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THE ONLY GAME

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Turn 4 Update Part 4: Vale
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    • ​

    Arryn and Arryn​

    Thanks to @Novasong ​

    Gerold Grafton's affection for the cause of his father was just one of the mired loyalties and consequences that the council had stirred. His family's old allies in Corbray were where his thought was to find purchase and stability, to stir a coalition of support that could one day strike the residence of loyalty to the royalist Targaryen cause into the Vale. Yet the blood of the Andals ran deep in that place, and where Lyn was a hot-blooded firebrand, his brother Lyonel was a dutiful supplicant. He had cared for his father as he died, while his brother had lead a second charge against the Dornishmen on that fateful day of the Trident, a memory that seemed distant now to most. House Corbray had bled for their liege, and Lyonel had firmly placed himself in the Lord Protector's company. His rebuffing of Grafton's offer was not just a statement of fact, it was an action taken, his household knights had already moved to apprehend any escape for Grafton on reveal of the letter, and with Jon Arryn's anger teeming throughout Harren's hall, another life would placate the old Hoares and give them company in the halls of the dead.

    Gerold Grafton was seized before he could escape the Flowstone Yard. He was ushered towards a large pit that may have been used for bear-fighting during the time of the ironborn. It was walled in by stone, with a floor of sand. Encircled by six tiers of marble benches, the Valemen nearly lined up the full audience, as they held dominion in the middle ward of the place and likewise were curious to see the exchange between their liege and that traitorous Gerold. Few words were exchanged, however, as Lyonel Corbray read aloud the various acts and oaths broken by Gerold, of the clemency shown to his house, of the deep sickness he held within his character for this betrayal. The gravest sin, perhaps, was his plot to unseat Jon Arryn himself, the mere suggestion causing a gasp ripple through the crowd, for they loved the theatrics. Jon Arryn put an end to the long display, and at once gave Gerold Grafton an ultimatum: the black or the block. Gerold refused either, in a daring display of courage that might have spirited this result in the first place, demanded his own blade, so that he could take his own life.

    Forgoing his right of trial by combat and instead demanding something of a ritual suicide was a strange request and Maesters and Septons alike speculated the origin of such an act, whether it was a legal repercussion and avoidance of execution. The moment did not last long, as Willas Waxley took up the executioner's sword, and Gerold's person was forced to the block. He was granted the honor of giving the command to strike, and did so promptly. His head was taken with one clean stroke, and the debate had ended.

    In the city that was Gerold's dominion, while he was not running the customs and assizes of King's Landing, the uproar caused by his adherents at news reaching them of the betrayal meant one thing: imminent collapse. The swords of the Lord Protector would be rallying soon, and without Royce's shield of protection, the city was doomed to any opposing army. They had saw the lesson of King's Landing rightly, and the loyal officers of House Grafton withdrew from the city barracks and walls, escaping to Grafton Tower where they might discuss and fret over their untimely doom with their liege's act of self-castigation. A few ships were being outfitted for an escape, but their meagre fleet could not hope to be ready in time. Sightings of Royce's gathering only furthered the chaos, and in chaos, there was opportunity.

    As the Grafton men discussed surrender or revolt, the Gulltown Arryns, ever the outward looking in, and always the cunning and conniving in that branch, had met in their guildhalls and manses. They had taken quiet control of a number of the skeleton crews arming the walls, paying off what men they could, or disappearing others who might have proven stubborn in their loyalty to a dead cause. The march of Runestone was the pinnacle of crisis, yet when the paltry letter of aid was sent to Gyles Grafton, Gerold's son and heir hosted on Driftmark, none could have expected warships and carracks of the royal fleet on the brow of the sea. While the commons mistook the black flags as the mark of piracy, for many had been disturbed along the Narrow Sea by that scourge recently, a progress of those who could run and those who could hold their lives in high pedigree ran to the docks. Hundreds of knights, men-at-arms, and loyalist sailors of Grafton met with the ships of Velaryon and Targaryen, their captains welcoming them aboard, for this would be a flight from the city and an escape of consequence above all else.

    When the triumphant progress of the castellan of Runestone marched into the city, they found the gates opened, and a bloodless capture that awaited them. The castellan, Errod Tollett, hosted a banquet to the well-to-dos that stayed in the city, namely the Shetts and Gulltown Arryns, praising them for their loyalty and writing a full report to his liege of the decisive victory... With the Runestone men quickly out-numbered by the rallied hosts of the other lords of the Vale who had hastened to the region's sole city, with the likes of Melcolm, Hunter, and Redfort bringing hundreds of their own, and the mightiest of them, the Waynwoods of Ironoaks, exceeding the Runestone host. Grafton's reach extended far in the city, and each wanted a piece of the spoils, a part of his treasury, and control over the city, nevermind the Shetts and Gulltown Arryns who each contended their own efforts to secure the city that had largely already fallen before the men of house Royce had even arrived. Errod Tollett was not qualified to run the city, stepping down to a council that was quickly established amongst the competing interests.

    Elsewhere in the Vale, at the highest seat, Anya Waynwood took action amidst the mountains that knew no master, taking her household and arriving on the Eyrie's doorstep. As High Steward of the Vale and Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Nestor Royce held the seat of the Arryn's in their name, though he had not dared to move upwards to the Eyrie. Anya's arrival was a surprise, though not without some merit. She had in her company the young child, a babe, Harrold Hardyng. She demanded purchase in the Eyrie's nest, for she held the wardship of Jon Arryn's only clear heir, in light of his family's woes. Though that claim might have been disputed by the far-reaching cousins who still held the man's own name, Nestor found no reason to disagree, and the maids and knights left behind in the castle began to call the young lad 'Harry the Heir', in light of his place of prominence in the halls of his ancestors. Nestor bothered himself with other matters, rallying the thousands who had heeded the Lord Protector's issue of a general muster for war once more.
     
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    • The Muster at Ashford Meadow​

    Lord Mace Tyrell looked out at the assembled knights and lords of the Reach, who had answered the call to muster. Among them were Dornishmen who had come up the Prince's Pass from Starfall and Skyreach and Hellholt, famed castles all. He was proud and tall in this moment, sitting upon his great horse. And he lifted his hand and all was quiet about him. He spoke at last:

    "Knights of the South, Lords of the Reach and Dorne, and leal men-at-arms! Hear my voice! We laid down our arms after the Trident for the victory, bloodily and ill-won, was in the hands of the rebel lords. But mighty Robert has died and the Great Council was betrayed. And the lies and plots of House Lannister are overthrown. I reached out a hand in conciliation and friendship to Lord Tywin, but it was brushed aside. We have been scorned by Lord Arryn, who would not deign to meet with the Lord of Highgarden until King's Landing itself had risen up to throw out the tyrant Kevan Lannister, ill-ruler. No man of the Reach was given seat at Arryn's high table and the rebels now seek war as the means to rectify their own failings in government and policies."

    Lord Mace grabbed the banner of House Targaryen that flapped next to him and seizing it in both hands placed a kiss upon it, "But there is news that has delivered me from indecision and conciliation to the path of duty and salvation! The son of Prince Rhaegar lives! Not one born of illegitimate union, but the Prince Aegon himself, who was spirited away from the sack by Lord Varys and brought to Essos where he might be safe and wait for the moment of his true return. That hour is at last upon us! King Aegon VI has been proclaimed openly and I have dutifully taken up the mantle as Lord Regent in the name of His Grace, King Aegon VI!"

    Mace hears the cheers of his bannermen, who lift up lances and banners and shout, "Aegon the King! Tyrell the Regent! Aegon the King!"

    Mace smiled and lifted his hand to cease the cheering, "My heart soars as well my countrymen. For the men of the Mander at last shall be recognized for our worth, rewarded for our fealty, and afforded the proper positions of consequence that we, by our industry, have earned. But I speak not only of the faith rewarded which we have carried in the service of our King Aegon, but of the events on Dragonstone which some may have heard rumor." Mace pulled out sheets of parchment and waved them aloft, riding to and fro so that many could see them. "I hold in my hands letters from Ser Jon Fossoway, my goodbrother and our countryman, and Ser Raymun Darry, whom I have named Hand of the King for his tireless efforts on the part of our Sovereign's Cause. Within these letters are the sworn testimony of these two most reputable men, whose faith and fidelity I do not doubt for a moment, that a Dragon is born again on Dragonstone and sleeps beside our Princess Daenerys! What wonder, what magic, what destiny has contrived for this most darkest moment to birth anew a wondrous light?"

    Mace quieted, as the shocked faces looked at him, "A heavy cost, a great burden. For the Queen Dowager and Prince Viserys have lost their lives as well. Join me now in prayer for their immortal souls: 'Father Above, judge Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys justly, forgiving their sins by which they have repented and holding them to just account for that which they have done against your will and strictures. Mother Above, give mercy and solace at last in the Seven Heavens for our departed Queen and Prince. Stranger, guide them swiftly to their apportioned place in paradise.'"

    Mace quieted and continued, "Let the loss of these proud souls remind us of our grim duty and take heart in that which has been gained. The Trueborn Son of the Silver Prince is returning across the Sea and the Stormborn sleeps with a Dragon out of distant legend. Spread this word, that we men of the Reach are loyal to our dying breath and that the Dragons will fly again!"

    The cheers broke out at once, "Aegon! Highgarden! Stormborn!"
     
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    Turn 4 Update Part 5: Morale
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    • Morale- Thanks to @nachtingale

    All throughout the Seven Kingdom's, banners are gathered.

    In the Riverlands, Pycelle's eager hands are hard at work, seeing the Hightower rebellion as of a grave threat to his masters. Here in Harrenhal, ravens are gathered, maesters from all throughout the Seven Kingdoms are bade to come towards the ancient castle, chains of all different colors are gathered, summoned by the haste and panic of another war on the horizon. Few are truly blind to the reason of their gatherings, however, as Oldtown's banner of rebellion is slowly but surely raised against the new status quo, the absent power of the Citadel will have be filled by what little Pycelle may make out of the hastily gathered assemblage of colors.

    Even further beyond these works behind the scenes, gathering the academic knowledge and communications network necessary to sustain themselves through the rising fires, there has been a great call for the men of the camp to be well and truly staffed in luxurious fashion. Experts in matters of siege, of medicine, of the ancient field of mathematics, all are gathered to support the new war effort to great success, the baggage train of the Tullys growing ever larger as they depart towards new conflicts. New wars for peace, just like the last one.

    Lady Errol also seeks peace, but hers is a different path altogether. Her hand is everywhere, from the nobles to the commonfolk, from Seagard to the outskirts of King's Landing weaving stories throughout the chaos of the capital itself. Her men and women sing of the great deeds of men like Tytos Blackwood, of the chivalrous spirit of the rebels, of the bravery of the common men-at-arms.

    There is little room in her songs for the suffering of the commonfolk, something which Ser Arthur Dayne makes quick advantage of, propagandizing to great effect amongst the citizenry of King's Landing of his cause. "The righteous shall claim our plot of land, whilst the wicked seek to burn it," proclaims one bard, a clear attack on the Lannister sacking. The memories of peace grow fainter still, but the commonfolk grab onto the ropes of destiny, cheering on the Dayne's cause with great merriment.

    Meanwhile, Lord Arryn's sights are placed far beyond King's Landing, as the greatest gathering of ships seen in a generation is gathered amongst his loyal ports. Dinghies, large fishing boats, whalers, cogs and flutes all find themselves compelled to fly banners of war, the Lord Regent rushing to gather as many realms as possible. Hundreds are summoned to the Bay's shores, but their true purpose lay unwrit thus far.
     
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    • The Lord Protector VI​

    The year after Jon Arryn was born, Aegor Rivers landed ten thousand men in the Stormlands. Maekar Targaryen and his sons led the loyalists to meet them, their banners waving in the wind. Twenty thousand followed them. Nearly half that number were dead before the Blackfyre ships retreated across the Narrow Sea. As a youth, Jon learned the sword at the knee of old Morwyn Royce, who would always speak of how he fought in battle breast-to-breast alongside Bloodraven.

    When Jon Arryn was eighteen, Duncan the Tall slew the fourth Blackfyre Pretender at the Wendwater Bridge. Jon, still a squire, had led the van with the knights of the Vale, and those golden banners dipped and fled before their spears. After the battle was done, he had knelt in the wash of the Wendwater, and Duncan the Tall had knighted him, and twelve other brave young lords besides, with his white blade still wet with the pretender's blood.

    When Jon Arryn was forty, Maelys Kinslayer led the Ninepenny Kings into the Stepstones, and the king had called his banners to meet them. Jon had answered the call, had marched to war alongside Tywin Lannister — so young then, so kind — and hard Edwyle Stark, and fair-haired Luthor Tyrell. He had slain seven and ten men with his own hand in those wars, and had crossed swords with the Tyrant of Tyrosh. On the war's last day, he bore witness as Barristan the Bold, only six and ten, rode down the Pretender in open combat. He saw the gold sails turn and slip towards the horizon, and he thought that he had seen the very last of them.

    Now he was old.

    Edwyle Stark and Morwyn Royce and Maekar Targaryen and Duncan the Tall were all dead and gone.

    And the Golden Company had come again.


    The letters fly to all corners of the realm.

    Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, in his capacity as Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, acting in the name of the children Aemon Sand and Viserys Targaryen, of Dragonstone, and Prince Stannis Baratheon, condemns the acts of treachery which have been committed upon the royal persons and upon the realm.

    It has become apparent that certain signatories of the Great Council bore no intention of honoring its writ, nor the King's Peace. Loyalists of the dead king Aerys Targaryen, working in secret since before the convening of the Great Council, sought to raise the Vale to arms and overthrow the Eyrie. Gerold Grafton, the foremost of those conspirators, has met his end. Lord Mace Tyrell, in collaboration with the members of Aerys Targaryen's Kingsguard and certain members of the Mad King's court, has raised up a pretender, whom they claim to be Rhaegar Targaryen's murdered son.

    But they have shown their hand and their true heart. Banners of the Golden Company have landed in the Stormlands. Reports are certain that they bear before them the skull of one Ser Aegor Rivers, known in life as Bittersteel.

    Milords, perhaps it is few of you who are old enough now to remember the previous occasions on which this army came to the shores of Westeros. Those of you who do will know this for certain: they would not march for a Targaryen king. For one hundred years these exiles and kinslayers have fought without mercy to crown their pretender, and now the Lord of Highgarden has made common cause with them to see the realm humbled before him. The royal cause has wanted so badly for a dragon, and the boy Viserys would not suffice — so now they have produced two.

    Mace Tyrell is declared a traitor, along with the Lords Velaryon and Hightower. They have given their swords and their hearts to the disgrace of this realm and a tyranny to put that of Aerys to shame. They loot the realm to pay her oldest foes, and their attempt to unseat the rightful Lord of the Vale shows all claims of respect for the Council to be just that — claims, made to make their seizure of power all the easier. Behind Mace Tyrell are the Spider, the Viper, and the Turncloak. They would rule the realm through their boy king.

    The Lord Protector calls the realm to arms. The Wardens of the North, the East, and the West are granted full power to command their armies against this threat. We will recover the Targaryen children from Dragonstone, and free the Queen Mother, if they have not yet killed her. The Council will resume, and the lands of the traitors, as in every rebellion of this nature, will be distributed to those who stood by the Crown.

    To all lords of all kingdoms, I beseech you as knights, as men of true faith, in the name of the old gods and the new: take up arms.

    In fact, or in spirit, the Blackfyre Pretenders have returned.

    This order has been written by the hand of the Grand Maester Pycelle, observed by the Lords Piper and Stark, and signed and sealed, in the two hundred and eighty-fourth year since the Conquest, by Lord Jon Arryn.
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    The Small Council of the Lord Protector is as follows.

    Lord Protector and Regent Jon Arryn
    Master of Laws Eddard Stark
    Master of Coin Tywin Lannister
    Master of Ships Stannis Baratheon
    Master of Whispers Roose Bolton
    Lord Commander of the Kingsguard VACANT
    Grand Maester Pycelle
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    Raven sent from Ashford to the Castles of the Realm bearing the Seals of House Targaryen and House Tyrell
    ​
    Lords and Knights and Gentlemen of the Realm,

    I, Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, and Warden of the South, in my capacity as Lord Regent in the name of King Aegon VI do declare the return of the rightful King from beyond the Sea. You are commanded by the laws of Gods and Men to swear obeisance to the King and to hear my words as if they are the King's. The dragons return, both in the person of the King and the newborn hatchling on Dragonstone, who nests with Princess Daenerys Stormborn.

    Heed the call of the Trueborn King, who is coming to set aright our mutual tumults.



    Archmaesters of the Citadel,

    I write to inform you that the position of Grand Maester has been made vacant by treason. The former Grand Maester Pycelle is an outlaw of the Realm. Seeing as we are in the days of danger and doubt, both in civil strife and regency, it is the considered opinion of the Regent and the advisers of the King that there is a present need for an immediate election of a Grand Maester. I ask that the Conclave of the Citadel elect a new Grand Maester to serve on the Small Council. This is a matter of grave import and I trust in the wisdom of the Citadel to see us all through these dark days.

    Lord Regent Mace Tyrell, in the name of King Aegon VI



    The Lord Regent announces the Small Council of King Aegon VI:

    Lord Regent Mace Tyrell
    Hand of the King Raymun Darry
    Master of Whispers Varys
    Master of Laws Alester Florent
    Master of Ships Lucerys Velaryon
    Master of Coin Oberyn Martell
    Grand Maester Vacant
    Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Gerold Hightower
     
    Telamon said:
    The Lord Protector VI
    The letters fly to all corners of the realm.​
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    STANNIS BARATHEON - V​

    The breeze tickles the last strands of hair that Stannis still has. He's aged years on the march. Never handsome, he'd be hard to even call homely now. But the strength of his house comes to him in spades. The pang of hunger is gone everywhere except his eyes.

    "How long must this farce continue, Lord Arryn?" Stannis asks. The most recent decree is by his hand. "The traitors preen for their bastard. They have done so for months. Your dearest plan to unite this realm peacefully is ash."

    He squashes the parchment. "War has come. Our enemies present a pretender. The capital rests under them. All the resources of the Reach and Dorne follow them. Most painful are the friends they have seeded in our homelands. Their adventure will continue so long as we keep deluding ourselves."

    He lets the letter fall. The wind picks it up toward King's Landing and the engines of war that surround it.

    "That this realm has a regent, a protector, instead of a king already." The warhammer that had been by his side comes forward. Clang—it fell on the ground in front of Arryn. "My brother thought of you as a second father. But I'm not him. What I require is not a father. Your allegiance, Jon Arryn. I demand it. Your service, Jon Arryn. I require it. For a king is always in need of his hand."    ​
     
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    LETTERS FROM KING BALON GREYJOY
    ​
    For Hoster Tully, @Weygand

    Heed these words and heed them well, I see your army squatting like so-many gulls around Seagard. Are Mallister's rocks comfortable enough for you to squat over, bastard-father? Your scum-sucking progeny are vulnerable at Harrenhal, and my armies slip through your walls like the trout of your symbol slips through your shitely-made nets.

    My Iron Fleet controls the Summer Sea now, and we shall take Harrenhal, every stone of it, which will be stripped down and taken back to Pyke to be rebuilt into a proper castle. That dragon-blasted ruin has no duty being in your dung-heap of a country, har-har-har. Let it be the palace of the Drowned God, thrown to the sea so he can use the blood of your ancestors in his halls, har-har-har.

    For Doran Martell, @CobaltCloyster

    Foolish sand-man. I have heard your threats of sending the so-called 'Dornish Fleet', and know that the corsairs and freebooters you hire are already under my employ. Who else could've masterminded the razing and looting of King's Landing and her treasure ships, but the ironborn? Come through the Redwyne Straits and know you will pay the blood price, for your desert-dwelling, nomadic bands of bastard-raising scum have no place at sea.

    For Stannis Baratheon, @KnightDisciple

    Your brother was a fine warrior, but he had more inclination to whore and piss in the street than rule. What right does you have to the Iron Islands? Even your much-vaunted ancestor, Orys, died a stump-handed fool, half-mad and blind from time in a Dornish gaol. Come, master of no ships, for you are no king at all, but a dragonspawn bastard with enough blood to spare for my new castle on Fair Isle, haw-haw.

    For Jon Arryn, @Fingon888

    Bastard. Scum. That is what you are. You regale my son-in-law with tales of Vale honour, then what do you do? Send assassins and sycophants to my Iron Isles to make me a fool, like the Laughing Lion, or the Mad King himself! I have fed your messengers to the krakens, and gelded your septons, their cocks make for fine decor on my ships, har-har-har. You are scum not worth the blood I write this letter with, but we will repay the debt with the goats your vaunted knights like to play with.

    For Ned Stark, @bookwyrm

    Stark. Know that I pity what happened to your father and brother, and I understand the injustice of it all, for my father died in the name of your blood-brother Robert. Declare a free and independent North and ally with my host. My daughter to your son, a powerful alliance, wouldn't you agree? Perhaps that oafish creature Hoster Tully will follow along like the good bloodhound he is, har-har-har. You have no oaths to whatever babe they dredge up from the desert or sea, but only to your pretty Wall. It'd be a damnable shame to see it weep for a kneeler Lord of the North.

    For Lucerys Velaryon, @Thiccroy

    I hear you have found a new baby to put on the throne. Your septs must be starved, perhaps you ought to send them to me? We've made quite good use of them as decorations for our Iron Fleet. Urrathon Night-walker sends his mightiest regards, come to the Stepstones, and he will greet you with a buggering.

    For Tywin Lannister, @Carol

    You should have followed the lesson of your boy and put a sword in Arryn's back. Or sacked another defenceless city. Har-har-har!

    ALL SIGNED KING BALON GREYJOY,
    KING OF THE IRON ISLES
    LORD REAPER OF PYKE
    LORD OF THE IRON FLEET
    MASTER OF THE THREE SEAS
    ARCHPRIEST OF THE DROWNED GOD, FOE OF THE STORM GOD

    ​
     
    Lucerys Velaryon VI​


    So much had passed in so little time. Yet it had left him behind nonetheless.

    The Golden Company had been welcomed in the heart of the Stormlands. The Reach had rallied in Ashford. Dorne had crossed the Red Mountains. The Crownlands had mustered at his call, rallying around the Dragon Banner. Both sons of Rhaegar had been revealed, and Aegon had now become the beating heart of the loyalists.

    But Lucerys' own heart did not beat along with them. His cause was not Aegon's. It had never been Rhaegar's, back when it mattered. Two years ago, it had still been his own, seeking to benefit from Aerys' rule. A year ago, it had aligned with the Crown, in defence of the House and the realm that his ancestors had sworn themselves to.

    Now? Now it was dead.

    He stood alone, in that room. He saw the blackened tiles, the spots where House Targaryen sacrificed its finest. It had been emptied, the remains granted their funeral pyres and the ashes conserved in the crypt, the scrolls and parchment returned from Aemon's solar.

    The staff had done their best, but he could still smell the stench of burnt flesh.

    His King's sparkling eyes as he beheld the Valyrian steel dagger granted upon his return. His Queen's forlorn smile as she said her goodbyes, leaving for Dragonstone. They haunted his every waking moment, and his dreams held naught but flames.

    And yet he could not wake from this nightmare.

    He folded up the aged scroll, its meaning only barely understood, and slotted it neatly amongst the rest. Maester Aemond should have left behind more notes, his High Valyrian wasn't academic enough.

    His hands found the same dagger he had given Viserys but a few days ago, raising it to his eyes. The blade was short, yet ancient, clean, and beyond sharp. The dragonbone hilt similarly could almost be mistaken for leather at first glance, yet it felt oddly warm to his touch.

    He stepped forward, until he was in the middle of the room.

    This was no great ritual, no great sacrifice was demanded. His blood, that which held the echo of dragons, would suffice.

    "Va se ānogar hen issa kepa. Va se ānogar hen issa trēsi. Nyke kivio ao..."

    He sliced his palm, the blade singing as it split his flesh, and let the blood of House Velaryon fall upon the tiles where his heart had died.

    His duty remained. It would keep him moving forward.
     
    Anya III

    ​

    Events moved quickly, it seemed - just as soon as she'd started receiving messages from Gulltown (the port fallen without a fight, a bevy of loyal banners marching to occupy it, the traitors slipping out on the tide in ships bearing the black Targaryen banners...) she'd received a flurry of ravens from all over the kingdom. Announcements from Mace Tyrell, declaring that Aegon lived, that he was the true king, that all should bend the knee - and within a day or two of that, a responding missive from her liege lord. For a moment she felt as if she were back in the beginnings of the rebellion, when everything had happened so quickly and she'd seen her son ride off to war.

    Her son. Her eldest son. A man grown but still a boy in her mind, still full of youth and fight and resplendent in his armor and green and black, laughing as he'd kissed her goodbye, even though they both knew what this war meant. She'd cursed her sex - or maybe just their culture - because she could not protect him any longer. Not on the battlefield. She'd had to wait instead, carefully managing their finances, weighing whether to send more banners or to not, waiting for news of battles won or lost. And always fearing that the next raven would bring the news she dreaded.

    So far, she had been spared that grief, although so many mothers and fathers and sisters and children had not been. She was surrounded by children, really, even in the residence she had taken up temporarily at the Eyrie. Her own youngest sons, her daughters, all still children, all that she had left of her husband - and the infant. Harry Hardyng, the heir to all the vale, still a babe in swaddling clothes, left to her by the death of his parents. She would do what she could for him - for his heritage, for her own liege, for the Vale.

    The knights and ladies and servants at the Eyrie had been welcoming - understanding, even - of her desire to protect the young child with treachery in the wind and Jon Arryn back at war. This was the future of the Vale. And she would protect it.

    She did not act as the lady of the castle, of course. It was not her place. But she did place her own men - good men, loyal men - and the Arryn knights and men-at-arms who remained around the boy to ensure he was watched. That if the worst came to pass there would be someone for the Vale to rally around, even if he was only a baby.

    And now? Now what? She had reports from Gulltown - Tarbor frustrated by the maneuvering of petty and great lords, all striving to try and get a piece of the port and she returned the note with a fierce directive, ordering him to ensure order and to protect the place from raiders. To ensure that dues were still collected, that coin continued to flow, even now - the Vale would need every scrap of funding they could get for this war. But she would need her banners back at Ironoaks and the Bloody Gates and the Eyrie. Too many places, really, with some of her banners with the army in front of King's Landing.

    "What a mess," she murmured to herself, picking up Arryn's missive to read it again. She felt older than her years in this moment, trying to hold strong in the face of a whirlwind. She did not understand them, these men who served the infant king. Or perhaps she did, considering her own feelings toward young Harry. But even so - to betray vows and oaths spoken, to hide such a revelation from all the realm, was madness. They should have brought him forward to the council. In her heart of hearts she thinks she would have supported putting the young king back on the throne, if they had done so.

    But they had not. They had insulted her liege lord , sown treachery and blood, and had now apparently killed or captured a half dozen of some of the most prominent names in the kingdom. The Dowager Queen, Kevan Lannister, the list went on - all for this farce of a declaration. Was he truly the boy? Was it some peasant? She didn't know. But she knew that she could never support these black and red banners now. Not after all of this. Treachery and blood.

    And she could not set foot on the battlefield to fight for herself - so she would have to find other ways to secure the future of her children. All of them. Anya Waynwood bends over the desk she's been allowed in a side room and her quill scratches in the cold grey light that filters in through the window. Woman have always had to use words or coin or the swords of others. She'll manage. One way or another.

    ---

    @Fingon888
    Lord Paramount Mace Tyrell,

    Having received your raven, I feel I owe a response. My loyalty and the loyalty of the Vale lies with Jon Arryn, for the many wrongs done to him and his house by the Mad King; the Grand Council was meant to heal the wounds of the war and set the realm back to rights. Had you brought this Aegon forward, the realm may had seen fit to acknowledge him as living and the rightful heir to the throne; however, the raising of banners now, the purchase of the treacherous Blackfyre mercenaries from across the sea, the apparent reinstatement of Jaime Lannister after he was condemned to rightful exile, and the kidnapping of Aemon Sand all speak against my sense of honor and the vows my house has taken.

    I must respectfully decline to pledge my allegiance to you or the so-called king under who's authority you claim to act. Where Jon Arryn goes, House Waynwood will follow.

    Instead, I urge you to return to the use of words and cease this fanning of the flames of war; what chance there is now for any peaceful resolution slips through our fingers. I fear it is already too late.

    Lady Anya Waynwood
     
    Turn 4 Update Part 5: Breaking
  • Threadmarks

    • Breaking- Thanks to @bookwyrm

    As they have not rung for a hundred years, ever since Dagon Greyjoy was pushed into the sea, the bells of Seagard are ringing. All up and down the western coasts of the Sunset Sea, bells are ringing, beacons are alight, and black clouds cover the sky in shadow. From dark wings come dark words, ugly slanders and panicked rumors, the Ironmen strike at Fair Isle, at Ironman's Bay, at Bear Island, at the Arbor. They feast like kings in heathen rites trampling over the Shield Islands, they make foul bargains with the Lord of the Rock, no the Dragon's men, no the Wildlings to come over the Wall and down the mountains of the Vale. The shipwrights Harrald Fairhair and Rolfe son of Dolf are burnt out of Lannisport and are forced to claim sanctuary with Lord Kenning, in Oldtown harbor the trade ships True Wind, Maid O' Mead, and Black Pearl are laid up and their crewmen interred upon Bloody Isle, and it is said in Sevenstreams a dwarf is given as bloody tribute to appease the devil under the waves.

    The wolves of the sea have become ghostly spectres, everywhere and nowhere, and so everywhere and nowhere girds for their defense. But while the misty fog of war mislays the lords of the greenlands from the weight of the strokes of the Drowned God's children, likewise it leaves all gates barred and all halls shuttered. In a dozen small actions off Lann's Point and Kayce and the Cape of Eagles, the Ironborn pay dearly for the tumultuous storm they have stirred up. It takes a crazed charge with rope and ladder to take the wall and steal away the wealth of Feastfires, and the surprise sprigs of mistletoe of Charlton and quartered dragons of both Vances chase several captains away from the hills of Tumblestone, while the Hooded Man of Banefort catches a band returning from the half-ruin of the Crag and slaughters them to a soul. When all is said and done, the reavers and oarsmen under Rodrick Greyjoy come back rich war heroes, but with three thousand missing berths in their crews, for with less than half of that in fallen greenlanders in reply.

    The one other notable action in these waters is a sudden narrow window where the most crippled of the heavy Iron Fleet loses contact with their lighter counterparts and are firmly made know coming laggardly up along the Searoad from too-long tarrying in the Shields and threatening dips in Oldtown waters and the Redwyne Straits. The pirate king Balon's one key to victory as the most robustly built platforms in the Isles able to challenge mainlander war dromonds head on and still dance around pressed merchant cogs, now waterlogged and broken-masted and fat with spoils of war and due for a return to Pyke for extensive repair. After all what kind of reckless vainglorious fool would risk his irreplaceable ships on the off chance of entrapping the Redwyne fleet, something that even if all goes perfectly to plan would take the devil's own luck to obtain?

    Victorian Greyjoy saw great success in his counter-blow off the cliffs of Crakehall, the iron redoubt of men mad enough to wear full plate upon the deck holding the dogged attention of the avenging men of the Arbor, while the jaws of the trap swung around and wolf packs of other longships dug into their galleys at the side and rear, nipping at their oar banks, and jointly bleeding them out with a thousand cuts, until the frothing red sea foam attracted the interest of a true Ironborn's cousins, the sharks and the krakens. Yet for all the painful work as Victorian, exhausted, finally took off his helm and let the ringing in his ears subside and the salt wind shake the haze from his sight, the Greyjoy saw only twenty warships were so baited and hooked, the personal device of Ser Jon Cupps flying upon his Vintage of Wrath, not the banner of Paxter Redwyne or the sigil of Tyrell or any other such high lord. The blood-drunk knight even cried to his captors that for all their clever tricks their days are still numbered and that the Arbor cannot fail, so Victorian had him keelhauled and dropped into the ocean in weighted nets, a gift to the Drowned God and a way to shut him up for good. Yet the Greenlander's words echoed in the wind.

    And all the while as the Iron Fleet and the mariners of the Mander continued warily circling one another and half a hundred smaller stories played out up and down the Sunset Sea, as everyone prayed and prophesied on where the real headman's axe would fall and the true song of swords would scream out- it would only be some time later that Banefort and Blacktyde and Bulwer would learn that such a bloody day had already dawned.

    More than riches, more than glorious victories, what Balon hunted above all else was pride, a straight back on the Seastone Chair looking out not at the damp crumbling state of Castle Pyke but all the legends of antiquity- the holy mother-of-pearl of the Grey King in his splendor, all the gilded spoils of Oldtown in the days of King Qhored the Cruel, Pyke itself in the happy days when Balon was young and Pyke was huge and not overcrowded with other Greyjoys, when Quellon as strong and not weak and befuddled by a foreign slattern and when fathers regardless could do no wrong and hook down the sun and the moon for their little boys. So perhaps it can be no surprise that instead prying great prizes out of their prickly shells in the south, Balon pulled the weight of the Ironborn northwards and personally commanded as king four hundred longships to sail for turnips and pinecones in lands abundant in shared bloody history with the driftwood crown, but in little else that can be profitably cleaved from them paying the Iron Price.

    Yet by all that history here too were there pricks a plenty for the unwary reaver, Bear Island and Flint's Finger kept their own longships too, and stout wooden keeps besides, and from the Rills come walls of spearmen and the Barrowlands swift battle-hungry horsemen, and the Ironborn mislike even speaking of what comes out of the frog-eating Neck and their misbegotten mudmen. How then, does Balon make his mark on the world and triumphantly prove himself King of Rock and Salt, crowned not just by blood or hoary ritual on Old Wyk but by his quality, greater than Quellon ever was?

    When the legend grows men of the Isles speak of high principles of liberty for a land where every captain is a king, or of the holy mandate of the Old Way and the Drowned God filling his children with irresistible strength and unfathomable foresight, or or of comradery with shipmates beside them in the shieldwall greater than any gold-bought greenlander horde, or of a warrior's simple battle fever as his blood burns and the fortune the favors the bold. But in truth, there is only one man of whom this victory is granted, and of whom the son of Quellon depends upon to be fashioned Balon the Brave and Balon the Blessed- Dagmar Cleftjaw.

    It was Dagmar, baseborn of a Greyjoy by-blow four or five Lord Reapers ago, who climbed up from nothing but a ship's boy to a fell reaver and senior oarsmen to the dread champion Cleftjaw whispered as a horror outside the Isles and cheered at every Ironborn drinking hole. Dagmar's veteran tacking to sail wide into the west and then slip back between the north and south shores of Blazewater Bay with at first none the wiser. Dagmar's steady hand on the tiller and bellowing call on the beat that lead the reaver ships swiftly rowing up the Saltspear in good order. Dagmar's canniness as a Stepstones pirate and Sellsail that told the fleet to keep up their faint into the river leading to Torrhen's Square before finally portaging over one moonless night. And it was one trick Dagmar learned from a Corsair lord that had the Ironmen split into two and surround Barrowton from both rivers that merge into its confluence, dragging lashed-together ships as makeshift rams and siege platforms to fire upon the town walls and storm their gates.

    It was Dagmar that cast for the sun and moon and presented Balon with his prize, Barrowton.
     
  • Threadmarks

    • Doom Is Our Duty​


    Lord Banefort was...well, content wasn't the correct word. Nor was satisfied. But he was at least not discontent.

    The Ironborn had come to the shores of the Westerlands, but not in the hordes he and his Lords had feared. Thus, he and his brave and loyal men at arms had stood strong against the salty tides. Ironborn had come, and Ironborn had died. Banefort himself had marched out to meet an enemy force fat and happy with somewhat-successful raiding near the Crag, and his enormous sword had drank deeply of salted blood of the filthy reavers.
    He found himself disgusted by their actions. in the midst of winter, they lashed out like this, all because they didn't do enough honest work to eat? Bah. Even the honor-obsessed Valemen knew better!
    At times, he wished his only neighbors were Northerners. They weren't so bad, even if they got stuffy like the Valemen and Rearchers sometimes, much as they'd deny it.

    But now? Now he was fighting off his closest, and worst neighbors. Who were also complete idiots, judging by the fact that he had received a letter meant for Stannis Baratheon. He'd had his Maester send it on with an additional note that Banefort would be replying with...signature humor.

    So that was why he was standing here with a single living Iron Islander, both legs broken and tied together and to a wooden stump, set down in a sturdy dinghy, a small sail and an oar set in front of the man. That, and a pile of bloody tabards and flags showing all the men that Banefort had killed, him or his men. And instead of writing, he'd given the man a prepared speech to recite to the so-called King Balon, or whoever was close to Balon's rule over on the nearest Island.

    "If we see you ever again on the western shores, you'll be gelded, rolled in salt, and sent down to the Dornish deserts with naught but a loincloth, and coated in whatever we can find that'll attract their vipers and scorpions. Clear?"
    The man just nodded nervously, glancing around at all the large armored men around him. Banefort grunted.
    "Good."
    Then with a single leg, he shoved the dinghy off of the shore, with hope the man would arrive safely, solely to deliver the message.
    ==========================================================================================================================
    @Karen

    It would probably take some time, especially with a malfunctioning raven "system", but eventually Balon or one of his children would catch word of the failed raid in Banefort territory, and the simplicity of the message would ensure the essence was preserved.

    Balon Krakenfucker,

    Congratulations, your message for Stannis Baratheon came to me. Don't worry your squid-buggered-arse, I've sent it on after killing your reavers. If you want to come take my people into slavery and our hard-earned wealth into your coffers, you're going to have to try harder. I just paid your precious Iron Price for a load of shiny swords and armor. I'd love a chance to pay the same Price for your head.

    Lord Quenten Banefort, Kraken-Slayer
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
     
    Raymun - II​

    They were a damp and miserable place, the many tunnels hewed into the Conqueror's hill. Few knew of them, fewer cared for them - but Ser Raymun knew when he accepted the hooded man's hand and stepped onto the dock leading into the cavern, he was entering the power of one who knew them more intimately than any other. He was given a torch, and pointed down the way. "Through," the dough-faced, gruff fellow with his black and pointed teeth urged him. "Through."

    The knighted grunted, glanced to the only other man in the vessel, the Captain of his guard, grim-faced Alyn Wakeriver, who had lost his father at the Trident, but kept his steely gaze to the horizon. He thought to say something to the man, but did not find the words. They had come here in these days after the Trident on summons most extraordinary, and the bodies of Raymun's brothers were still cooling on a sept on the Mummer's Ford alongside Alyn's father. I have asked much and more of you, Alyn, he knew: Pray indulge me a while longer, and we shall return to Darry with our grief. He turned instead to darkness that parted at his flame, advancing into red brick passages and puddled floors. The water pooled at the leather of his boots and gave way here and there to dampened mud, which then became cobbled stone. How many crimes have Kings gone by concealed in these passages? he let an idle thought drift by: Would these walls scream, if they could?

    But the tunnels were endless, and they did not speak - only narrowed oppressively, 'til Raymun - a man of only eighteen summers - found his arms scraping against the walls. In that chafing nothing ahead of him, in the distant dark, there was only the patient sound of dripping water. The tunnel snaked out three ways, and Raymun realised he did not know which would take him where he was headed. He waited a while, but found no relief in waiting, so dared another step forward, until the lilting tone of another came from the distance. "A strange thing, isn't it, Ser Raymun, to put yourself in another's power? A wrong step in these tunnels, ser, and you will surely be lost. Starved, perhaps, or might you end your own life with the sword you've brought? Would you have the courage for that, ser?"

    "Lord Varys," Ser Raymun called, hand settled on the pommel of that self-same sword in some instinct as he challenged the shadows, his patience already beginning to wane. "I doubt you have called me here to doom my line in these tunnels. Let us speak plainly." A muffled sound came, like a hum, and the Spider's voice came again: "To speak plainly with your loyalties is an increasingly dangerous thing, ser. Pray, indulge me in a little theatre. Were I to tell you the right way, would you place yourself in my power?"

    Raymun felt his jaw working, grip tightening on his blade, but after the briefest moment, asked the shadows: "And which way would that be, my lord?"

    "The left. Mind the ladder, ser."

    There was a brief sound of something sliding closed in the tunnel, but Ser Raymun turned that way and did as he was bid. This was a narrower way, coming to an ascent - a wall with a ladder propped up against it. Ser Raymun glanced to his torch, which he knew he would need, and wondered whether he might abandon it to make the ascent.

    After a moment, he did.

    As he mounted the ledge, he saw twinkling light in the distance of a widening tunnel. Ser Raymun felt faint relief, and walked toward it readily. It came into view as a candle set in a bowl on a table, a stool settled near it. The flame caught the contours of a cloaked figure in the distance. "Pray, sit, ser. We've much to discuss," Varys - for it could be none other than the Spider - bid him.

    The knight of Darry settled, frowning. "Do we, Lord Varys? You will forgive my saying so, my lord, but there is little me or mine have to offer you. Even but a few short weeks ago my lord father and my brothers might have risen Lords Mooton and Goodbrook and Ryger and a thousand of their own swords for whatever scheme you have planned for me. Now I've only myself, loyal Alyn Wakefield, and whatever few knights were left to us by Rhaegar before he dashed against Robert's hammer on the Trident."

    "When have I ever been known to trade in swords and armies and fealty, Ser Raymun? Humour me a moment, again: what are the words of your house?"

    The knight huffed, bullishly. "Hard Work, Loyal Service."

    "And your sigil?"

    "A black plowman on brown," he said, impatiently: "You speak in riddles, spider. Why remind me of what my eyes have seen my whole life?"

    "Because I do not need Darry's swords, or Darry's bannermen, or Darry's friends and debts, few though they now number," the spymaster pressed: "I require loyalty, Ser Raymun. I require men who will venture into a dark labyrinth and set aside the comfort of their light at the words of another out of nothing but trust."

    "For what, pray?" Ser Raymun spat: "Some trick, some mummer's farce? I am here on the promise of something worth my loyalty, or even my time, Lord Varys, but all I have been subject to so far is games and shadows - how dare you presume my house is a dog so easily whistled up? For what, your good service to our late King, who now lies dead at the hands of his own guard? Whose gates were opened to Tywin Lannister, who sent his monster to bash in the brains of babes? Whilst my own brothers perished alongside Rhaegar on the Trident - where were you then, spider?! Another shadow on the wall, cowering in your tunnels?! Speak not to me of loyalty. You've loyalty only to a man who brought you from an Essosi carnival to high status. We serve - we served! - because it is just."

    Raymun realised he had stood, in his rage, and he loomed over the Spider, a gangly youth. But the Spider kept his calm, hands clasped in his sleeves, pudgy face veiled in his hood, and waited out Darry's speech with a measured silence that lingered on afterward. "Your words carry some fragment of truth to them, Ser Raymun, wroth though you are. I could not save Aerys - mine is a trade of whispers and silence, and Aerys had long ago abdicated that terrain for armies and battles, both of which I fare poorly in. No, rather than don armour and stand on the walls, I did what I could - I saved someone more worthy of your loyalty than I."

    "What do you mean?" Raymun asked, breath quickening. A part of him already knew - already suspected - but he needed to hear it. He needed to see. Jon, Will, Lyman - I'll finish it. I will. "Who? Tell me."

    "A boy who would be king."
     
    Rhaella Targaryen, Eddard Stark, and Lucerys Velaryon​

    The hall was colder than she remembered. Once, it had been a place of revelry, a place of contests and feasts, a place where Rhaegar had played his harp and made half the realm weep. Now it was stone and shadow and silence. The lords had come to Harrenhal to choose a king, but in their whispering and scheming, it seemed to Rhaella Targaryen that few had come for duty or honor. They had come to grasp at power.

    She waited in her appointed chambers, the great stone walls darkened by centuries of soot and smoke. It was a bleak place, but Rhaella had known bleakness all her life. She wore black, for mourning. Rhaella held no love for Aerys, but it was the least she could do for Rhaegar.

    When the doors opened, she did not rise. Instead, she let them come to her. Ser Willem had stationed himself at her side, his face a mask of duty, but it was not his presence that mattered now.

    She saw Eddard Stark first. He had his brother's eyes, dark and solemn, filled with quiet judgment. The Wolf of Winterfell moved with the weight of all the North upon his shoulders, though he was still a young man. Beside him, Lucerys Velaryon was a silver shadow as she still remembered him to be. There was old blood in him, Valyrian blood, but the sea and sky had shaped him as much as dragonfire had.

    "Lord Stark, Lord Velaryon," she said, inclining her head just so. "You honor me with your presence."

    It was rare for a Lord of Winterfell to go anywhere without Ice at his side, but today it remained in his tent, in the care of his most trusted men. When Eddard had said this was a time for the laying down of arms, he had meant it—and he knew as well that if he were to need it for this meeting, then the cause of peace was already long lost.

    "Queen Rhaella," he said, with a short half-bow—not out of respect for the title of royalty, but for the woman herself, who had borne the brunt of Aerys's madness long before his eye had turned on the Starks. "That's kind of you to say, after all we've been through."

    Rhaella studied the man before her. Eddard Stark was not his father, nor his brother, but there was something of both in him, the solemnity of the North, the quiet sense of duty that held him upright like a sword planted in the frozen earth. He was not a man given to games, nor one who would be easily swayed by words alone.

    She hesitated for a moment. "Lord Stark, I will not waste your time with flattery. You know why I have asked to speak with you."

    She folded her hands in her lap. "I will not let the realm call my grandson, a boy of both Targaryen and Stark blood, a bastard. Aemon is Rhaegar's son, and I will see him recognized as such. Whatever you may believe of my son's choices, the child bears no guilt for them. His future must be secured, and I have the authority to legitimize him. No man of my house is of age to countermand me."

    She let that settle before pressing forward. "But even that is a smaller matter compared to what comes next. Viserys is eight years old. He is a boy, not yet a king. There are ten years before he must rule, ten years where he can be shaped into the kind of man Westeros needs rather than what people see him as now."

    She took a breath. "But you know what will happen if another king is chosen." Her voice was trembling. "You are not a fool, my lord. My family will not be allowed to live. Not in exile, not in hiding, not in peace. If you vote to cast aside House Targaryen, you do not simply sign away the crown, you sign the death warrant of my children. Of Aemon, your own nephew."

    Her voice softened just slightly. "I am a mother. You know what that means. I have seen the cruelty of men, the thirst for power that has no limits, no mercy. Do not make me plead for my own blood, Lord Stark. But know that I will, if it means they are spared."

    She met his gaze. "I am not asking you to love my house. I am asking you to see the truth. If you believe in justice, if you believe in peace, then vote to let us live."

    It took Eddard a long time to gather his thoughts for what he had to say next. "I don't blame you or your son, let alone Aemon, for what befell my family, or so many others in this war. But save perhaps the Reach and Dorne, the realm at large will never accept Viserys as king. Even Aemon, who can claim blood ties to both sides of the conflict, would be an unlikely candidate. But take heart in this: your fate may hang less on the vote than you believe. If I know one thing of Stannis Baratheon, it is that he prizes justice above all. A strict and unbending justice, yes, but justice nonetheless—not the kind that would execute a woman and her child for having committed no crime. And if he rules, he will do so with Lord Arryn and myself at his side. I believe that together, we can secure mercy for your House."

    "If I may interject, Lord Stark," Lucerys said, walking to the Queen Dowager's side until he stood next to her, then taking another step back. "You are talking about a man who almost starved to death through a stubborn defiance of a Reachmen siege. I know not what you heard from Robert Baratheon during your years together, but I am unsure how much of it has differed between the child Robert knew, and the man that now stands as the Lord of the Stormlands."

    Rhaella listened to both of them speak, her face impassive, though inside, she felt the familiar weariness of men speaking of mercy as if it were a shield against ambition. As if promises of justice could tame the hunger of those who sought power. That had never worked.

    "You are wrong, Lord Stark," she said with a quiet voice. "You place too much faith in the justice of men. You say Stannis Baratheon would not harm us, even if true, but what of those who would serve him? Can he command them all to stay their hands? Can he silence every lord who seeks to make his rule secure? The mere fact of my family's existence is a threat to a Baratheon crown. Do you think they will let that threat linger?"

    She did not wait for him to answer. Instead, she stood. Slowly, deliberately, she stepped forward. "And even if they do not strike immediately, it will not matter. You know how this realm works, Lord Stark. If a single man raises a banner in my name, if one knight rallies men to my grandson's cause, what then? You think the Baratheons will not act? You think your word, or Lord Arryn's, will be enough to hold them back?"

    Her voice wavered, not from weakness, but from the weight of a mother who had seen what men could do when they felt threatened. "I have seen it before, Lord Stark. I have let my family be slaughtered. I have heard my children scream in my nightmares, and I will not—" Her breath caught, but she did not stop. "I will not let it happen again."

    And then, she did something she had never done before. Something she never thought she would.

    Rhaella Targaryen knelt.

    Not for a king. Not for a lord. Not for duty or tradition.

    She knelt for her children.

    "For my grandson. For my son. For my daughter. I beg you, Lord Stark. If you have ever loved your sister, if there is any part of you that still grieves her, do not let her son share his father's fate."

    She bowed her head at his feet. "You say you cannot change the hearts of the realm. Then I ask you to change your own."

    Lucerys took a half step forward as the Queen Dowager knelt, his hands rushing forwards to try and prevent her actions, his mouth open to ask her to stop. But it was too late.

    He schooled his features, his teeth grinding together. Instead, he bowed to the Lord of the North.

    To look down at royalty—even deposed royalty—was a chance precious few people in the history of Westeros had ever gotten. It put Eddard in mind of his ancestor Cregan, deciding the fate of the realm with Ice in hand when the Hour of the Wolf arrived.

    But there was no sword in his hand now, and he prayed every day that he would never have to wield one in anger again.

    "All that we've fought for, all that we've fought…I refuse to let myself believe that it was for nothing," he said. "I did not march to war with the full muster of the North just to crown another king with children's blood on his hands. So, yes, Queen Rhaella. I do believe that. I believe that there are better days ahead of us and that we will all live to see them. But if that doesn't suffice for you, then know this. Upon the grave of my father, I, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, do swear that whosoever should sit upon the Iron Throne when this Council is done, I will not let your family die."

    Rhaella had not wept in years. She had not allowed herself the luxury. Tears did nothing. Pleading did nothing. Women in her position learned, if they wished to survive, that their pain was currency, one that men either spent or ignored at their leisure.

    But she was not here for herself. She had long ceased to matter. It was for Aemon, for Viserys, for Daenerys that she would break herself if she had to.

    She lifted her head, eyes dark with something raw and terrible. "Oaths are not walls, Lord Stark. They cannot hold against the tide."

    Her hands clenched against the cold stone floor. "Do you think Stannis will stay his hand for your word? That his lords will forget their dead? Every child of my blood will be hunted for the rest of their days. You think I should be content with a promise that they will not be slaughtered now? What of five years from now? Ten? What mercy will they find then?"

    Her breath came quicker now, her desperation barely leashed. "I am not a fool, Lord Stark. I know the realm will not take Viserys as he is now. But if I am given time, he will learn. He is a child, not a monster. The realm has lived under dragons before. They can do so again."

    She forced herself to her feet, though she felt as though her body had aged a decade in this conversation alone. "But if that is not enough for you, if you cannot find it in yourself to risk your honor for my children's lives, then I will give you something you can trust. The North has no reason to bleed for House Targaryen, I know this. But it will have cause to if we are bound by more than oaths."

    "I will give you my daughter."

    "Aemon is of your blood. Daenerys is of mine. Betroth them, and let the realm see that our houses stand together. Let the realm know that the boy they would call a bastard is no such thing, that he will have a place, a future, a home where he is safe. With Stark and Targaryen bound, who will dare move against him?"

    She let that settle before she forced herself to the final price. The one that she knew, in the end, would make her no different than the women she had pitied once. Than the women who had nothing left but what men wished to take from them.

    Her hands trembled, but she did not stop. "And if that does not suffice, if your loyalty, your caution, your better judgment demands more, then take me. Use me. Give me to whoever you wish, if it will secure my family's future. I may be older now, but you know what I was, what I am. I was named Queen of Love and Beauty once. There are still men who would have me."

    "Tell me, Lord Stark. What more must I give? I will give it if you require it of me."

    "Your Majesty!" Lucerys was compelled to interject. This madness had to halt. "To offer your blood and yourself like pieces of choice meat brings dishonor to your House and yourself. Your King, your son, needs you more than..." Viserys caught himself, "more than a noble peer of the North. Such a betrothal of the Princess, or of your own, would require the input of His Majesty Viserys III. As his Hand and regent, I must ask you to stop this."

    He straightened himself and faced Ned. "As for you, Lord Stark, how far does your oath take you? Will you guarantee that you shall stand against any and all such plots that would deprive House Targaryen of their lives, will you support their right to Dragonstone and its holdings? Or will you merely offer exile, to join the North like the Manderlys did once?"

    "The Queen speaks truly of the King. He is young, but he shows an eagerness to learn and to live up to the duty of kingship. His presence has brought life back to Dragonstone, an island which harbored a deep grief amongst its populace since news reached us of Rhaegar's death, and has kept the spirits of the Royal Fleet up."

    He looked into the eyes of the Lord of the North. "I am his Hand and regent, and I find your answer lacking. Too many vultures fly over the realms, too much is at stake, for your answer to be satisfactory."

    Had Rhaella looked at Aerys this way? Pleading for mercy, yet expecting none? The thought sent a rare chill down Eddard's spine.

    "Marriages," he said slowly. "Fosterages. Ties of blood and guest right to hold back further violence. There may be a solution there—one founded in something more solid than words, one that does not require you to give up your body to some lecherous young lord. But it must also be one that faces reality. You cannot crown Viserys with the votes of only the Reach and Dorne—and if I were to add my voice to theirs, my vassals would cast me down for a traitor, and it would be as if this conversation never happened."

    Rhaella seized on his words like a drowning woman to driftwood.

    "You would not be a traitor, Lord Stark. You would be a brother honoring his sister's memory. A father ensuring that his children grow in a world where their kin are not hunted like dogs."

    She took a step closer, voice unwavering. "If your vassals are truly loyal to House Stark, then they will follow you as you act in the interests of your own blood. They will see that this is not about crowns or conquest but about a boy who carries both the blood of Winterfell and Valyria. A boy who bears your sister's eyes."

    She softened but the steel beneath her voice was still there. "You say the North will not abide Viserys as king. By legitimizing Aemon, we make him his heir. You know what the realm will say of him if we do nothing. They will call him a bastard, a pretender, a threat. But if we act first? If we shape the narrative before the realm turns against him? He will not be a threat to the throne, he will be the throne someday."

    She tilted her head, studying him. "Aemon is the only true bridge between this war's two sides. He is of the North, and of the dragon. Your lords are not blind. If they understand that standing by him is not betrayal but justice, the North will follow."

    "Please, Eddard..."
     
    The Tower and the Seahorse​

    The following letters were found amidst Lord Gerold Grafton's bags, following his arrest and execution by the Valemen.

    Dear Lord Grafton,

    Allow me to express my apologies to you and your House for the pain and tribulations that you underwent under the siege by the forces of your liege and his wards. I am heartened that your House survived the ordeals heaped throughout the years of war and house arrest. As the Lord of Driftmark, I would be willing to help you... escort any family members you may wish to come visit you in King's Landing for a stay upon the islands of the Blackwater Bay, where they could mingle with their fellow loyalists amongst the Royal Fleet before continuing on their way to join you to the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. If you wish, we still hold amongst our number a few lords and knights familiar with the workings of the customs of the city from during King Aerys II's reign. I'm sure they would be indispensable in helping your new staff learn the full breadth of their duties.

    If you have any requests to make that are in my power to pursue, feel free to inform me of such.

    In the hopes that this letter reaches you well and in good health,
    Lord Lucerys Velaryon of Driftmark,
    Hand of the King of His Majesty King Viserys III
    To Lord Velaryon,

    I welcome your generosity and grace in offering to protect my family members, but I must note that this also makes them hostages in the event of the war resuming. I am not entirely opposed to this course of action but I would prefer to be honest in what we are proposing.

    As for the other offer, I would gladly accept your lords and knights help in sorting out the customs of King's Landing. And should your knights... find themselves in a surfeit of silver, well, that's none of my business.

    I do not currently have any requests, but I will send a raven to you if I do.

    Lord Gerold Grafton of Gulltown
    Master of Customs of King's Landing
    To Lord Velaryon ,

    I must also note that Lord Arryn appears to pushing a spy or supplanter on me, one Lord Petyr Baelish. Supposedly the man comes highly recommended by Lord Arryn's lady wife, with a note that he is quite accomplished at coin. I barely know this Baelish, heir to an upjumped Braavosi line in the weakest and most miserable of the lands of the Vale. I suspect the Lord Protector distrusts me for my house's sympathies during the late war, and seeks to train up a successor as master of customs. I shall place Lord Baelish on the Dragon Gate, closest to your lands. With loyal Gulltown men and your own men, I will keep an eye on him and any nobles who go in and out of the city while the Great Council is ongoing.

    Should I find information useful to yourself, I shall pass it along, and should Lord Baelish prove as suspicious as I fear, I will contact you further on this issue.

    Lord Gerold Grafton of Gulltown
    Master of Customs of King's Landing
    To Lord Grafton,

    I wholeheartedly thank you for this information. It is disheartening that Lord Arryn would support an outsider with little experience in managing the urban conditions or complex trade interactions that King's Landing, and to a lesser extent Gulltown, continuously operate under. With the current truce across the Seven Kingdoms, trade is unlikely to be prevalent across the Crownlands. If you therefore seek to sideline him with a lack of responsibilities, I would suggest the Iron Gate instead, as it leads towards Duskendale and Rosby, loyalist strongholds. Should you seek to drown him in responsibilities to display his incompetence, saddling him with the River Gate, which also manages the connection to the harbour, would be an option. As the direct link not just to the Blackwater Rush but also the fastest road to the Stormlands, its mismanagement would have serious repercussions for the one in charge of its operations.

    Naturally, the decisions rests with you, and I wish you the best. May your loyal and dutiful service be rewarded rather than spurned.

    Lord Lucerys Velaryon of Driftmark,
    Hand of the King of His Majesty King Viserys III
    To Lord Velaryon,

    The Lannister Master of Coin and the Lord Protector have both noticed our moves amongst the customs officers and the resulting "mistreatment" of Lannister men. Lord Kevan demands my resignation, even. The arrogant lion surely wishes to put his own corrupt men into power at the gates. I would ask for your advice on how to proceed, for defying great houses has gone poorly for House Grafton in the past. Perhaps we could throw Lord Baelish to the metaphorical lions for the purpose of alleviating suspicion?

    Lord Gerold Grafton of Gulltown
    Master of Customs of King's Landing (for now)
    Dear Lord Grafton,

    The Lannisters claim foul play when there is none, merely a lack of toadying and bending to all their whims. Surely they did not believe that the management of a city the scale of King's Landing, the most populous city across the Seven Kingdoms, would be an easy affair? Were they not aware of its tolling regulations, gate curfews, and fines for late entrances? Surely the fault wouldn't lie upon the laymen for upholding the municipal laws clearly written out. The Westerlands men-at-arms and levies have denied being part of the Goldcloaks, and have similarly refused to declare themselves as being the garrison of King's Landing. As a result they are questioned for openly carrying weapons and wearing armour in the streets. They are also fined for repeatedly refusing to pay the gate tolls, and furthermore claim a fictious exemption on tariffs for passing their goods across the gates. They are also subject to fines for breaking curfew and entering areas that are restricted to laymen of the city court and guards of the Goldcloaks.

    Should Lord Kevan Lannister wish to not systematically receive dozens of complaints from the offices of King's Landing, I would suggest that he actually pay attention to his supposed position as Master of Coin and understand that laws, not might, is the deciding factor in how this city is organised. As long as his forces do not comply with regulations they will continue to be questioned by the legal authorities of the city.

    I recommend you bring these issues to Lord Arryn. For as long as the Lannisters behave as an occupying force they will be subject to the same laws that treat the nobles and freemen of the realm, rather than those affecting the Goldcloaks and the garrison of the city.

    In the hopes that this information may assuage your worries and deter the predations of vipers,
    Lord Lucerys Velaryon of Driftmark,
    Hand of the King of His Majesty King Viserys III
    Dear Lord Velaryon,

    Is there any further cooperation you desire between your cause and my house? I believe I have settled the matter of the Lannisters chomping at the bit to remove me, and I find myself desirous to make my mark further. I may or may not be capable of achieving some goals, but I wanted to ask my erstwhile ally, of course.

    Lord Gerold Grafton
    Master of Customs of King's Landing
    Dear Lord Grafton,

    I am reorganising the trade around the Crownlands, and was hoping to count on your support. I am seeking to temporarily shift it away from from the land routes that overwhelming emphasise King's Landing, making it a lynchpin of the economic activity of the the Blackwater coast, and instead refocusing it by way of naval trade. The River Gate, and the river markets near it, would therefore likely see an increase in activity.

    I will warn you that this may cause a disruption of trade for King's Landing, as I seek to deprive the occupying Westermen and the rebel officers from drawing undue wealth over their control over its tolls. But we welcome your participation into this burgeoning network, which is already planned to also link Gulltown with the rest of the Crownlands. As long as your merchant vessels fly a Targaryen pendant, they shall be under the protection of the Royal Navy.

    In the hopes that this letter finds you in good health and in honour of our growing cooperation,
    Lord Lucerys Velaryon of Driftmark,
    Hand of the King of His Majesty King Viserys III
    To Lord Velaryon,

    I assume we are agreed that this Sevens-damned pirate lord needs to die? I am willing to help pay for a fleet to punish this cur, though I would prefer to get the support of the Redwynes and Manderlys, as they have the largest remaining fleet in Westeros as far as I am aware. I also wish to investigate whether this Urrathon Nightwalker had the support of any Westerosi lords: his name sounds Ironborn after all.

    For now, Gulltown remains untouched and I am willing to waive fees on any vessel that still bears the Velaryon arms. Our agreement remains and I hope to rebuild from this atrocious disaster.

    In hopes that you and your house remain in good health and safety amidst these perilous times,
    Lord Gerold Grafton,
    Master of Customs of King's Landing
    Dear Lord Grafton,

    I appreciate your offer of support in paying for the upkeep of the Royal Navy. With this "Nightwalker" rallying the pirates of the Narrow Sea and having sufficient funds to hire sellsails to do his bidding implies that this outlaw has somebody backing him. While my initial guess would be from amongst the Essosi Free Cities, the possibility remains that one amongst the Seven Kingdoms would break the King's, or in this case the Lord Protector's, Peace under the guise of striking at the loyalists of the Crownlands.

    The Royal Navy will rebuild and strike back, sending these pirates to the bottom of the seas. This mission is even more critical with the disappearance of the outlaw Gregor Clegane. The pirates may have tarnished the image of the Royal Navy, but to allow the murderer of Princess Elia and her children to escape is a blow against my honour.

    While no ships encountered bore the signs of them being of Ironborn make, I will refrain from calling upon the Redwyne fleet, but I will bring up the situation with Lords Stark and Manderly. Hopefully they would be able to bring the fleet around the Vale so that the Royal Navy could focus its efforts on fighting the pirate menace and uproot whatever hellhole Clegane escaped to.

    I remain thankful for your support, and in the hopes you and your house remain in the grace of the Seven that are One,
    Lord Lucerys Velaryon of Driftmark,
    Hand of the King of His Majesty King Viserys III
    Lord Velaryon,

    My liege lord Arryn is of two minds on the reparations issue, and wishes me to contact royalist houses about it, as he sees the opportunity to check the power of House Lannister using this issue. He would like royalist houses to help contribute to rebuilding the realm in return for some kind of concessions. He has not explained what the said concessions would be, so I cannot promise any particular one, but perhaps this could provide room for further negotiations on the matter. I also noted that Driftmark and Dragonstone have so recently been struck by the pirate lord, but perhaps they can be rebuilt as well, as part of any deal made. Additionally, I know that he is already contacting Lord Manderly on the matter of crushing the pirates.

    Lord Gerold Grafton
    To Lord Grafton,

    With the disappearance of Ser Jaime Lannister within King's Landing, I would like to ask you and your honourable sers to try and keep a firm eye on the gates reinforce customs checks. It is unlikely that Ser Jaime will remain within King's Landing, and it is my hope that he has not yet left the city. Hopefully I am merely paranoid, but should anyone be found seeking to smuggle the Kingslayer out of the city, I would like for you to bring this up directly to Lord Arryn and the Great Council.

    This breach of the resolution of the lords of the realm is an insult to the entire proceedings and displays a blatant disregard for the processes and agreements we seek to establish at Harrenhal.

    In the hopes this letter finds you in good health, and in the hopes that the purge of the Alchemists' Guild left you unharmed,
    Lord Lucerys Velaryon of Driftmark,
    Hand of the King of His Majesty King Viserys III
    Dear Lord Velayron,

    A thought occurs to me in the midst of this talk of war. My fellow Vale House, House Corbray of Heart's Home, has suffered greatly in their service to the Baratheons and Arryns. Lyn Corbray himself fought alongside my father to protect Gulltown from the rebels, and Ser Lyn's father was wounded (possibly died?) upon the Trident after switching sides from royalist to rebel. And we all know Lyn Corbray's death at the hands of Arthur Dayne. House Corbray has suffered for the rebels, and for what?

    It might be worth contacting Lyn's brother Lord Lyonel, and seeing if his cloak may return to the royalist fold.

    Additionally, Lord Baelish has gone missing. While his home upon the Fingers is no great prize, he is the last of his house, as far as I'm aware. And he may have perished in the regime of Lord Arryn's, a result of Lannister mismanagement and Dayne's coup. Perhaps another crime to lay at the feet of Aemonists and Arryn.

    Finally, I know little of the Sistermen upon the Three Sisters, save that they have a reputation for wrecking ships and a history of dissension against House Arryn, and historical grievances against House Stark for that matter. There might be an angle there we could exploit to divide them and the Vale against the Lord Protector when the time comes.

    In hopes that you and your house remain in good health and safety amidst these perilous times,
    Lord Gerold Grafton,
    Lord of Gulltown, and perhaps more.
    Dear Lord Grafton,

    I hear your concerns and will broach the subject with the rest of the loyalist council. Ravens will be sent to Heart's Home and the Three Sisters, amongst others. Our cause is true and just, there is no reason for the sons and daughters of the Vale to die and suffer for the stillborn ambitions of the Baratheons. The price of blood has been paid, and while it is my fervent desire that Lord Arryn see reason, we will fight if they seek to pursue this deluded course of action.

    Lord Baelish, however, will be more tricky to find. I will send a raven to his tower in the Fingers, informing his household that we shall inform them of his status as soon as we can. I had heard from my men manning the tolls that while he was quite arrogant, he was equally capable. His loss, and the extinction of his House, leaves the Vale lesser for it.

    Should you desire it, the Royal Fleet could ferry men across and reinforce Gulltown. Your town already fell once to the depredations of rebels, we could prevent a repeat occurrence. Similarly, we could help you relocate family members and household members to a safer port of call should you desire it.

    In the hopes that your house stand as tall and proud as your sigil,
    Lord Lucerys Velaryon of Driftmark,
    Hand of the King of His Majesty King Viserys III
     
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    hey look at this shit it was so slick

    Ser Ryon Allyrion is, Lady Ashara has no doubt, a fine swordsman, and an honourable man. It is no real fault of his that all swordsmen are matched to the Sword of Morning in her eye, and that there is not a man alive who can overcome him in skill nor honour. This is some lesser man, and if she were not quarrelling with her brother, she would dismiss him, and send for Ser Arthur. Alas that she is.

    He knocks well enough at the door to Lord Tywin's chambers, at least, and exchanges fine glares with the guard at the Lord's door, she cannot begrudge him this.

    "My Lord," Ashara says, "Shall we dine? We have matters of import to discuss."

    "They are my guests, Ser Burton." A voice rings from inside the chamber. Calm. Dignified. "I was expecting them, and you would do well in letting them come inside."

    The Crakehall guard is quick to comply, as those of his House often are when commanded by the Lord of Casterly Rock.

    Lady Ashara and her sworn shield are welcomed by the view of a dining table with Tywin Lannister at its head. Too much food for two or even three people, but the Lannisters were never known for being miserly with their coin.

    "Lady Dayne, Ser." Tywin gestures for the pair to take seats "As you said, we have business to discuss. And I am most eager to find what the Queen Dowager and the Prince of Dorne would ask of me."

    Ser Ryon stands at the door, making no move to sit. He stops just short of setting a hand upon the hilt of his sword.

    "Lord Tywin," She begins, "There are few enough places on which my Prince and the Queen Dowager are in agreement, but the most prominent - besides that they both wish for negotiations such as this to occur at a remove, and thus have vested the authority in myself - is their opposition to the boy Aemon Sand. The Queen believes that the power of Lord Tyrell will force the matter of loyalist votes, and my Prince is... less concerned for who sits the Iron Throne than perhaps he shows publically. But they both fear that with loyalist votes tallied, the boy with Stark and the Kingsguard at his back might supplant the Prince Viserys. And this would dishonour my Princess Elia's memory."

    She takes a bread roll, cutting it open and beginning to spread it with butter, eyes downcast.

    "There is little that either can offer to any other lord loyal to the lost, lamented King Robert, you understand - Stark supports the bastard, Tully supports Stark... But if the Lord Lannister were to push for the boy's claims to be dismissed as a bastard, with Dornish support - to say the least of the Stormlands and Crownlands both - does my Lord see what it is they have me ask of you?"

    She looks up with luminous violet eyes, awaiting a response. A beginning to negotiations.

    Tywin took Lady Dayne's words with interest. It offered insight, albeit not a full view, of the inner workings of the royalist faction. Valuable knowledge, given the general contempt that bunch seemed to hold for his house.

    "I would be glad to cooperate with Prince Doran and the Queen Dowager in the issue of Aemon Sand when the matter of his rights to the Throne is brought before this Great Council." He took a slight sip of his wine to hide his lips curling in distaste at the thought of that inconvenience seated upon the Iron Throne. "At least in what regards said rights."

    The bastard's presence brought a certain uncertainty to the election that Tywin did not appreciate one bit. The waters becoming muddled would not be to the benefit of Casterly Rock.

    "In the matter of Sand, I would ask what are the opinions of your patrons, the Prince and the Queen alike, on the boy's fate. I presume Rhaella intends to bestow him some lands and a middling income, so the boy may make a living for himself?"

    "The Queen would like as not give the boy some holdfast on Dragonstone," Ashara says, "My Prince would let the boy live at the Water Gardens were it his decision, but inherit no lands. A bastard can rise to a place of honour in Dorne - Ser Ryon's natural son is fostered at the Water Gardens, and like to become a knight in time - but a bastard of Royal Blood must be kept far from court, lest anyone see him and think of the Black Dragon. It pleases me, as it will no doubt please them, that you stand open to cooperation. We do, however, need to speak of the matter of the Red Keep. An ugly business."

    "If the matter of Sand's living arrangements is brought before the Council, then your Prince would have my support." Because no man or woman of Dorne would ever hail Sand as their King and Dragonstone would thus safely pass to Cersei's children. "And indeed, we need."

    Surprising that it has taken this long. Tywin thought.,

    "The death of Princess Elia and her children were an unfortunate happenstance of the war." Tywin said lightly, as if talking about a change in the weather. "Controlling armies after a siege is a difficult affair, and even I was unable to reign in the soldiery. I would be more than willing to hold an investigation and handle the culprits of that particular crime to the Prince's mercy if he so wishes."

    "The deaths of the Princess Elia and her children were not the only deaths in the Red Keep," Ashara says mildly, "I do not weep for King Aerys; I lived in the Red Keep for a time with my Princess, I know well the sort of man he was, and cannot condemn Ser Jaime for choosing his family over his King. I do, however, believe this choice must hold. He chose his family over his King, and neglected to defend the royal children. As we have also cause to show the Kingsguard that their order is not sacrosanct, the Queen Dowager wishes to have Ser Jaime expelled from the Kingsguard, to have his white cloak stricken from his back."

    She pauses. Takes a deep breath.

    "But this is not all - no deal can be made without the execution of the murderers of the Princess and her children, the knights Clegane and Lorch, for-"

    There is a knocking at the door.

    THIS IS WHEN I POISONED HIM

    "That will be Wylla now; I had her sifting my letters for an example, to illustrate my point. May she enter?"

    "She may." Tywin said.

    The servant who enters is a heavyset woman in her mid-twenties, and she passes Ashara a letter, written in a careful, deliberate hand.

    "A knight in service to House Frey had this written for me by his sister, a septa up from Oldtown," Ashara says, "If I may read it-"

    Lady Dayne you are a beauty beyond compare,
    Of every woman in Westeros there is none so fair,
    Lord Lannister's daughter is not half so pretty,
    And of Hightower's daughter they say - at least she's witty.
    I am moved by your tale of pain,
    The Dornish Princess, killed by Clegane,
    And her children so sweet and free,
    Murdered by wretched Amory.
    If I could bring you his head,
    Then perhaps we might be wed?


    "The poetry is truly workmanlike, but I hope you see my position; we cannot be seen to align ourselves with the master of such butchers. It would dishonour her memory too gravely. We have our honour in Dorne. Have them clapped in irons and sent to my Prince to face Dornish justice, and then we can mayhaps cooperate?"

    "I understand your position and that of Prince Doran. Nonetheless, Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch are my bannermen and are owed a fair trial as any noble can have. It would do poorly before mine own vassals if I handled them without fair cause."

    "You best bring this matter before the Lord Protector. If they are judged guilty, I'd be glad to consign them to Dorne's justice."

    "Until Clegane and Lorch are in chains," Ashara says, "We cannot commit to anything with Ser Jaime. There are those within the royalist camp who would see him executed for his crimes, and I should imagine the same is within the rebellion - Lord Stannis is reputedly a hard man. I leave you to think on it, my Lord of Lannister."

    "I will consider it, Lady Dayne," Tywin said. "Give Prince Doran and Rhaella my well wishes for their civility in coming to me for these negotiations."

    Ashara Dayne nods in acknowledgement before departing.
     
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