lords, have you heard?" Now Conor Marbrand was standing in the middle of Tyrion's chambers, half in and half out of his coppery plate. Gods, he really was a slippery creature. She liked his wife, though. Alyse, a common girl with rosy cheeks and a sharp tongue, who'd been given to Viserra as a companion. None of the other lords or ladies had extended such courtesies towards her.

"Gods, do you ever bloody knock?" Galladon craned his neck to look up at him.

"No," Conor cackled.

"Heard what?"

"The Lord of Highgarden, that cripple...oh, sorry, Ser Jaime. He's a few hours ride away. He wants your wife."

"How did you hear before us?"

"I was one of the outriders who came across his party. I brought the message here myself."

"Well, he won't have her. Will he Tyr? I don't want her-"

"How many men does he have with him, Conor?" The Kingslayer asked, cutting in. She couldn't avoid him now, for he was stood in the middle of Tyrion's chambers and beaming at the Marbrand boy as if they were the dearest of friends. He was dressed simply, in browns and maroons, with high boots the colour and lustre of glossy chestnuts. His hair was a lazy tangle of gold, and the age lines around his emerald eyes crinkled when he smiled. He looked at her. She glared at the floor, reaching for Galladon's hand.

"They are a small party of around 100, Ser Jaime," the younger Marbrand went on. "All Highgarden retainers, no dragonmen, from the look of it, under a peace banner."

"Only 100?"

"Yes, I counted twice. Then again, to make sure."

"Thrice, then." Viserra groaned, rolling her eyes at the floor. She reached out onto Tyrion's desk, to pluck a peach from his fruit bowl. In the midst of their jarring circumstances, she took a while to enjoy the soft furs of it, caressing her fingertips like one thousand tiny kisses.

The Kingslayer seemed to take a while to consider his answer. "We must send outsiders to ensure that there are no larger armies lurking. I know we would have received word from the Golden Tooth, but there are other ways besides that, over mountain crags and trails. If the coast is clear, as it were, I believe it safe for her go. I doubt she will come to any harm."

"You doubt?"

"She is the queen's own daughter. He will not harm her."

"He may try to capture her. I'm going to go instead," her husband continued to carp.

"He did not ask for you, he asked for your wife. If you don't intend her to go, then both of you stay here. You're not supposed to leave the Rock anyway."

"I will not allow my wife, who is with child, to treat with Lord Willas undefended."

"Stop bleating," the Kingslayer pushed away from the window with both hand and stump. "I did not suggest that for one moment. Send 1000 men, as to dwarf the Reachmen, and a personal guard that is not to leave her side."

"Can you please stop bloody talking as if I'm not here, all of you? My wife, her, she." Viserra groaned.

"I beg pardons, my princess," said the Kingslayer, quicker to apologise than her lord husband.

"Viserra, my wife, my love. I'm sorry. Truly. I will be part of your guard."

"You most certainly will not," the Kingslayer paused. "I will go in your stead."

"You?"

"You?" Viserra and Tyrion both echoed, the latter in a splutter of wine.

"I," he said, steelily.

"You'd think for a moment that I'd trust you with her?" Galladon's voice was ice. "Remember my mother? That did not go so well, did it?"

Viserra stole a glance at the Kingslayer, seeing him wince and casting his eyes downwards. "I think he should," she offered.

"What?"

Viserra took a bite of her peach and shrugged, her tongue fumbling for the juice that ran down her chin. "If if all goes teats up, I'd rather he died instead of you."

"But, but-" Galladon gaped.

She'd hold her tongue no more. She was never very good at it. "Are you as thick as a castle wall?" She leant forward in her chair. "I heard that you promised your men glory and riches? That you promised to kill every Arryn, Stark and Tully who dared get in your way? If you die, it's over. You must live. Him, though," she studied the Kingslayer. "Maybe if you gave him to Mother, we might avoid war altogether-"

"Out of the question." Tyrion shot from across his desk. "And I wouldn't voice that suggestion again outside these halls. There are plenty of people who suggest that we give you back, and not whole either."

She recoiled like he had hit her. He may as well done, for his words had wounded. Tears filled her eyes, drowning her sight, as she craned her neck forward. She hoped to hide her upset with her hair.

"Is that a threat?" Galladon furrowed his brow, reaching out to clutch her hand. It dwarfed her own, like a tortoiseshell.

"A gentle reminder."

She rose, sharply, her belly buoyant beneath her gown. "I do not wish to be reminded."

"The Princess is not feeling herself, there is no need to speak so harshly. The seventh moon of childbearing can be most turbulent," Maester Gyles said, shyly.

"I'm not mad, Maester. I'm angry. So. Bloody. Angry." She shot her eyes downwards the table, casting a glance to the Kinglayer. "You've put us at risk, my child at risk. Why would I not wish you'd do the gracious thing and hand yourself over?" Her eyes passed to Tyrion, her words stuttered as she blinked away her tears. "Send....send.....word to Willas that I'll see him. I-I-I trust him."

She left the men to bleat and play with their cocks, slamming the door behind her. Casterly Rock was large, a maze of leafed gold corridors and rooms that dwarfed the Red Keep. Once she had navigated back to her chambers, she yanked off her gown as quickly as if it was soaked in blood or piss or vomit, shuddering in anger.

"My lady?" Marbrand's wife was waiting for her. I'm a princess.

Princess Viserra. Fair Viserra. The Delight of King's Landing. The Queen who Should Be, some had whispered. All names she had borne and savoured. Although, she felt a world away from the girl who used to drink with sailors and cavort with hedge knights. She was someone's lady wife, a role she'd never once desired, even as a little girl with flowers in hair. It was a role that was not...her. If the judging eyes of his bannermen did not make her feel out of sorts, her looking glass did.

She did not recognise the girl reflected, as she stood, stark naked in a puddle of white silks. Sharp cheekbones seemed to jut and cut through the pale skin of her face, despite her eating more bread and sweets that she'd ever eaten before. And her breasts...gone were the tiny buds that sat high and proud on her delicate chest. They were aching, and heavier, and the purple lines that covered her from teat to thigh just seemed to get darker and darker with every passing day. She had once favoured gowns slashed down to her belly, despite her mother's tutting. Now it seemed a zorse was hiding in her skirts. A rotund one.

She'd given Maester Gyles a heart attack when she unclasped her robes in his solar and asked if there was anything he could do. "Nothing," he'd said, once she'd helped him from the floor. After she begged, he'd given her oil of almond to be rubbed into her skin, so to soften it. Like she was a nice piece of calfskin about to be worked into boots. That was Gally's job, every morning and every evening.

"You've a body for silks and satin," said Alyse. "Not so much for labouring," she raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think I have a body for that anymore, nor will I have aga-"

"Nonsense," Alyse brazened, shushing her. Viserra was aghast with her impudence but adored it as well. She liked her.

The lowborn girl who would one day be the Lady of Ashemark helped her into a gown of red Myrish lace that they'd found in the same trunk as the gown she had worn that day. It was much older in style, but pretty enough; and with a few pins in skirts, it fit like a glove. Alyse couldn't braid for toffee, so she brushed it over one shoulder, like how Rhaenyra wore hers.

Viserra thought of her sister, wondering if she was well. A knight with auburn hair, and the grey direwolf of House Stark on her breast had tried to stop her leaving, but her sister commanded him that she let her go. She trusted me. She trusted me to go home. She shouldn't have done. Viserra was back on her ship, and on her way to Dragonstone to release Rhaegal before the Rhaenyra could notify Paxter Redwyne of who she really was.

She met her lord husband at the Lion's Mouth, as they called it. A great natural cavern that opened its jaws upon the Westerlands. So wide, it allowed twenty mounted men to assume their formation and walk into battle. Galladon's liege, the Lady Shireen, had brought banners with her, the crimson of fresh blood, and they lined the entrance. Viserra doubted they'd never seen so many golden lions roaring in two decades.

Her own golden lion was there, armoured, although he was not riding with her. She was pleased that he'd heeded his vassals' advice and had chosen to stay. She was Viserra Targaryen, daughter of Daenerys the Conquerer. Princess of the Iron Throne and Lady of Casterly Rock. She could treat with the Hand of the Queen, and lead these men.

Another seemed to be playing that part, though. The Kingslayer was sat atop a great warhorse, as grey as the Bay of Seals. He was wheeling his horse around here and there and everywhere, shouting commands that her ears could not make out. Unhelmed, and armoured in gold, she could have easily mistaken him for his cub. That irked her, beyond words.

"Why is he here?" She groaned.

"He's leading from the back. He knows not to come to close to you, Serra. I've had Tyrion forbid it. Conor is to be by your side, as is-"

"Conor? If the Tyrells offer him wine, he'll run off and leave me."

"True," he smirked. "Try not to trot past any inns then."

She grinned, grinned so much that the breeze whistled about her teeth, cooling her tongue. Despite the Kingslayer, despite mother, despite everything, he'd coaxed a smile out of her. Viserra put her hands on his shoulders and tip toed as high as she could to meet him with a kiss. His own hands slipped down the silks of her gown, dancing on her belly for longer than it needed to, before lifting her into the saddle. Galladon had bid that she took his horse, a beautiful creature from the dunes of Dorne with a mane as white as winter. Dayne, he had named him, after the Sword of the Morning.

Her Lord Husband continued to keep his strong hands around her waist until her feet were firmly in her stirrups. The rubies on her jewelled slippers winked back at her as she fumbled for security, impractical they may have been, but her feet were too swollen for boots. Once her hands were wrapped safely around her reins, he led her to the centre. He knelt down into the dust just to ensure that her feet were firmly in the stirrups, before rising sharply to kiss her brow.

"I love you," he murmured. Gods, he was on the verge of tears. He cried so bloody easily. Thank the gods he was still comely with wetness glistening in his cheeks. "I've loved you since-"

"- I was a peasant girl, and you a bastard watchmen."

He laughed, tears streaming down his face, as they rubbed noses. They only stopped when she locked eyes with the Kingslayer over his shoulder, still loitering around like a bad stench. She hated how alike they looked, despite the age between them. How can something from the coldest of the hells look so heavenly?

Galladon noticed her stare, over his shoulder. "Do not concern yourself with the likes of him," he sighed, handling his helm. The whispers of the wind bristled through the feathers of it. "He is under orders to leave you well alone."

"Whose orders?"

"Mine," he said sheepishly.

"You spoke to him."

"Through Tyrion. He'll be leading at the front."

Nodding, she reached for her husband's hand, thankful that Tyrion would not be near her either. From then, the lines formed around her, red plated men trotted into formation. They were mounted, but armoured lightly, clutching longsword and pike. To her front, was the heavier horse, the strongest warriors, armoured as densely as boulders. Viserra smirked knowingly. This really was just a pissing contest between the Rose and Lion. She wondered where the stags were, back in their camps most like. She had rarely seen the fabled Shireen since she arrived, who her Galladon adored so.

All the same, the sheer number of men was jarring to her. She'd never needed so much protection. In King's Landing, she had the freedom of the city. Her only companions would be Olys or Laenor, in one of her gowns- or Minisa Tully, pale and panicky, who would have left her mother when she was passed out in a pool of blue.

"But what if we get caught? What if something happens?" The Tully girl would whimper, always so anxious. But nothing would have done. She'd the Blackcloaks on her side, thanks to Humfrey, and Hos' men would always turn a blind eye. If anything had gone array, the smallfolk would have kept on anyone with bad intentions, much faster than any guard would have done. Once, a Lyseni sailor had wrapped his arm around her waist uninvited. No sooner did she shriek, and a mob had ripped him from limb to limb.

Petals of his blood from his split lip had fallen on her tongue in they fray, and in all of her three-and-ten worldliness, she'd savoured every drop. His blood was copper and heat, but it tasted of victory. They love me. They love me. They'd bruise and batter and tear men to pieces for me.

Not like Rhae. They wouldn't do that for her, even know she was the heir and trueborn, of ancient blood on both sides. High harp and the bells and a voice like a lark. Beautiful and tall and womanly with full breasts and long legs and eyes like amethysts. But not for her. It was Viserra who they loved, the seed of sellsword scum to boot, but she had won their hearts. She had won. She had won.

The smallfolk of the Rock, as well as those who had not moved from Lannisport, had come to wave her guard out, but their smiles were brittle. When their sons and husbands die for me, they will shatter and it will be I who is ripped to shreds. But she waved, and she smiled and blew kisses, shouting 'Casterly Rock!' at the top of her lungs.

They left, trip-trapping over the bridge that joined rock to land as her Lord Husband watched forlornly from the lowest battlements. He glinted like the sun, and his curls were loose and blowing in the breeze. She wheeled Dayne around and waved, halting the lines behind her.

"Don't look so forlorn, my lord! I'll bring your precious sand-steed back in one piece."

She could see his smile from far away. They knew how to find each other's smiles. "Bring yourself back in one piece, won't you?' He responded.

The Lannister host of 1000 men went on, Conor Marbrand to her side, wittering on about something or other. He continued, for most of the morning. They rode north for half a day, retracing the route that she had seen from the skies. She glanced up occasionally, hoping she would see Rhaegal above her. She could feel him. She knew he was close. But her dragon was not there, only a burning comet; Lannister red, flame red, red as her beating heart, coursed across the skies, as it had done for days and nights before.

Suddenly, they came to a halt. The lines parted around her, and she trotted forwards, digging in her heels. The horizon ahead of her, a ruined keep languished in the distance, blackened, but not by dragonfire. Three men rode into view, their armour no more shiny and ornate than a common copper star. Their bore the arms of Highgarden, and a white banner of peace.

Tyrion was at her left now, a wall between them that could not be seen to the human eye. They nodded to each other, courteously, before facing the outriders before them.

"I am Ser Hugo Mullendore," one announced. "A knight in the service of Lord Willas Tyrell, of Highgarden. Who goes there?"

Her and Tyrion looked at each other again, but this time to twist their faces with the absurdity of it all.

"Well met, Ser," Viserra spluttered. "Who could we possibly be?"

"Have you seen many scarred dwarves of middling age in crimson and gold, accompanied by pregnant women with silver-gold hair and Lannister armies?"

The poor lad choked on his tongue. He could barely be older than her. "We'll escort you to my lord...if it please you."

"It does please me," Viserra smiled.

The Tyrell camp was doll-sized. A cluster of green pavilions, tassled with gold. Lord Willas approached them on foot, his ornate cane supporting his every step. His eyes were molten gold, and his chestnut hair tumbled in the wind. Though sombre on his approach, his face lit up when he eyes met.

"My princess," he choked. "It delights me to see you so well. You look radiant."

"Will!" She couldn't contain herself, she slid off Dayne and ran to him, sliding one hand on his cane and the other round his back. "You don't look so bad yourself. You look well, so well!"

"That's a surprise. I don't feel it," he replied, tartly.

"Seven hells, Viserra, you're massive," said a voice.

Humfrey Hightower stood there, in the bronzed armour of the reachmen instead of the soot plate of her mother's men. His pale hair, so like hers, shimmered in the sun. Conor Marbrand, brazen and bastard-brave for a boy trueborn, shot a look to Viserra. All she could do was shrug.

"See Humfrey. I thought you served your mother."

"I serviced you. Served you, I meant. Slip of the tongue. But you're not here anymore, so when your mother begged me to accompany my brother's liege, I daren't not follow," he narrowed his eyes.

She narrowed hers back. She wanted to claw her parts out, knowing he'd been inside her. To think I wanted you to plant a bastard of my own in me. I carry my lord husband's, and our daughter will be beautiful and trueborn and kind.

"You always were a follower, Ser." She glanced to Tyrion. "My Lord Hand, I have heard that it is me that you wish to treat with."

Humfrey smirked all of the whiles, and the red mist descended. The Others bloody take him. What in the seven hells was he doing here? Knowing her so well, in a moment of kindness, Tyrion looked at her sideways, shaking his head, ever-so-gently, as to say, don't talk. Don't talk. He was not worth her rage. No dishonourable man was worth her rage.

He was gagging for her rage all of the same. Willas went to talk, but Humfrey stepped forward, eying her up and down.

“Thank the gods I always spent myself on your belly, you’d have had a bastard out of me. How many moons are you, Serr?” He raised his pale eyebrows.

"Enough, Ser." Willas snarled towards the man who was, titles aside, his uncle.

Conor Marbrand was off his horse now, as well as six or seven others. Their hands were on their hilts, ready to defend her honour. She called them off.

“Seven,” Viserra responded anyway, but in a way that did not take Humfrey's bait. She would not be howling like some woods witch now. She was the Lady of Casterly Rock.

“May I remind you that you are still talking to a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Humfrey,” Tyrion said blankly, clasping his reins. "We've a lot more men than you. I doubt you can afford to speak ill of Princess Viserr-"

“Princess. Not for long,” her once-love spluttered, only stopping when Lord Willas shot him a look. He beckoned him over, before saying something that made him storm off to a pavilion behind them.

"Not for long?"

"What does that mean?" Said someone behind her.

"Princess, please-"

“That is something that may be up for debate, Lord Tyrion.” The Crippled Rose did not say it unkindly, reaching into his doublet to pull out a parchment. She took it, anxiously, spending some time to study her mother’s seal. Unbroken. A red dragon guarded the contents. Her sister's purple dragon did not bring her kind tidings, and she suspected this was more of the same.

“Open it,” Tyrion said softly. She did not need to be told. Her eyes delved over her mother’s neat hand until she found something that made her stomach churn.

"No," she said quietly. "No." This is not possible. But it was. Her mother's words, her mother's seal, her mother's wish.

"Is it about your child? Viserra, my lady, my princess, please-" Conor begged.

“It's about me. I-I’ve had my legitimacy revoked. My titles, my right to bear her sigil.” She handed it to a bewildered Tyrion, gulping, before turning her attention to Willas. “Will, Willas. I’ve known you since I was a girl, why? Speak freely, speak truly, why?”

“Is it not apparent, Viserra?” He looked at the ground, and silence fell. The only sound came from the wind rustling the silks of the lions and roses all around them.

“I’ve displeased her, mightily so, but…this? I am the dragon. I am Princess Viserra of House Targaryen."

Willas looked up, forcing a smile. “May I treat with you, Princess? Alone?”

“Alone?” Tyrion snorted. “You expect us to hand over the Lady of Casterly Rock?”

“Oh, she can have her protectors, Lord Tyrion. It’s her counsellors I’d rather weren’t whispering in her ear. They have given her poor advice thus far.”

Conor Marband, as well as twelve other men she did not know, escorted her to Willas' pavilion; their swords were drawn, ready to cut down anyone who tried anything untoward. However, that seemed unlikely to happen, for one of Tyrion's conditions was that the Tyrell men lay down their arms.

Ser Humfrey was loitering about another tent, downing ale. On second glance, he was not as handsome as she had thought. Oh, she had meant it, she'd wished for his child once. It was he who'd deflowered her on a warm summer's eve at the Rosby tourney and had stolen into her bed ever since, and he was highborn enough for her mother to consider as a match for her. Rhaenyra had said she'd have strung him up with the rapers, but it wasn't like that at all. He'd appeared in her pavilion, making sure she was safe and warm. It was she who bid him to come closer. That aside, she did not want him closer now. She did not want anything less.

The Reachmen inside Willas' pavilion put down their swords, as her red enamelled guard guided Viserra into a seat. They stood sentry around her, like great statues, silent and still but ready enough to spring into action all the same. She and the Hand of the Queen spoke as if they were not there at all.

“Your mother has not done this purely out of spite, Princess," Willas rested his cane against the tent wall to take a seat beside her.

“My title is no longer appropriate,” she mumbled sourly, shuffling around in her own seat in discomfort. She wore six or seven skirts of silk and Myrish lace and her thighs were slick with sweat under the weight of the fabric. Garb so grand was no longer befitting of a girl of her station. She was a bastard now, truthfully. A sellsword's bastard, with the last name that conjured up images of piss and drains and nightsoil. Waters. That was if her father had recognised her. Had he? She knew the man not. If he didn't, she wouldn't have a name at all. She'd just be Viserra. A bastard girl with the given name of a dragon princess.

“You’ll always be Princess, to me and the smallfolk, have no fear of that,” he poured himself water from a copper jug, and then a cup for her.

Fragrant with mint leaves, it tickled her nose. She gulped it down nervously, some of it escaping down her chin. She wiped her mouth delicately, hoping he hadn’t noticed. She was never as elegant as Rhaenyra. Trueborn and graceful, of ancient blood. Princess of Dragonstone.

“This comes solely down to the issue of inheritance," Willas went on. "You’ve a lion cub in your belly with an extremely legitimate claim to the Iron Throne, the same throne that your mother had to wrench Cersei Lannister from and-”

“Extremely legitimate? I wouldn’t say that, Will. I am...was only legitimate due to something my mother wrote on a square of parchment when I was still covered in blood and guts. I’m not meant for ruling, that was always for Rhaenyra.”

“Until Rhaenyra marries and produces an heir, you are second in line. Now you are a woman wed, your Lannister child would be third, which is a problem your mother cannot overlook. She fears assassins will come for her and Rhaenyra, which will leave only you to take the throne. If Her Grace smears you in bastardy, then it invalidates your entire line. If bastards can’t inherit, neither can any children they birth.”

“But my child is the heir to the West, a region she has struggled to bring order to. Surely that counts for something. Her grandchild would have Casterly Rock one day.”

Willas Tyrell furrowed his brows. “You would do well to remember that your child is not the heir to the Casterly Rock. Your husband is not Lord Paramount of this region, nor is his Uncle Tyrion anymore. You’re the wife of a rebel leader that is about to crushed. My Reachmen may not make up any of your mother’s forces anymore, but the Tullys, the Northern retainers as well as your mother’s own men will decimate whatever army Ser Galladon has cobbled together.”

Viserra did not speak.

“...you have choices, Princess, choices. After you bring that child forth into the world, fly home and don’t look back. We can have your marriage annulled by the High Septon, your babe can be raised in the Citadel, to be a great maester.”

“The Citadel?” She cried, aghast. "My child is the lion and dragon both. An heir. The heir to Casterly Rock. Firstborn. Trueborn. Not some bookish third son."

“An option, Princess, that is all. There are others, they could be raised in a septry to be a septon or septa. If you had a boy-babe, I suggested promising him to the Queensguard, but your mother threw a goblet of wine at me. Poor taste, apparently.” There was a ghost of a smile on his face. In truth, he was a witty man, with a sharp tongue. He learned to hold it after he was raised to the Small Council.

“I will not send my child away.”

“Viserra,” he dropped his courtesies. But they aren’t my rightful courtesies because I am not a princess anymore. “You said ‘speak freely’, so I shall. You’ve not even had your ten-and-sixth name day, you’ve left your home and wedded yourself to the enemy…”

“I’ve known plenty of girls to wed younger,” she said through gritted teeth. She was ten-and-five, a woman grown, not a child.

“True, but usually after their parents have made them clever, well-thought matches. You’ve been rash. Your mother knows you, knows your nature. If you go back, babe in arms, begging forgiveness, with a plan to send your child to somewhere they will be loved and most importantly, disinherited, you’ll have your name and your crown back in no time. If it is a husband you want, she’ll make you a match, a good match.”

Artys Arryn didn’t want to marry me when all I had was questionable virtue. Who’d marry me now? After everything? “I have a husband. I wish her good fortune in finding me another. I'd imagine I'm the Whore of King’s Landing rather than the Delight.”

“You have a husband who is rebel leader who will most like be dead before the year is out.”

"You underestimate him, my lord." She rose to leave, her guard following for. They all underestimate him, even Tyrion. She had done herself, once. Just a fumble in the tourney tents, but she was wrong. His blood was ancient, and power and vigour just seemed to radiate from every pore of him, even when he was just a watchman. And now he is legitimate, that power real and wieldable....and now, look at me. Humbled, by my mother's pen.

“She’ll kill your babe, you know that, don’t you?”

Jolted, Viserra loitered in the doorway, shaking her head. “She wouldn’t. The child in my belly is half-dragon, she’d never harm her blood.”

With her guard, she left him and climbed into her saddle, a familiar rush of heat and damp flooding between her legs. Moonblood? She thought, shifting in her seat. It couldn't be. More sweat, most like. Whoever commissioned this gown had a gaudier style than she had, favouring bustle in her skirts and layers upon layers of lace. Such fashion did not fare well in such exertion. She would dress more practically on her next ride.

She nodded to Tyrion, still at the head of the army, but did not go to him for the Kingslayer was at his side. They would talk later. Grabbing reins, she wheeled Dayne around and found her place in the centre. She'd be safest there, she thought, resting one hand on her fluttering belly. The men in the mail parted like drapes and Viserra found herself wondering if they would still treat her with such courtesies, if they knew, knew what her mother had taken from her

They rode for some time. The sun burned brightly, a dragon's eye in the sky, but the evening fog had tumbled across the lands already and she could feel the chill of it in her bones. They had not even reached the shadow of the rock when the occasional flutters in her belly turned to cramps. Cramps that made her want to double over and spill her bowels. She gritted her teeth.

The pains got worse, coming like slashes and slashes of Valyrian steel. “Please, may we stop a while?” She called to Tyrion, letting the reins fall out of her hand. She lurched sideways, only just clutching the pommel of her saddle to stay atop. The pains were at her back now, tickling up towards her shoulders like flames. "I-I-I don't feel well."

“Let us at least reach the Lion’s Mouth,” Tyrion shouted backwards, not giving her too much mind. “We’re not too much further away now.”

She looked ahead and freed one hand to wipe the cold sweat from her brow. Sticky with moisture, it left a trail up her arm. Tyrion did not lie. It was close. She could see the jaws of Casterly Rock and the torched fangs of its mouth. She could make it this far.

"My princess?" Said a voice. She turned to greet its owner, before thrusting her head forwards with such force, she feared it would spin off. Kingslayer. Just what I bloody need.

"Do not speak to me, my husband said you were leading from the back. I'd prefer it if you stayed there."

"I was before the men around you started trotting in zig zags. Are you quite alright, Princess?"

I am no Princess anymore. "I am fine, Kingslayer," she lied.

He stayed by her side, but she ignored him, keeping her eyes focussed on the entrance to Casterly Rock. Although, for all her strife, it did not seem closer. With every trot, it was as if the gods were yanking it away from her. Seven fucking hells. Come on. I can't. I can't. "I-I-I.." Words began to tumble from her mouth, as pain shot through her belly. No. No. It's not time. "It's not.."

The men around her halted, and the Kingslayer shouted something to Tyrion, he broke through his ranks, moving backwards to her.

"I can't, I can't..." She threw herself down from her horse, dizzy, but in truth, she fell.

“Viserra,” Tyrion mouthed, gesturing behind her. She turned. Dayne’s gleaming white coat was slashed with red like a fresh kill dragged across a snowy field. She looked down, fumbling at her gown. She ignored the pains deep in her belly, shaking her head. It's not my time. It can't be. Her crimson skirts were pristine as they were when Alyse dressed that morning. Red doesn’t show the blood. Like Rhaenys’ and the real Aegon's cloaks. The realisation hit her like lightning, and she began to sob.

Not my daughter. Please, not my daughter, with her hair like the sun. Pain ripped through her like a fissure, like the earth had torn from the Wall to Winterfell when Jon Stark fell in battle. She screamed into the skies, scratching at her silks. If she was a dragon, a real one, with wings and scales, she'd have writ the sky in smoke and flame.

This is it. This is the price I have paid for my treason. She gathered her skirts and stumbled towards Dayne. No, no, no. One free hand danced behind her, fumbling for wetness beneath her skirts. At once, shadows danced over her eyes and she was unsteady on her feet again, but strong arms caught her. The black lifted and she saw gold, her cheek grazing the stubble of a man’s chin. Galladon? It looked like him, but it was not her love. His scent was all wrong. “No, no, not him! Not you.” She heard herself cry. “Please, get him away from away from me, please!” No one listened, she heard shouting and shrieking but she could not make out the words, and the pains. Oh, the pains. They were still there, stronger and stronger, deep in her back and belly, coming like waves. “Not him.” She kept repeating, cursing him in Valyrian and the Common Tongue. Not him, please.

She heard hooves, hooves as strong as rumbling thunder and the winds tangling through her hair. Then she was on the ground and it was cold. The sun was gone, that much she could tell and could feel the darkness all around, choking her. The lash of chill as her skirts were pulled up by what felt like one thousand hands. They were in her hair too, scraping every strand until it was out of the way. The blood that streaked her legs mingled with the cold of the air, but more blood was coming from her; gushing thick and hot. Someone was holding her, with a calloused hand, stroking her hair and her face, shushing her.

A vial was pressed to her mouth, its fumes filling her nostrils. A familiar, sickly-sweet smell that made her think of mother. All silver and beautiful with pillow marks on her face and her eyes rolling back her head. Viserra used to crawl into her arms and lie there until she awoke. Milk of the poppy. She wrenched her mouth shut. "No," she murmured. "No, no, no." Where was she? Who held her? How much time had passed, passed since she'd seen that trail of blood streak across her husband's pale mare, like the scarlet comet had been carving the skies?

"Away with you. Did you hear her?" A voice snarled. "She doesn't want it."

"There will be a great deal of pain. The babe is in distress. I will need to cut her. If she struggles against the blade, the babe may not live."

"Cut her...? Cut her." Pain. Blade. "Did you hear that?" The voice crept closer.

"I'm scared," she cried. She did not know who she was talking to. She only saw green. The blood coming from her was the only truth she knew.

"She must have it now if she is to, I need to make the cut." 

Glass clinked at her teeth, not gently, as if they were trying to force her teeth down the throat. Viserra locked her jaw shut, the only taste coming from the salt of the tears that she wept.

The voice shushed her again. "You must, my princess. It's alright, truly, princess. It will make it all go away. It will make you think of blue skies, and the wind in your hair when you ride that dragon of yours, and when you wake, you'll have your child. And she'll have my bloody cheekbones and nothing else of me if that is what you wish."

She relented, opening her mouth like a babe, wanting mother's milk.

She was in Fleabottom, just round the curve of Pisswater Bend. It was dirtier than she remembered. Nightsoil was laying in the streets, rather fertilising than the planters of roses that her mother had ordered built. Her mother wanted to make life beautiful for the poor. She had done so much good. The maesters in every village, and healers whenever the smallfolk needed. She yearned for her embrace, stroking her silver hair as she slept on her lap.

When Viserra took a step, sewage engulfed her feet and her path was full of the dead and dying. "Please," they begged, their eyes bulbous and yellow. "Some water, my princess. Some water." She could not help them. She wanted to help them so but she could not.

Movement. She turned, sensing something prowling not too far away. Her flesh turned to gooseflesh and a hot stream of urine trickled down one leg. I am the dragon, she told herself, and mother to lions. The dragon is not afraid of anything. Her thoughts would not soothing. She daren't move, her breath caught in her throat.

"Viserra," said her mother but she could not see her. "They are coming for you. This is not your place. You are the blood of the dragon, you are the blood of Old Valyria, a daughter of House Targaryen. You must return."

"Who is coming for me?" She asked, aloud. "Who is coming for me?" She repeated again, but her mother did not reply. The only stirring came from the soon-to-be-dead beneath her feet; looking at her, with pleading eyes. When she looked up, there was a carafe of water, laced with fog where ice met the hot air.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up like prickles, and darkness loomed over her. They are coming for me. Her stomach was churning, but she could not leave him. She leapt for the carafe, pouring it into his hungry mouth. His breath was foul, his teeth rotting stumps, so yellow they looked gold.

"They are coming for you. You must return."

She did as the voice commanded. As she ran, her clothes came away from her body whilst people jeered and sang. They were ugly and so were the words they cackled. "Fair Viserra? An ugly child. Knock-kneed."

I am not a child. I am a woman grown, a woman wed, a woman with child. But when she looked down, her belly, marred with scars and stretching marks, was gone.

The shadows prowled closer until they were so close that she could feel their hot breaths and their ragged tongues licking at her ankles. "Please," she begged, her eyes squeezed shut. "Please, please, whoever you are, I mean you no harm, I swear it. I just want to go home, to my mother, please." When she opened her eyes, the shadows were lions, knelt before her, their golden heads bowed.

Black. Silence had fallen like a blanket of snow and the world seemed still and calm once more.

"Where....is my daughter? Please.....I want....I want....” She shouted for someone, anyone, to hear. It was a girl, she knew it was a girl. All strong and bouncing and bonny, with hair like the sun. She couldn’t hear cries. Only her nose seemed to be working, the air around her thick with the stench of dirty pennies.

Her mother had told her that her and Rhaenyra’s namedays were the happiest days she’d ever had, even happier than when her dragon-brothers had been born. When she pulled apart her sticky eyes, she was in her chambers and saw Maester Gyles peering down on her. He did not seem happy.

“The babe came far too early, my lady,” the maester, knelt down to her, whispering. “Too early for you to have your milk, too early for them to know how to feed.”

"What, what...what are you saying, maester?"

If his grave face did not make her heart burst, it was the sound of a door being hammered. Repeatedly, furiously, like a blacksmith at his anvil. "The Others take fucking all of you, I swear it! I swear it by the Old Gods and the New, let me in!" Galladon.

She tried to curl in a ball, but her battered body would not allow it. For once, Viserra did not want to see him. She'd failed him. Failed him. It was her own cries that rattled her to the core when all she wished for were the sweet wails of her daughter. Her golden daughter. With her hair like the sun. She was meant to stop the wars and the fighting. She was meant to grow as strong and beautiful as her father, and as clever as her. She didn't. She wouldn't

"Viserra? Viserra!" Her husband called, through the walls.

The more Viserra cried, the more furious the battering of the door became. By the time it splintered open, Viserra's throat was raw and ragged; her eyes burning more than the parts between her legs. Galladon was at her side now, stroking her hair. His touch was as tender as a mother's, not like a lover. She would never stroke her daughter's hair.

"My love, my love. You did so well. I'm sorry, so sorry I was not there for-"

"I did not do well," she rasped. Water, she needed. Not water, my daughter. "I failed you, I couldn't, I couldn't...they're dead, your family, all of them. Galladon. And now. Our girl, our tiny girl, she-"

"We don't have a girl." Crystals of tears formed in his sea-green eyes, and he was smiling. Smiling. Gods, why, why was he smiling? "We have a son."

"A boy? I had...a son." It hadn't crossed her mind. Viserra thought she would have a girl. She had a sister and had been raised by her mother, alone. But she had a boy. A second wave of grief came over her, as relentless and crushing as the waves of Shipbreaker's Bay. It was a second loss, another loss. She pictured a lord, as tall as his father, with her silver hair and his father's golden armour, but the image of him cracked and shattered in her mind.

"My Princess, my lady, my love. Why are you so grieved? Is it your pain?" He crept closer to her, planting kisses on her nose. "We have a son, and he is beautiful. As beautiful as you."

"I don't understand-" He'd come early. Far too early. The maester had said. And the blood, all of the blood. She remembered it, clear as day, gushing and burning-hot, streaking her legs.

Viserra did not need to understand. She just saw. Her babe was brought through the shattered doors, bundled in lion pelts to keep out the chill. He did not only have furs flanking him but a guard of five men in red plate and mail as well as a holy entourage of septons and septas.

"I've been trying to break the door down for the best part of an hour, I knew you wanted to see him, that you would feel lost without him, but others thought it would bring you stress."

Stress was the last thing he'd brought her. Viserra sighed sweetly. He was there, living and breathing; laid out on her chest by a septa. He was small, so delicate, barely longer than one of her slippers. A boy, a boy with wisps of silver hair. A dragon, like her. A rush of love swelled within her, greater than any rage or lust she'd ever felt. This was her son, her boy, her silver boy, who she felt like she had known for forever. This love, this feeling. Was this the emotion that had her mother waging a war over her own return?

Tears fell again, tears of joy, as she littered him with kisses. Her son’s eyes were closed, his little eyelashes silver and spidery. They would have to see if they were green or blue. Or perhaps they’d be some hue of purple, like mother’s and like Rhae’s. He was like her, though, Galladon had the right of that. He seemed to be more dragon than lion after all.

But despite being the son of formidable beasts, he was tiny. Tinier than he should have been. His breath was ragged, his pale little back rising and falling with each laboured gasp. Viserra thought of Rhae’s hatchling, that scrabbled through its opalescent egg, only to live for a day or so. She shuddered. No, her son wouldn’t. I am the dragon and his father is a lion and a warrior. Of course, he couldn’t die. Not now. Not with kin so strong.

Someone disagreed. “My lord,” the septa whispered. “Do you wish to name him now, in the Light of the Seven, in case…”

“In case of what?” Her husband spat, raking his fingers through his hair.

“Galladon, please.” Viserra whimpered, clutching her bundle of furs to her chest.

He exhaled forcefully, rubbing his eyes. “Whatever you wish, Serra.” Galladon turned to her. Her love was red-eyed, she could see that now. “A Targaryen name, mayhaps. Jaehaerys. He was alright.”

“A mouthful, though, for a young boy. Especially if he’s as shit at his letters as you.”

She held the babe higher, so their skin touched, relishing in his tiny, weak breath on her cheek. He felt softer and finer than any silk or velvet. He was beautiful and untarnished. Innocent. Her son may bear the name Lannister, but her mother would see, see how innocent he was. She would have to see.

“Jaime,” she murmured, her eyelids heavy, the name she spoke startling herself. It was pleasing on the tongue, her lips parting prettily with the last syllable. Jaime Corbray, the Andal warrior, who took back his kin’s stolen Valyrian steel sword in the Battle of the Seven Stars. The Kingslayer. Galladon’s father. She could remember now. He was the one to pick her from the ground and carry her to safety. He'd been there. Helped her. He was kind to me. He saved me. Others wish me dead, but he saved me. My son too.

“What?”

“He’ll be Jaehaerys when he’s a man grown, if he wishes.” He will be the Lord of Casterly Rock, with the same name as one of its golden sons. This will give him the legitimacy that was snatched from me. “But you can call him Jaime, for short, if it please you."

Viserra, Targaryen or Lannister, princess or commoner, bastard or legitimate, promptly fell asleep, still dazed from her own tears and the milk of poppy that had eased her labouring. Soothed by the warm bundle on her chest, and her lord husband's arms around them both, she rested, safe in the knowledge that as long as they were together; there was hope.

Chapter Text

Flowers bloomed from wall to wall, setting their chambers alight with their colours and fragrance. Gillyflowers. Roses. Forget-me-knots. Spiceflowers from Essos bundled with ship rope brought for her by the sailors who'd began to frequent the port again, selling their wares. Goldencups tied with twine from the peasant children that she spent so much time playing with. As Galladon Lannister plucked a spiceflower, white blushing orange, the petals fell to the ground. No matter how sweet they smell, or bright they bloom, they die. He downed a cup of wine and plodded the length of the room to open the drapes. They all needed some light.

“Are you scared?” His wife murmured, jolting him out his sulking, her sweet voice blunted from the pillow. Viserra lay under cloth-of-gold and shaggy pelts, her silver hair hanging in matted braids that he’d attempted to do himself.

“Only of losing you both.”

“I-I don’t mean that. I mean of the wars. Of mother.”

“No," he lied. "Superiority in the air, as you said. I have you, I have Tyrion, I have your dragon brothers. You are safe.” His princess did not answer. She’d already drifted back to slumber.

She had her guard outside, but her other sentinel was a little lion, carved from wood. Tyrion had brought it yesterday eve when she was still slipping in and out of sleep. "Your brother made me one the same," he said, as grinned down at the silver bundle. "We are no longer the last Lannisters."

He might be, though. The only moment he'd left her bedside, the maester that the Citadel had sent cornered him in the corridors. Her labouring was not as straightforward as it should have been, he said. She may not bear him any more sons, he said. That maester had said no more, for he was clutching his nose, with blood gushing down his grey front. "Sons?" Galladon raged. "Do you think I care about any more sons? Worry about her, and worry about the one I have, or you'll be on the first fucking potato cart back to Oldtown.”

Galladon went to her bedside once more, but when he lowered to sit he felt dampness beneath his palm. He had panicked on the first few occasions that he had found her beneath sticky sheets, but he’d been told by every wet nurse and washerwoman that it was normal. They knew more about the matter than he did. He shuddered. He’d take battle over the birthing bed any moon of the year.

"Serra," he roused her by running his nose along the length of her cheek. "Sweetling, are you awake still?”

She stirred beneath him, so deathly pale that he felt terrible for waking her, but the sheets beneath her waist were wet. Soaking with blood and weeping stitches and indiscernible fluids. Viserra did not open her eyes, but extended her arms out, hooking onto his back like a child would. Her legs hung limply, skinny and streaked-crimson and she whimpered every second she was not laying down. Supporting her as best he could, he yanked the sheets from beneath her and replaced them. As boneless as a straw doll, she lay with her arms splayed as he tucked the width of the golden sheets underneath the featherbed.

She had fresh bedding now, but she was still filthy. She'll be uncomfortable when she wakes properly. He sent out a maidservant for hot water and hard lye soap, politely shooing her away when she then tried to come and tend to his wife with her own hands.

It was he who wiped away the mire of her labouring, carefully, so he didn't wet her stitches. There were so many, jagged and unsightly and stitched in haste. As much as it made him wince to look upon them, all of them, he pulled back the covers and forced himself to. He'd seen grown anointed knights weep much more for much less. If the wounds and tears she'd received from bringing his son into the world had not brought her enough agony, she'd shattered her collarbone when falling from Dayne's back. It did not end there. One ankle lay black and twisted and her perfect skin was tainted with scrapes and scratches.

It was said that she, the blood of Old Valyria, had given birth on the steps of the Lion's Mouth, for there was nowhere else to move her. No time. She hadn't been completely alone. Conor was there, and Tyrion. The maester. Some peasant children who had been fighting with sticks. Some women who'd been carrying baskets of bread and pails of milk to the menagerie. Passing soldiers, changing patrol duties.

Even the Kingslayer had been there. The thought near sent him into a rage. She'd held his hand and stump, and he'd whispered gentle words in her ear to calm her, Connor had said. He kept back a vying crowd, who tried to barge closer, wanting to catch a glimpse of the new heir to Casterly Rock.

You should have done that, you didn’t. Galladon wasn't with her when she needed him most. His mother's fate had made that all the more painful. A few hours after she left to treat with Willas Tyrell, he'd been called to the peak of the Rock, to witness Tyrion's restless dragon blast the highest battlements to bits. By the time the word of Viserra had reached him, it was all over. Galladon had sobbed there and then, tears streaming down his burning face as sprinted the height of the Rock reach her; tears catching in his panting mouth. He'd cursed the gods for making it so bloody tall and sprawling.

Viserra had nearly died. A moment longer and she would have perished, their son too. She always chastised him for crying so easily, but now it seemed as if he had reason enough. At the thought of her struggling and straining against a maester’s blade and hand, he had to put down his damp cloth and lay beside her. Wrapping his arms around her as gently as he could; she stirred at his still-lumbering touch but her silvery eyelashes did not flutter awake. Even like this, battered and bruised, she was still the most beautiful creature that he'd ever seen.

I wasn't there when you needed me, but it won't ever happen again. I swear it. When she was clean, he tucked her up to her chin and brought her more furs. As he looked out the windows, he could see that the red comet that had coursed overhead for the past few days had burned away. With the diminishing of its fiery tail, gone was the warmth from the world. The sun was gossamer, more like the moon; a great pearl in the sky, straining through fog and clouds. Galladon kissed his wife on the head and strode out toward their balcony which overlooked the Sunset Sea.

Here he stood. A Lord, the trueborn details of his birth accepted as fact by all. He clasped the golden railings that were the only thing stopping him from plummeting to his death, and inhaled, wanting to feel the wind dancing through his hair and cool air snake through the depths of his chest.

"My lord?"

He saw Maester Gyles wrapped in pelts with mucus glistening above his lips. His nose, blackened by Galladon's own hand, sat bruised and misshapen on his plain face. His and Viserra's son lay in a cradle beside him, with only a greenish poultice on his chest. Gyles put down his parchments and smiled up at him. I wouldn’t be smiling at me.

"Is he not cold?" Galladon heard himself groan, not as kind as he intended.

"He is fine, my lord. His cradle is sufficiently warm for him and this fresh air is doing him the world of good. We must get these little lungs working.”

“May I have him?”

“You are his father.” Father. “You need not ask permission." He jumped to his feet, scooping his son from the lion pelts that lined his bed and wrapping him so tight that he resembled a little moreish pastry. "He has his mother's look, doesn't he?" He fawned, as he handed the bundle over to him.