Book 2: Blood Boils

UNEXPECTED new part! Seriously, I did not see this coming, but just seeing the Invasion section updated gave me literal chills. Also, I kinda forgot that House Martell is also an Andal house, but thinking back, and given that it's been a while I might be wrong there, I believe Morgan actually appeared or was mentioned before, yes? In any way, a nice start for an intriguing Dorne storyline, I'm looking forward for more of this and more Invasion in general.

Chapter 1: Greenblood Redblood


    The Bastard of Brownhill had never enjoyed his time at his father’s home. His eldest half-brother, Edgar, focused on becoming king, and his other half-brother, Ethan, tormented him to the point where Jaremy found fists with him on multiple occasions – their last being a sour day in Brownhill. There was only one thing in this shithole that Jaremy appreciated, his beautiful half-sister Elise, of who the two had shared a secret relationship in their younger years. When Jaremy was exiled, however, that had put distance between them, and the woman he had come back for had not waited for him.

    Why am I still here? That question irked the Bastard of Brownhill every morning as he climbed up from his straw bed in his small chambers across the other end of the keep from the rest of the Brownhill’s. He was unwelcomed and unwanted, save by Edgar and a few notable others, and equally didn’t care to stay now that Elise was torn from him. Yet he remained… Was it being in the home of his late father that had grounded him? Or Edgar’s faith in him becoming a better man? Perhaps he just wanted to prove himself worthy to a lost cause… to Elise. Whatever the reason was, and gods knew more than Jaremy, the Bastard of Brownhill had stubbornly stayed when all wanted him gone. A fiery determination fueled him, but his motives unsure.

    Since that first day in the sparring yards, when that little twat, Abrey, had critiqued his fighting form – or lack thereof it – he had found himself in the courtyard every morning. He had tediously been studying her book she had dropped, Single Combat Forms of Andalos, and tested them on the straw dummies. While no master, Jaremy was familiar with the sword, and quickly adapted to these new techniques. His determination in the yard had also gathered the attention of some of the men training there, leading at first to some bullying that left other men worser off than Jaremy, and then progressing to Jaremy having live partners to spar with. Whatever was the case, Jaremy seemed to be making friends, whether he cared for it or not, and as the days turned to weeks, he felt a little more certain of his footing here – whether he was unwanted or not.

    When he wasn’t in the courtyard, Edgar managed to find other duties for him – from helping in the kitchens and fishing along the Greenblood with the kids to aiding his villages from common squabbles. Abrey, Edgar’s daughter, had proved to be a thorn in Jaremy’s side than never seemed to leave him. While initially he had viewed this runt as a pest, he had started to grow fond of her, and in turn shared some common ground with his king brother. On this day, Jaremy found himself building a small cart for the princess to carry more books with her, an unusual sight for one more accustomed to breaking things. Abrey sat beside him as he worked, her eyes half engaged with her book, The Starfire and Firebrand – Sacking of Oldtown, and half studying of Jaremy’s work.

    “If you build it that small, I might as well just carry the books,” she quipped with a cheeky smirk from behind her book, quickly hiding behind it when Jaremy turned his glare on her. Gods knew why he found himself sharing so much time with this little brat, let alone making things for her.

    “If you’re going to complain, you can build it yourself,” he grumbled, to which the girl shook her head politely with a smug look on her face.

    “I’m not complaining.”

    “What in the hells are you reading now, anyway?” Jaremy didn’t really care, if anything he would no doubt regret asking, but at least it would keep the little shit from nitpicking his work.

    Abrey twisted her face as she closed the book, glancing at the cover and then flashing it at him, something Jaremy paid no attention to. “It’s the history of two Dornish kings who plundered and massacred on the Reach. King Samwell Dayne, the Starfire, and King Barragan Blackmont, the Firebrand.”

    “And why does a little girl care for history books on kings with shitty names?” Jaremy muttered, making the child scowl.

    “She doesn’t have big enough arms to carry the books to her room she actually wants to read, and her uncle thinks making a cart for dolls will fix that,” she remarked tongue-in-cheek, a response that honestly caught Jaremy off-guard. That lapse in attention cause him to completely miss the head of the nail, hammering his thumb, and letting out a roar of exasperation.

    “Right, come here!” he shouted, half playfully, though it wouldn’t have been hard to misinterpret his intent. Abrey squealed with a frightful smile, tossing her book at him, and sprinting off. Jaremy stretched his arms out and ran after her and pursued half-heartedly until he found his trail blocked.

    “Jaremy,” the voice greeted sternly, and Jaremy’s eyes lifted onto his brother, King Edgar. The king’s usual warm green eyes stared at his half-brother with obvious disapproval, something which immediately lifted the bastard’s guard again. Jaremy stood himself upright, standing a couple of inches taller than his brother.

    “Your Grace.”

    “A word in private, if you have the time.” It was a hollow request. Jaremy was rebellious by nature, but he knew if a king asked something of you, it wasn’t something you addressed in your ‘own time.’

    Jaremy bowed distastefully, beckoning for his brother to lead on. Edgar wore a cobalt undertunic with a brown vest and deep blue mantle that covered his shoulders. In his status, it would be remiss for Edgar to gallivant around his kingdom without his silver circlet, though in the confines of his keep’s courtyard, he had dismissed it. Alas he still fit the bill, unlike Jaremy, who wore a sleeveless leather torso and cotton breaches. When satisfied, Edgar turned to him.

    “It’s been close to a month since you arrived here, Jaremy. Many are surprised you’re still here, I for one am gladdened you have chosen to remain,” Edgar stated, to which Jaremy rolled his eyes. Forever the diplomat. Edgar paid little attention to Jaremy’s response. “Do you recall the night we talked of your place here in Brownhill?” he then asked, and Jaremy stared at his brother coldly. How could he forget? It had followed shortly after he had threatened his whole family with violence at the revelation of Elise having been married off to Edgar’s general – Harrin Wern – happily wedded and with one child.

    “What of it?” Jaremy muttered impatiently.

    “I expressed we need to start forging alliances with the other kingdoms on the Greenblood if we are to stand any chance at repelling an invasion by sea. Have you put any thought into how you will aid us in this?”

    Jaremy crossed his arms. “Aye, I’ve got years of true hardened battle experience. I’ll lead your men into the fight when the Andal’s come,” he stated firmly, and not unexpectedly, Edgar frowned at this idea.

    “Jaremy… You know I have a general already.”

    Jaremy scoffed. “The one with a head of receding pubic hair who’s fucking my sister? I think we’ve met,” Jaremy muttered sarcastically. Edgar took no amusement of his jape.

    “The two of you need to shelve this petty rivalry, Jaremy. For Elise’s sake.”

    “I’ll pass.”

    “No, you won’t,” Edgar said firmly, making Jaremy raise an eyebrow. “I’m sending the two of you on a peacekeeping mission to Wade’s Fast to reinforce my Queen Mother’s family against the Shell’s quarrels. Horvis Shell has forced the Hull’s and Briar’s out of their homes, it won’t be long before he crosses the river and tries for Kevan’s land, and then ours. You and Harrin will put an end to it,” Edgar decreed, and Jaremy’s cheeks reddened.

    “Like hell I will,” he challenged, and Edgar nodded.

    “Like hell you will.”

Warmond

    Prince Ulf Hightower manned the helm on the great galley that had sailed them from Hightower to the mouth of the Torrentine. When Warmond and his sweet wife, Dia, had set from the Flooded Citadel in the Kingdom of the Mander for the Kingdom of the Torrentine, Warmond had intended to make that travel by foot – or by horseback, more likely. This plan changed when his young uncle, Wendel, Lord of Northmander, Marshall of Northmarch and their unfortunate escort, had insisted both he and his wife appreciate the hospitality of Oldtown before venturing on. No doubt a cruel jape, knowing of the Hightower’s long ancient rivalry with the kingdoms of Dorne. Naturally, King Uilliam Hightower had refused in any means to allow the crown prince of the Mander Kingdom to traverse through the treacherous sands of Dorne on foot.

    Warmond cast his gaze on Prince Ulf, the ever-so-slightly younger brother of the late King Uilliam, who had served as his brother’s fleet general since Uilliam took on the mantle of king. Ulf was a dutiful and loyal man, and Warmond and corresponded with him on numerous occasions, but Warmond confessed that if he had wished to travel to Dorne by boat, he would have taken his own fleet. Alas, he would not spit in the face of hospitality, and with the Hightower’s as faithful vassals to the overarching Kingdom of the Mander and the Seas, Warmond was simply grateful for Uilliam’s insistence on their protection.

    Warmond glanced across to his sweet wife, Princess Dia Manderly, originally of House Dayne. It was because of her that they ventured to Dorne, to reunite with family she had not seen in some time. With much to do in their own kingdom, it was uncommon for a crown prince to bend backwards for the demands of his lady wife, but their marriage was unlike that of most noble lords and princes. Warmond had met Dia some two decades ago at a nameday on Redwyne, and from the moment he laid eyes on her he was in love, a feeling he was quickly surprised to learn she shared. He had fought tooth and nail with his grandfather, King Waldemar, to agree to a marriage between them, as there was no political advantage to marry them, and the distance was great should either call on another in a time of need. Still, Warmond had prevailed, and in honour of Waldemar’s generosity, they had named their first son after him. Their second son, Willow, resided in Starfall with the rest of Dia’s family.

    Even in her fifties, Dia was graced with a beauty few women possessed in their prime years. Her skin was still smooth and tanned, her hair the same flow of silver it had been when they first set eyes on each other, and those eyes… Like amethysts glinting in the sunlight. Her beauty often put the other fair maids of the Flooded Citadel to shame, but despite her splendor, she was quite modest and openly kind and accepting of others. She was truly a pearl he often couldn’t fathom he possessed; and did much to praise her and their marriage as a result. Thus, here they stood, at the prow of Ulf’s ship staring at the tall palestone towers of Starfall.

    Seeing the lilac banners flapping off the walls of Starfall was a refreshing sight for Warmond. It had been some time since he had last visited here. Though from the prow of a ship flying the Hightower flag, Warmond anticipated the discomfort amongst the crew and the guards overhead watching their ship sail in. Bad blood ran between these two families, and the mutual alliance between the Kingdom of the Mander was likely the only thing stopping the Dayne’s from raining arrows on them at first sight.

    In the next hour, their ship would tie alongside the pier and be met by another crown prince – that of Donnel Dayne, the heir to King Andrey Dayne and nephew of Warmond’s wife, Dia. Donnel was a stern and humourless man, and though only in his mid-thirties, Warmond competed to acknowledge who was older between he and his aunt. His lilac eyes were tired, his square jaw tense and his weight had begun to outgrow him since Warmond had last seen him. Alas, he still presented well in the colours of his house and with short and tidy silver hair. He immediately grasped Warmond’s hand as they stepped off the galley.

    “Prince Warmond, it’s my honour to welcome you to Starfall. It’s been too long,” he greeted, and Warmond clasped his hand over the top of Donnel’s with a short smile.

    “Too long, indeed. Let us break bread and reunite.” Donnel nodded as he released Warmond of his grip and greeted his aunt with an embrace. Warmond turned his gaze back on Ulf Hightower, who only watched all this commotion from the safety of his ship. Ulf was no fool, he would keep a distance and do his best not to stir up any trouble in the duration of their stay, something Warmond was grateful for.

    More so, however, Warmond’s eye fell upon a familiar set of turquoise eyes. Willow took much after his mother, inheriting her platinum silver hair over his naturally strawberry blonde, and Warmond gleaned his good looks also came from his mother’s side, but Willow’s Manderly blood showed true through his turquoise eyes. The two held a still locked gaze for a moment before Willow dropped his things and sprinted towards them, leaping into his father’s arms like he was a young boy and not the man of seventeen years he truly was. Warmond too underestimated his own age, feeling something click in his back as he embraced his youngest boy.

    “Willow!” Dia greeted with a warm, loving voice, as she parted from her nephew and joined their merry hug.

    “I didn’t expect you for another week,” their son expressed with pleasant surprise. It was true, the Hightower’s insistence to chauffer them by ship had accelerated them past their schedule, and consequently it would mean they would miss seeing certain family members they intended to see. Like granduncle Wylis at High Hermitage. Warmond pushed the frustration out of his mind as he appreciated the moment he was in now. Moments like these never lasted.

-

    Starfall’s great hall was a magnificent feat of architecture, with great pearly columns and hanging lilac tapestries that displayed the white sword and comet of House Dayne. There was much for Warmond to admire from his seating at the end of the royal table, but instead his gaze was focused directly ahead on his brother-in-law – King Andrey Dayne. His Grace was a slim man dressed in the finest silks and velvets, styled in the colours of his house, and sporting a golden crown. A year Warmond’s senior, Andrey’s hair was more gray than silver now, but still well groomed, with a full beard and a head of medium-length hair that was neatly swept back. His lilac eyes relaxed but observant and his expression calm and open, Andrey had remained near silent as Dia had talked most of the evening, save for a few nods and short open-ended questions.

    When Warmond and Dia had married, their father, King Gerald, had been overjoyed with the match and done much to strengthen relations between the two families – specifically giving up their castle of High Hermitage to King Waldemar, who bestowed it onto his only brother, Wylis. Andrey, on the other hand, had shared less fruits with the Kingdom of the Mander than his late father. While he had offered his sister an opportunity for one of her sons to sire under the Sword of the Evening – an opportunity Willow had snatched in a heartbeat – he had not shown any interest in warding any of his family with the Manderly’s and had largely focused on his own kingdom. This had hardly bothered Warmond, though as he sat at the King’s table, he couldn’t help feeling Andrey’s hospitality was given by duty rather than love for family. Warmond sensed this was also the case for his lady wife, Queen Janna, who sat by his side.

    Also sharing the table was Andrey’s youngest son, Aron Dayne – the Sword of the Evening, and Warmond’s son, Willow. The last remaining face Warmond did not recognise, however. While it was clear that he was a Dayne, given his silver hair and lilac eyes, this young body who sat directly adjacent to Andrey was unknown to Warmond, a dilemma the Iron Merman would quickly rectify.

    “Andrey,” Warmond lifted his goblet for a sip of the Arbor red that his host had provided. The King turned his attention down the table, and if he was disturbed by the lacking title that Warmond omitted, he did a good job of not showing it. “You haven’t introduced me to the young man by your side,” Warmond stated, and Andrey turned his gaze on the young prince adjacent to him before lowering his eyes in apology.

    “Of course, this is Vyron, my grandson. He is Donnel’s eldest,” Andrey introduced, and the boy blushed.

    “Hello,” Vyron greeted shyly, and Warmond raised a glass to him with a short smile before turning his gaze back at the king.

    “I’m surprised not to see Donnel here also? Or his lady wife?” Warmond added, and Janna’s expression noticeably depressed with guilt. Andrey kept a calm presence.

    “Donnel seldom dines at the royal table, and Lady Laenah cares for her children separately,” Andrey explained, and as Warmond glanced at Vyron, he recognised a similar relation between he and Andrey that was shared between Warmond and his grandfather. Vyron is to be his heir, Warmond realised, though the reasoning for this was beyond Warmond’s knowledge. Andrey was quick to change the subject.

    “How fares the late King Waldemar and your extensive family?”

    “My grandfather is well, my uncle Wyman marches with a host to the Fingers to aid against the Andal invasion, and the rest of my young uncles and aunts fare as well as can be expected.” Willow’s eyes lifted to the news of his granduncle. He had always looked up to Wyman, and should he not have ended up under Aron’s tutelage, he likely would have served under Wyman. Andrey revealed a small frown.

    “A noble act. Concerns of the Andal’s reaching Dorne is starting to circulate around the Western Kingdoms. King Hector Blackmont has been active in preparing for their arrival.” Warmond had heard of King Hector, specifically in regard to his hatred for the Manwoody’s and the unlikely friendship he shared with House Caron as a result of this mutual disdain.

    “A path we would be wise to follow,” Aron added, and while his view was not openly challenged, a subtle but firm stare from Andrey reserved Aron’s stance. Warmond spotted this awkward tension as a good area to intervene.

    “Aron, I am curious to hear how my son is travelling under the mentorship of the Sword in the Evening.” Willow grinned as he glanced between his father and Aron, and while Aron was determined to maintain a solemn composure, his pride in Willow leaked out through a small smile.

    “I believe with a few more years of training your son will be the finest swordsman in Dorne – once I’m gone, that is,” Aron stated confidently, making Willow smirk.

    “Still working on that one,” he quipped. Unchecked ego only makes for arrogance.

    “I trust you’re also teaching the boy some humility,” Warmond urged, and Aron nodded shortly. Willow’s smile dialed back.

    “Prince Warmond,” Andrey’s voice called, and Warmond’s eyes shifted across to the King, who lifted from his chair. “Night is rapidly approaching, and I am hoping to get a walk in my gardens before sunset. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?”

    Warmond tried to read his brother-in-law’s intent through his cold purple eyes, but they were as revealing as fog on the early Mander. The Iron Merman turned his eyes onto his wife, who nodded in approval before turning her attention to Andrey’s wife. Warmond gave the man a nod, lifting himself from the table and nodding to its occupants. He kept a lingering eye on Vyron for a moment before following Andrey out of the hall.

-

    The gardens of Dorne, while not a patch on those of the Flooded Citadel or Highgarden, were an unusual slice of magnificence in a country of little but sand. Warmond’s nostrils were overburdened with the scent of lavender, and there was a notable theme of violet scattered amongst the white roses: alliums, catmints, lilac, and hundreds more. Tall green hedges barricaded the gardens off from the rest of Starfall, and at its centre was a calm pond dressed in lily pads, which fueled the life of a weeping willow standing beside it.

    Warmond gazed into the gentle waters, observing his shimmering reflection. Like the Dayne’s, the Manderly’s shared traits that greatly distanced them from the First Men of Westeros. Their history told that they were descendants of Mermen, who had swum from the west and settled at the Mander, interbreeding with the First Men until they became more bound to land than sea. The Manderly’s greatly respected their culture, and signifying of that, Warmond’s head and facial hair were dyed a dark green in acknowledgement of the Mermen before them. For a moment, he wondered if his eyes had deceived him, and he was indeed staring into the face of a Merman beneath the pond. Though that was only a moment.

    “Aron is right to be concerned of potential Andal threat,” Andrey finally acknowledged, and Warmond’s gaze shifted from the water. There was a concerned look on the king’s eye, as he too stared into the waters before them. “The division of Dorne will be its downfall when they do arrive. Hector is noble in trying to forge alliances for the day that happens, but I have lived long enough to know that diplomacy only extends as far as the satisfaction of greed and desire. We will have to unify another way.” Andrey turned his gaze onto Warmond, and the Iron Merman questioned what the king’s intent was.

    “I can speak to my grandfather of supplying you with more iron for your warriors, and some ships from our Western Fleet,” Warmond suggested, and while humbled, Andrey shook his head with a warm smile.

    “Your love for my sister is a treasure I greatly undervalued, Warmond. My brother, Alester, has suffered greatly at the hands of misspent love. I am appreciative that Dia did not encounter the same.” Andrey flashed Warmond a warm smile, which the crown prince nodded to in response. “Though this alliance was never politically beneficial. Prince Wylis’ council to my father was valued, and his position at High Hermitage heavily respected, but I do not intend to call upon you when Andal ships arrive at the Torrentine. What I need already resides here in Dorne,” Andrey stated, lifting his eyes onto the willow tree. Warmond was able to piece together where Andrey was going with this.

    “You intend to unify Dorne through conquest?”

    There was a hard look in Andrey’s lilac eyes, and for a moment he remained still, until nodding his head. “In the east, along the Greenblood, there are a dozen independent kingdoms that quarrel with one another over petty matters. Without unity, they will be destroyed. In the north, the Kingdom of Yronwood is ruled by a senile man who thirsts for vengeance on the Stormlands, his family is large and divided, and when his time comes, the appointment of an heir will likely result in a civil war. Directly east, the Kingdom of the Brimstone is weakly ruled by Queen Carmella Holt, her royal husband went ‘missing’ and as so there are those who would look to usurp her.

    “Weakness pollutes Dorne like a disease, and the Andal’s will have no trouble sweeping up the remaining pieces to stake their claim. If I do not act, my negligence will be the downfall of this kingdom.”

    Warmond frowned as he crossed his arms. “Yet if you declare war on all of Dorne, you will secure that fate before the Andal’s ever arrive.” Andrey nodded.

    “An open conquest would be madness,” he agreed, “and if I can avoid bloodshed, we will stand a stronger chance in the days to come. Like others, I see opportunity to seize at Brimholt. I would send my brother there for proposal of an alliance through marriage, yet I do not feel Alester is up to the task. He lacks confidence and direction, and he has grown quite attached at High Hermitage,” Andrey sighed.

    “Distanced conversation between Dia and Alester has informed me that he is quite inspired by my granduncle Wylis. Perhaps there is opportunity there, he has a strong militaristic background and can direct Alester in whatever fashion you require,” Warmond suggested, and Andrey nodded but still held an expression of uncertainty.

    “Were it so easy. Wylis is not of my kingdom, but rather an emissary of yours, thus I cannot order him to go with Alester, and your grandfather’s terms were quite clear. A Manderly must hold High Hermitage.”

    “So, send Willow there instead. Let Aron continue training the boy there, it will satisfy Waldemar’s demands and enable Wylis to depart with Alester. I will speak of this with Wylis myself,” Warmond said with an iron determination, and he received a look of appreciation from Andrey.

    “It’s a good plan. I would have them station at Clearhaven, it’s a trading port both Wylis and my late father established some two decades ago, and only a day’s ride from Brimholt.”

    “I’m sure my granduncle will feel right at home being by the water again, no Merman should be deprived of the ocean, let alone water at all,” Warmond stated, and Andrey chuckled with a short nod.

    “Hence the Merman of the Torrentine was born,” he uttered, evoking a chuckle from Warmond also. Andrey’s face then turned serious, and he extended his hand to Warmond. “Your generosity and compassion are not unnoticed, Prince Warmond. Thank you.”

    The Iron Merman glanced down at Andrey’s hand for a moment before securing it in his own. This embrace moved their alliance to the next level, it moved them to war.

    The crown prince of Blackmont stood in the training yard of Yronwood, a shield in his left hand and a dulled sword in his right. His opponent, Prince Yorick Yronwood, had called him to the challenge after making short work of his previous opponent and cousin – Prince Aren Yronwood. Perhaps Torrhen was a fool to accept this boyish taunt, but Yorick’s arrogance was something Torrhen felt obliged to put in check… a future king would not thrive off an unchallenged ego.

    Torrhen glanced around at the crowd that had gathered. Prince Benedict, Yorick’s father, stood at his son’s back with a platoon of soldiers rallying the boy’s name. At Torrhen’s back was Prince Braedon Yronwood, Aren’s father, and no friend to Benedict. Up on the ramparts stood the three most important men in Yronwood: King Olyvar the Bloodroyal, his eldest and sickly son, Prince Eddin, and Torrhen’s father – King Hector. Torrhen and his father had come to Yronwood to forge an alliance in precaution of the Andal threat that spread across the continent, and within a few hours of meeting this large family, Torrhen had learned such an alliance would not be as simple as gaining the king’s word.

    The Kingdom of Yronwood was doomed to a civil war, thanks to Olyvar’s neglect of his family in favour for his lust for war. He had many sons, but now only two remained: Prince Eddin and Prince Broden, and those two men and their offspring were in a leashed conflict for heirdom to the throne. Knowing which side to back, however, was the gamble, and so far, Torrhen hadn’t liked either option.

    He swung his sword, getting a feel for its weight and its grip. This shield was bulkier than what he was used to, and he had forgone bronze arms for some time now, but in the end a sword was a sword and a shield a shield. How he used them was what was important. Torrhen had forwent armour, favouring agility over protection – much to his father’s chagrin. Yorick had done the same, eager to fight Torrhen on equal terms. The young man wished to test his mettle and determine who was the stronger swordsman of the two of them, but it was more than that… If done wrong, this could shatter the alliance before it was even established, but could also gain respect and promote Torrhen’s position amongst their family.

    Yorick was a younger man than he, being on his early twenties with an athletic form in its prime. Torrhen hadn’t established a ‘look’ for the Yronwood’s with his time here, he recognised Broden’s line to have darker hair than Eddin’s, with a common mix of brown or gray eyes in both sides of the family. It was clear however that Yorick’s appearance stood out from the rest of his family, his hair was as black as night and his eyes a deep blue that spoke confidence and power as one stared into them – it was unlike anything Torrhen had seen in the others.

    Torrhen readied his feet, lifted his shield, and pulled his sword arm back, nodding to Yorick as he was prepared. The Yronwood leapt like a puppy let off its leash, smashing his sword against Torrhen’s shield with a hard blow, and swiftly driving it towards Torrhen’s sword arm – an action that Torrhen only merely dodged. This instant aggression was unexpected, forcing Torrhen to shift his stance to something more defensive, parrying and dodging more than countering. He had to analyse his opponent, observe his patterns, and find a weakness. Only issue was Yorick was unrelenting… and fast.

    The shield buckled under the pressure, splintering under a heavy strike. Torrhen summersaulted backward and threw the shield, grasping his blade in a manner that was uncommon in Westeros, but routine amongst the knights of Andalos. Half-swording was a good technique to use against heavily shielded opponents, enabling a stronger thrust while also giving an advantage of swapping hands mid-fight. A flash of confusion in Yorick’s deep blue eyes was enough to tell he was unfamiliar with this form and so he continued with his aggressive pattern to try and overwhelm his opponent.

    Torrhen switched up his approach with his new edge, sliding Yorick’s overhead swing into the dirt and pommeling his shield arm in a single move. The prince stumbled back, flabbergasted, and Torrhen took the offensive, lunging his blade into Yorick’s shield and creating an opening, but instead of taking it he did something else unexpected. Taking hold of the blade in both hands, he hooked Yorick’s foot up with his cross guard, knocking the boy on his arse. Laughter erupted from the crowd, and Yorick’s cheeks flushed red with a mix of anger and embarrassment, then quickly followed with shock as he met the tip of Torrhen’s sword between his eyes.

    “Yield?” Torrhen offered, and Yorick snarled before gripping his sword and scrambling to his feet. Torrhen readied himself for the second round.

    Yorick surprised Torrhen by how quickly, at least on the surface, he appeared to collect himself. What flash of anger came with his serving of humility was gone as quickly as it came, and Yorick had slowed himself down in his second drive. He had become more calculating, like he too was learning Torrhen’s fighting style.

    Torrhen leant on his backfoot, twirling his sword in his hands as he studied Yorick’s movement, and as he determined the prince was going to take the defensive, he advanced cautiously. He tested Yorick’s guard with few short jabs and a swing at his thigh. Yorick dodged the first, parried the second and countered the third with a slap to Torrhen’s cheek. A gasp spilt from the crowd, but Torrhen barely acknowledged the distaste of the action. His head was not engulfed in his pride.

    He lunged his sword into Yorick’s chest, a move which was parried, and Torrhen countered by slashing at Yorick’s back as he passed him. He was surprised to hear the clang of metal as his sword yet again met with Yorick’s, who had blindly thrown his sword of his shoulder to guard his back. Smart little bugger. A smirk touched Yorick’s lips, and Torrhen reciprocated it.

    Their two swords danced for another two minutes before fatigue caught up Yorick. Torrhen had fought in battlefields before, learnt to pace himself so he could fight multiple men, but Yorick was young and naive… he had spent his life training with masters and putting all his effort into defeating his foes quickly. He had found today that Torrhen was not so easily beat.

    Yorick retreated to a defensive form as Torrhen advanced with his offensive, driving against his opponent’s sword with a finishing blow that drove the blade from his hands. The crowd fell silent with awe, and Yorick stared at Torrhen in disbelief. The crown prince of Blackmont flashed him a small smile as he knelt and retrieved Yorick’s sword, offering its handle to the prince.

    “You fight well, Prince. I accede to you,” Torrhen stated humbly, bowing his head. Yorick stood silently for a moment before accepting his sword and egressing from the courtyard. His pride wounded, but perhaps a valuable lesson learnt, or at least Torrhen hoped.

    Torrhen gazed up to the ramparts, finding his father as well as Olyvar and Eddin absent. He sighed, then meeting the gaze of Prince Benedict, who flashed him an apologetic glance before coming to meet him.

    “A fine display, Prince Torrhen. My son has never suffered a beating like that,” Benedict admitted to which Torrhen nodded.

    “He is a fine swordsman. With true experience I believe he will reflect the attributes of his father.” Benedict bowed his head modestly to Torrhen’s compliment. Benedict was approaching his mid-forties but was still well-built. His sandy brown hair was kept short on his head and face, and his brown eyes reflected solemnity but also ambition.

    “This alliance you have sorted with my grandfather, siring Daris as your pupil, it is merely a forger to keep until he is gone. Come dine with us this evening and meet my daughter, Gwenyth, I can think of more meaningful methods to securing a stronger alliance between our houses,” Benedict proposed, and Torrhen flashed him an appreciative smile.

    “That’s a considerate offer, Prince Benedict, and were we not so strapped for time I would plead you for that offer again tomorrow evening, though I am afraid I am already committed to dinner reservations with Prince Broden tonight.”

    Benedict’s warm invitation immediately turned cold at the mention of his uncle’s name. He flickered his eyes over to his cousin, Braedon, before turning up his nose. “I implore you don’t pay my uncle’s words too much mind, Prince Torrhen, he is a bitter old man chasing dreams that will never fruit. The same can be said for his lineage. Please enjoy your remaining time here in Yronwood, your presence has been an honour,” Benedict stated with chosen words as he bowed his head. Torrhen reciprocated this gesture, and Benedict took his leave.

    The crown prince returned to the rack and sheathed the dulled sword with the others. A fine line of sweat had collected on his brow from the fight, more from nerves than exertion, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. His eyes then met with those of a young boy, with familiar large brown eyes and hair of a darker shade. He would have been no older than fifteen.

    “That was an impressive fight, Prince Torrhen!” he exclaimed, to which Torrhen nodded in thanks.

    “Who are you?”

    “My name is Daris, my great grandfather, King Olyvar, says I’m to serve you.”

    Torrhen looked the young boy up and down. There wasn’t much more than a naive runt who clearly had no place in Yronwood. Torrhen sighed before bowing his head. “Pleasure to meet you, Daris.”

    “You fight better than Tor Thunderstorm! My cousin, Tywin, is stewarding for him; I bet he’d have the kicks seeing who I get to serve!” Daris expressed enthusiastically, and Torrhen flashed him a tiring smile before placing a hand on his shoulder. This will take some work, Torrhen thought regretfully, but it could have been worse.

    “We will have much time to see to that. Run along and be with your family, we will depart for Blackmont tomorrow,” Torrhen encouraged him, but Daris’ smile slowly died as he bowed his head.

    “My family is at Stonegate. My father sent me away.” Torrhen frowned, glancing around for something to occupy the boy. His eyes were at a loss. There were still a few hours to kill before he was to dine with Broden’s family.

    “What do you like to do, Daris?” The boy lifted his for a moment in thought, but then bowed his head shamefully. “It’s alright, I won’t judge you,” Torrhen prodded, and the boy clutched his arm nervously.

    “I like to read,” he revealed, almost ashamed of his answer. Torrhen suspected this family prized their sons on their fighting prowess and charisma, he gauged that might have been why Daris was here instead of Stonegate, and now why he was in Torrhen’s custody. The answer did nothing but bring a smile to Torrhen’s lips, however.

    “As do I… perhaps you would like to show me some of your books. We have quite the library at Blackmont,” Torrhen stated, and the boy’s eyes widened with excitement before he nodded and lead on. A small chuckle escaped Torrhen before he followed on.

-

    Broden’s table was lined with a feast fit for a king. Roast pork belly with crushed apple, glazed pheasant and venison drenched in a sauce conjured from Dornish red. A side of ripe tomatoes was served along with corn-on-the-cob, mango, grapes and a variety of green salads.

    Torrhen sat at the end of the table, the Lady Jeyna, Broden’s granddaughter, sat directly adjacent to him. Jeyna Yronwood was a beautiful girl just a couple of years younger than Torrhen, with curly dark brown hair and eyes of a similar colour, her tanned complexion was hidden beneath violet silk and golden jewelry.

    Opposing her were her two brothers: Aren and Alix. Aren was her older brother, a solemn man who put duty and honour first, but was not quite the warrior his cousin, Yorick, was – as Yorick had proven with the break of Aren’s nose. Alix was the younger brother, far laxer than his brother, and allegedly the better swordsman – though Torrhen did not care to find that out. These were the children of Prince Braedon and his lady wife, Princess Reila of House Wade. Reila had some years over her husband, her braided dark brown hair graying, though most of her signs of age were masked. Braedon, on the other hand, was already showing the marks of age in his brow and sunken cheekbones, despite being near a decade his wife’s junior. He too had brown eyes, though his were darker than his wife’s.

    Finally, Prince Broden sat at the head of the table with his wife, Princess Tila of House Wells, and his sister – Princess Myra. Being well into their sixties, they were grey of hair, though Tila’s hair was similarly styled to Jeyna’s, while Broden’s hair was short and receding – atop his head he donned a silver circlet. Myra was not as thin as her sister-in-law, and wore her hair in a tight bun. Broden was a short and chubby man and kept a short-trimmed moustache on his upper lip. He stared at Torrhen with curious dark brown eyes.

    “Please, Prince Torrhen, help yourself to the first serving,” he entertained, and with the spotlight on him, Torrhen bowed his head as he pardoned himself to a light serving of pheasant and pork belly with a heavier side of salad. His action rallied the others to take their share.

    “How have you enjoyed your stay so far, Prince Torrhen?” Torrhen was half-way through chewing his food as the question struck him, and he politely rested his cutlery and swallowed before addressing the query of the Princess Jeyna – she had been attempting small talk all evening, but her efforts seemed to invite others to speak over her. Torrhen flashed her a short smile.

    “Eventful, my Lady, more so than I expected it would be.” That was the truth. When Torrhen had convinced his father that an alliance with Yronwood would be a strategically benefitting choice for the impending dangers of the east, he hadn’t quite expected he would be mentoring or sparring with his grandsons. Gods forbid, he hadn’t expected the King’s lineage would require greater convincing than the king himself.

    A light chuckle escaped Prince Broden’s lips. “Quite the handful, we Yronwood’s are,” he confessed, to which his sister, Myra, rolled her eyes.

    “Only some of us,” she corrected, eliciting a few murmurs of agreement from Prince Aren and Broden’s wife, Tila. Torrhen let out a hushed sigh. He disliked being caught in the middle of this family conflict, it was too much complication for a very simple objective of forging an alliance. If the circumstances were different, Torrhen would have surrendered his liberty and taken a wife for such an alliance over playing this childish game of who wants to be king.

    “Forgive me, Prince Broden, I sit at your table as a humble guest, but I am still a little confused as to why there is such conflict between you and Prince Eddin. It would appear in my eyes that he is the apparent heir to Yronwood after Olyvar?” Torrhen queried, and he felt the atmosphere of the room shift almost immediately. Broden’s spine straightened, his expression souring as if his meal had become rancid.

    “True enough, Eddin’s the presumptive heir to the throne from his age, but our father has never specifically named a crown prince to inherit the kingdom after he is gone, and its clear he doesn’t wish for it to be Eddin.” Myra nodded.

    “Our father was engaged in two marriages; we are the lineage of his second marriage. He favoured our mother over Eddin’s, he cared for us more than he ever did the children of his first marriage. Take your new steward, for example. Daris is the son of Manrel Yronwood, who was the son of Olyvar’s eldest son – who died fighting King Erich Durrandon. Customary law would decree Manrel heir to the throne over us, but Olyvar instead sent Manrel away.” Broden nodded.

    “I may not be the heir that the old way recognises, but I’m the heir that Yronwood needs. My father has done nothing for this kingdom other than war with the Stormlands, my half-brother would do nothing more with this kingdom than maintain the status quo – while his descendants would rather follow Olyvar’s way. I heard you fought with Prince Yorick in the field today, that would have been enough to show you what they’re like,” Broden stated, but Torrhen did not care to fuel Broden’s side on this.

    “So, what would you bring to Yronwood if you were king?”

    “My interests have always been in line with the strengthening of Yronwood. I married Braedon here to Lady Reila Wade to establish good trade routes with the Greenblood – though that has slowed thanks to the King Horvis Shell.” Torrhen raised an eyebrow, to which Braedon cleared his throat.

    “Shortly after my marriage to Reila, Eddin married his second son, Gyles, to Lady Shara Shell. These opposing alliances have left us at a stalemate for supporting the Greenblood. Acting on either side would tear bring on a civil war in Yronwood,” Braedon explained. Tila’s expression turned cold.

    “Be it out of spite or to sweep the rug from under us on trade, Eddin and his family have always actively sought to put us second in this family when it has been clear that Olyvar intends us to be first. My husband embodies strength and an ambition to make Yronwood great again, where Eddin’s weakness would crumble this kingdom to its foundations. We are the only option you should consider if you wish to align with Yronwood,” she stated, lifting Torrhen’s eyebrows.

    “And what would you have to offer that Prince Eddin wouldn’t?” Broden appeared to grow frustrated with this looping, as if he had made this abundantly clear. Instead, Braedon stepped in to answer.

    “What would Blackmont have to offer for our allegiance?” Torrhen turned and met his dark brown eyes, pausing for a moment as he held Braedon’s stare.

    “As of right now, Blackmont intends to be present when the Andal’s present on your shores. Once that threat is repelled, the future of relations between our kingdoms is open to further discussion. Should you honour the agreement that Olyvar and I have settled, I can assure that we will be interested in maintaining more permanent means of allegiance between our houses.”

    “This proposal is highly contingent on my family ascending the throne first, it offers you no certainty in the present should the Andal’s arrive before Olyvar passes,” Myra stated, and Torrhen nodded.

    “Should they arrive in Olyvar’s remaining years of king, we will uphold the deal that we have brokered with him. This proposal I offer is for the king of Yronwood. I seek no alliance less than the joining of our kingdoms, and it has been made clear that until the next king has inherited the throne, I cannot commit to planning anything prior.” Torrhen was firm in his stance on the matter but felt greatly uncomfortable having to express it. Prince Broden appeared annoyed with Torrhen’s position on this, as did his wife, while his sister remained passive. It was Braedon who nodded in acknowledgement of Torrhen’s reasoning.

    “That’s understandable, Princess Torrhen. There will be plenty of time to resume this discussion down the track,” Braedon stated, more so to redirect the conversation elsewhere. This was a summoning for Jeyna, who awkwardly cleared her throat.

    “Perhaps you would enjoy an evening stroll in the gardens, My Prince?” Torrhen glanced down at his barely touched plate but nodded respectfully. His appetite had dwindled with this discussion.

    “It would be my honour, My Lady.”

-

    Yronwood’s botanical garden lay under the belly of the central keep, stretching like an open balcony that overlooked the short stretch of land before the opening of the bay. It was a picturesque view, of that which Torrhen could be envious. Yronwood was constructed upon the edge of the Red Mountains, along a river that stretched all the way to the Kingdom of Skyreach, and had the spectacular view of the sea. Here, Torrhen stood overlooking the bay, both admiring its beauty and dreading what was to one day come.

    Princess Jeyna stood elegantly by his side, her silk amber dress flowing gently down her lightly tanned skin, exposing her arms which were decorated with golden bands. She was truly a sight for sore eyes, and a future alliance through marriage would certainly not be out of the question, though Torrhen did not care to put anymore thought into that. He had meant what he said; until the reveal of the next king, the Blackmont-Yronwood alliance would only extend as far as Torrhen’s and Olyvar’s deal.

    “It will be a beautiful night,” Jeyna commented, her eyes staring out to sea. On the horizon, the sky had darkened, and a soft red glow spilled from the sky to the sea. Stars were already scattering amongst the navy blue, putting on a night display before their very eyes. There was not a cloud in sight. Torrhen nodded.

    The exchanges between the Prince and the Princess this evening had been few and far in between, though it was not due any lack of interest on Torrhen’s part nor lack of effort on Jeyna’s. In truth, Torrhen was nervous. Since he was a boy, he had been raised to lead, and was kept separate from the other children of Blackmont. He had never had a life outside of the one that was paved for him, never a chance to play with friends or have fun with girls – Torrhen had considered it his duty and followed through without complaint, but in times like these he recognised what he missed. He greatly wanted to speak with Jeyna, but his confidence and assertion at the dining table just could not transfer in this setting. He was at a loss for words.

    Jeyna turned her gaze on him, her eyes almost hypnotising as they stared into his with such flirtatious wonder – he wondered if her intent was truly genuine, or just a demand from Broden to win his affection. “I have never met a man with hair like yours,” she added, and an awkward laugh escaped his lips as he nodded.

    Torrhen’s hair was indeed a marvel to the First Men. Styled similarly to the ravage horse-lords of Essos, his black hair was long and braided back, falling below his neck, while the sides of his head were shorn.

    “Yes, it’s… uncommon, in this area of Westeros anyhow.” Torrhen met her laughing eyes momentarily and felt awestruck, a lump built in his throat, and he shifted his eyes away nervously. “In the Further East of Essos there are a nomadic tribe of people known as the Dothraki. They are a warring horse culture, and they braid both their hair and horse’s manes in this style,” Torrhen explained, and Jeyna’s inquisitive eyes widened with interest.

    “And have you ever met one of these, Dothraki?” she queried, pronouncing the foreign name strangely. Torrhen chuckled and shook his head.

    “No, and I hope I never do. The Dothraki are some of the greatest field warriors known to man, unparallel to any other on horseback, they are widely considered an unbeatable enemy. They brandish themselves with this reputation by decorating their braids with a bell following each victory, instilling fear into their foes when they hear the ringing of bells approaching. A Dothraki only cuts his braid when he is defeated,” Torrhen explained, making Jeyna smirk.

    “Yours is growing pretty long,” she observed, to which Torrhen shrugged with a short smile. “And your skin… Do you live in the sun?” she asked with a cheeky giggle, making Torrhen chuckle. Indeed, Torrhen’s complexion was notably darker than most First Men of Dorne, kudos to his mother.

    “My mother hails from the Valyrian colony of Myr,” he explained, to which Jeyna raised an eyebrow.

    “For one with so much blood and knowledge from the east, it is a wonder why you and your father are so concerned of the Andal’s.”

    Torrhen sighed. “Perhaps it’s because of my blood and knowledge that I am concerned. Myr is one of many Valyrian colonies, and the Freehold is expanding rapidly. When they aren’t warring with the Ghiscari, they are colonising. The Andal’s are desperate to resettle, and desperate men do desperate things. Westeros is already suffering, it’s only a matter of time before that pain reaches Dorne,” he stated, but Jeyna only shrugged.

    “Perhaps,” she then turned her gaze up to the stars. “Though I believe every person has a right to be heard and judged individually. I don’t believe every Andal’s intent is for bloodshed.” Torrhen nodded.

    “It’s not the peaceful septons of Andalos I’m worried about. The Andal’s too are conquerors, they have taken what they wanted with bloodshed for generations, though their iron has no impact on dragons. It does here,” Torrhen expressed, and Jeyna’s eyes lowered.

    “As did the First Men, thousands of years ago. We crossed the Arm of Dorne and warred with the natives of Westeros for centuries until a treaty came. We can achieve peace with the Andal’s as well, I believe that whole-heartedly.”

    “Time will tell,” Torrhen sighed, staring longingly out to sea. “Perhaps you would be the best suitor for Yronwood’s heirdom crisis, you seem to have a rational head on your shoulders,” Torrhen admired, making Jeyna blush. Though she shook her head.

    “Men made these laws and men dispute them, but men will never settle for a woman on the throne. They fear what we could do,” she smirked, and Torrhen nodded in agreement. Torrhen’s mother, Queen Ashara, had brought much knowledge and influence to the Kingdom of Blackmont, and Torrhen acknowledged they would not be half as strong without her.

    “Perhaps we deserve to be conquered,” Torrhen suggested light-heartedly. “Have our old ways reformed.” Jeyna smiled, and Torrhen barely noticed her hand had crept atop his own. The two glanced into each other’s eyes, flicking from one to the other as an unnatural energy attracted Torrhen closer to her. Her other hand touched his freshly shaven face, and she slowly leant in, shutting her eyes.

    “Prince Torrhen.”

    The two separated as quickly as they had come together, and Torrhen turned to meet the old grey eyes of Prince Eddin. The old man had his arms linked with a younger girl, a granddaughter perhaps, and had a crooked smile on his lips. “Beautiful night for a stroll in the garden,” he stated, and Torrhen nodded awkwardly. Eddin turned to his young companion. “Ella, perhaps you would like to go with your cousin back to the castle. Would you mind, Jeyna?” Eddin asked, offering Ella’s hand to hers. Jeyna bowed obediently.

    “Of course.” She turned to Torrhen, excusing herself with a short curtsy before departing with her cousin. Torrhen watched as she disappeared into the folds of the garden, letting out a gentle sigh before turning his gaze onto Eddin.

    “Apologies if I interrupted anything. I assure you this is purely coincidental, but I am glad to have caught you,” Eddin stated, taking a seat under the pergola near the balcony and beckoning to Torrhen to join him. Torrhen did as instructed. “How was your evening meal with my brother?” he inquired, to which Torrhen frowned, making Eddin chuckle. “Your father had a similar response at our table.”

    “The conflict within your family is demanding. I confess, neither I nor my father expected this when we set off from Blackmont,” Torrhen admitted. Eddin frowned as he clasped his frail old hands together. Unlike his brother, Broden, Eddin was quite frail, a clear indicator of his illness. He wore his long white hair open and had a trimmed beard of the same colour. His grey eyes were calculating but tired, the long years exhausting them.

    “Keeping all the subjects of one’s kingdom content is a near impossible feat, one must consider the importance of the realm in balance with the safety and happiness of its people. I resent the disharmony my family experiences, and while it may be easy to place the blame on my father’s negligence, this infighting serves neither this kingdom nor her people.”

    “Then why entertain it? Broden claims vividly that you and your family have belittled he and his offspring for quite some time,” Torrhen stated, making Eddin frown.

    “When I was a younger man, I was more ambitious, I had more I wanted to prove, a demand to demonstrate my worth to be my father’s heir. I gave my life to that agenda, and that life is now catching up to me. This jealous rivalry will linger long after my death, and I begrudge having ever expanded this beyond the pettiness I had towards Broden as a younger man. I can only hope that Benedict will favour my teachings over Olyvar’s when he becomes king, as gods know I won’t be for long.” Eddin lifted his gaze up to Torrhen’s, a sad look in his old grey eyes.

    “I have said this privately to your father already, but I wanted to express that beyond this Andal threat, Yronwood wants no formal alliance. I mean no disrespect, but I must work on rebuilding this kingdom, and that must start with my family. Either side of the family being aligned to a stronger kingdom will only encourage violence to settle this conflict. I hope you understand.” Torrhen nodded, leaning forward, and placing his hand over Eddin’s as he felt a great burden lifted off his shoulders. The Kingdom of Blackmont remaining any longer than necessary would only mean bloodshed for Torrhen’s people. Eddin was trying to save both their kingdoms of that fate.

    “I do. Thank you.”

-

    The sun was rising over the Sea of Dorne as the Blackmont host assembled, tents and pavilions disassembled and packed into wagons, all men and women accounted for and ready to depart. The Blackmont’s had only spent one night in Yronwood, but it had felt like an eternity. As Torrhen watched his father approach him, it looked like even he had aged in the duration of their stay here.

    Hector was the classical embodiment of a ‘warrior king.’ On his early fifties, Hector still easily mustered the strength to wield the ancient ancestral greatsword, Farensfly, a blade that was forged from bronze but was red in colour – be it from generations of use or the aging of the bronze, Torrhen did not know.

    The man himself was no less robust in his fifties than he was in his thirties, his only change was his tanned dry skin had begun to wrinkle with age, almost looking like dried leather. Covering his sharp roguish features was a short black stubble, and he fashioned a head of hair down to his shoulders of the same colour. His dark blue eyes that Torrhen inherited were stern and powerful, and made lesser men shy away from his piercing gaze.

    “Father,” Torrhen greeted, and the two embraced like it had been a lifetime since they had seen each other. There was some relief in this hold, but it was only for a moment. Hector grasped Torrhen’s shoulders and looked into his eyes, reflecting a mix of pride and concern. He then let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his temples. “Are you alright?” Torrhen asked with a hint of concern, to which Hector smiled weakly.

    “Eager to leave. This family is a chaotic mess I want little part in, and Eddin is of a like-mind.” Torrhen nodded.

    “Prince Eddin sought me out in the gardens last night and said similar. Prince Broden, on the other hand, would like quite the opposite – I believe to aid his family in claiming the crown.” Hector frowned, crossing his arms as he eyed his son.

    “Your fight with Prince Yorick was stupid and irresponsible. Why did you do it?” Torrhen felt his spine straighten and his hands sweat under the interrogation. He held his composure.

    “He has an inflated ego, if he is to someday be king, he will need to understand humility,” Torrhen explained in his defence, which Hector agreed to, but not in this circumstance.

    “It’s not our place to train the boy. Keep your hands out of their politics, I want no involvement in their affairs.”

    “Yes, father.”

    “Blackmonts!” a voice yelled, attracting both Hector and Torrhen’s attention. Their eyes met with King Olyvar the Bloodroyal, escorted by his eldest sons, Eddin and Broden. Olyvar stood tall and thin beneath his velvet robes, his gaunt face wrinkled with age and his short grey hair unkempt from lack of care. Like Hector, he too sported a short stubble, and flashed a cheeky yellow grin as his manic brown eyes darted between Hector and Torrhen. “Leaving us so soon?” Hector stood forward.

    “We’ve come to terms, your hospitality would be wasted on us staying any longer,” Hector stated politely, but Olyvar paid his homage little mind, instead focusing his gaze on Torrhen.

    “I would like to speak with your crown prince a final time, gods know this might be the last time we meet before I shit myself to death.” Hector reluctantly nodded, engaging with Eddin and Broden as Torrhen and Olyvar shuffled away from them. When they were a far enough distance from the Blackmont host, Olyvar turned and sneered.

    “Look at them all, bickering and conspiring, all minions without direction. Especially those two.” Olyvar grumbled, pointing at his two sons. Torrhen sighed.

    “They lack direction because they are not directed, King Olyvar. Their only ambitions are to rescue what you seem to be throwing away.” Torrhen spoke bluntly, his words could have his head off his shoulders if he was anyone else, hell it could still do so if Olyvar pleased, but Torrhen believed bluntness was the only way to communicate with this man. Olyvar squinted his eyes.

    “You think me a mad old fool, don’t you? That I would sacrifice my kingdom for a final stab at my nemeses. I take it you’ve spoken with both my sons since we spoke last,” Olyvar muttered, and Torrhen nodded. “And what did they say?”

    “They told me why they think they should be king, and it all came back to your failure as a ruler and father.” Olyvar smirked, almost more amused than anything else.

    “Let these fools fight each other to the death for all I care. They’re not in my plan,” Olyvar stated, making Torrhen cross his arms.

    “So far, your plans seem to involve bloodshed in and out of your kingdom. I only care that it aids us against the Andal’s when they come, Your Grace.” Torrhen’s audacity evoked a chuckle from the old king. It was clear no one had spoken to him like this in some time, and he was thoroughly enjoying it.

    “Oh, I bet you do, King Torrhen,” he remarked, making Torrhen sigh. He was growing impatient with this family. “Tell me, have you met your steward yet?” Torrhen nodded. “Naive little shit, but I expect you’ll train that out of him. Know who he is?”

    “Prince Manrel’s son, the man who should be your heir,” Torrhen stated, spreading a grin wide on Olyvar’s face.

    “Who said he isn’t?”

    Torrhen raised an eyebrow, glancing into Olyvar’s laughing brown eyes. He was unsure if this was just another one of Olyvar’s manic remarks, or if there was more to it. “Broden said your eldest son died fighting King Erich, and you removed Manrel from Yronwood.” Olyvar nodded.

    “Aye, Merrin… My oldest boy, and a bright one at that. He would have made a great king, but the fucking Durrandon’s thought otherwise. I moved Manrel to the Stonegate to protect him,” Olyvar revealed. “Eddin was quick to try and fill Merrin’s shoes after he died, as was Broden. Manrel was only a boy when his father died, and his uncles’ ambitions left no room for him to become who he was born to be. Manrel knows he is my heir, and I want you to raise his son to be fit for the crown after him.”

    Torrhen found himself at a loss for words. All this chaos… it was an agenda, not a result of negligence. “You would see your family destroy each other, and have Manrel claim what remains?” Torrhen asked, almost in disbelief. Olyvar crossed his arms.

    “Tell me what you would have done? Two ambitious sons willing to do anything for my throne, and a boy caught up in the middle of it. My life is the only thing holding back a civil war. Eddin and Broden see no other alternative than one of them sitting on the throne, both driven by their shared contempt for me. Do you really think me denying both of them that opportunity outright would serve Manrel? No. It would only truly assure the destruction of this house.” Torrhen exhaled a heavy sigh.

    “Why reveal this to me?” he finally asked, bringing a smile to Olyvar’s old lips.

    “Because when the time comes, Manrel will need help taking what rightfully belongs to him, and I hope the future King Blackmont will come to his aid.” Olyvar’s eyes were hopeful, but Torrhen’s were cold and resenting.

    “He will have a son fit to be king of stone and ashes, as is what you will leave for him.” With that, Torrhen turned his back on Olyvar and returned to the Blackmont host. His approach was immediately noticed by the trio who impatiently awaited him. Eddin and Broden nodded their farewells to Hector and Torrhen, returning to their father. Hector turned his gaze on his son.

    “What did he have to say?” Torrhen sighed.

    “Enough to make me never wish to return to Yronwood.” Hector chuckled.

    “Aye. Let’s go home.”

And it brings warm joy to see you back again, old friend! I greatly wanted to do this storyline justice with how you and many others helped in contributing characters to it, so I'm glad to be back to it. More to come soon!

Heya. Just a brief announcement that I won't be pumping out many parts over this coming month due to surgery (which I'm heading into today - nothing life threatening) and a couple of holidays. Should be fully functional by July. I would however like to give an overview of my plans for this book for any who are interested. 

So as we have seen Book 2 is taking a huge focus in Dorne, an area which is very seperate to the other areas of Westeros that have received most of the spotlight in the last book. Storylines will also return in the Fingers, the Stormlands and Andalos, with the Stormlands tying in closely with Dorne later on and Andalos launching into a broader storyline. For any who are wondering, yes this does mean that older storylines in the Westerlands, Reach and Riverlands are on hold (some of these were really undeveloped and will 'canonically' fit better in the next book), while the North will return in the next chapter (though we will still get some Northern action in Andalos, as that is where Theon and his army arrived at the end of the last book). 

Anyway, there's my current scope for this book. I've transitioned to a non-interactive style only as I feel I relied too much on waiting for votes in order to continue writing - a curse for my procrastinating personality. However if there is any interest in character submissions they are always welcome. Feel free to PM me (as I'm not sure if the old links still work) with ideas/thoughts if this interests you!

Shall be returning back in July with some more parts, and hopefully can fit in a couple before then too. Until then, happy reading and take care!

    A grievous feeling crept over the skin of Alester the Cursed as the castle of Starfall came into view, the tall white towers and connecting walls a magnificent sight to many, but a haunting glimpse into the past for the brother of the king.

    Their host at travelled the better part of the day to get here, and the setting sun cast a red glow over the white keep that was eerie and disturbing. Alas, despite the hour, their arrival had been expected, and a mile out from the gates of Starfall they had been met by General Nicovacia Wythmail, the young head of Andrey’s army, and the nephew of Alester’s late wife – Alester had avoided eyes with the boy the entire way to Starfall.

    Now, in the courtyard of the place he grew up, they were greeted by a line of silver-haired individuals that bore some resemblance to Alester. My family. The first feeling he got was to tuck tail and made for High Hermitage, the shame and remorse he felt being in their presence was crippling. Yet duty unsaddled him from his horse, and some residing ebb of honour had him kneel alongside the Merman of the Torrentine before his brother.

    Andrey gazed down on them with his calm but calculating eyes for a moment that felt like an eternal judgement, before beckoning them to rise with a short smile on his lips. “Welcome,” he said. One word. In two decades, that was all he could muster for their first contact. He dragged me out here! The rage Alester felt was hard to contain. Andrey had never disliked his brother, in truth he had never made much time for either of his siblings, but this lack of interest to pursue a relationship over the decades had rubbed off on Alester poorly.

    Wylis bowed his head. “It’s an honour to be behind the walls of Starfall again after so long, I see there are even more of you now!” he expressed, and Andrey nodded as he glanced back at all Donnel’s children. There were four, and Alester had met none of them. Life had moved on without him here, he was not missed.

    “My eldest son’s offspring,” Andrey stated, though Donnel was nowhere to be seen in this lineup. Andrey pointed to the eldest boy, a teen of fourteen years who was both tall and scrawny. “This here is Vyron,” Andrey stated with a hint of pride in his voice, then turning to the other children, “and Anisa, Tanya and Gerald,” he added as he quickly introduced the others, of which Anisa was a couple of years younger than Vyron, and that age difference was shared between Tanya and Gerald, who were nine and seven respectively. Alester felt a cold sting at the mention of the last name. Gerald, the name of their father and last king.

    “You have travelled a long way; you must be hungry. Come, let us dine, we have much to catch up on,” Andrey announced, turning his glance on Alester momentarily before walking with his guard up to the Great Hall of Starfall, quickly followed by his grandchildren and their mother. Wylis rubbed his belly.

    “Food would be good,” he thought aloud as he began to follow Andrey, only pausing as he noticed Alester was not in his shadow. “Coming, Al?”

    Alester jerked as he was pulled from his trance and gazed up at Wylis. “Don’t have much of an appetite. You go ahead, I’ll be right behind you,” he said, and Wylis flashed him a concerned look. He descended the steps and placed a hand on his shoulder, glancing around the courtyard.

    “Been quite some time since we were last here, a lot’s changed. Don’t get lost,” he teased, to which Alester flashed him a cold smile. “I’ll tell your brother you’re refamiliarising yourself with the place. Take care of yourself,” he bid, and Alester nodded. Tell him what you like, he thought carelessly, but did not dare say it.

    “You too.” He watched as the old man strode up the stairs with the energy of a man three decades his junior. Alester always marveled at the exemplary lifespans of the Mermen of the Mander. While it was true they were more man than anything else, the blood of their forebears left them with long years of life, and the old king Waldemar of nearly ninety years would likely still rule for another decade or more before succumbing to the frailty of most in their seventies. It spoke measures for the Manderly’s like Wylis who indeed were in their seventies, making fair rivals for other men in their prime.

    Once they were out of sight, Alester’s shoulders drooped, and a sigh left his dry lips. He gazed around at his old home, nostalgia and nightmares plentiful, before his legs started him in a direction not of his mindful choosing.

    Beyond the main keep of Starfall, past the gardens and yards, away from the noise of the armory and smithy, lay quiet staircase descending into the cool depths of the earth. Within lay a small crypt unlike any other. Houses of the First Men who adorned a crypt beneath their keep usually housed the dead of their predecessors, buried beneath a statue to commemorate their memory. Amongst the Dayne’s, however, the fallen members of their house were oft reduced to ashes – rested on a pyre and transformed to ‘stardust.’ Then their remains were collected in urns and placed in the crypt, where scripture and runes detail who the ashes belonged to and what great deeds they committed in their lifetime.

    It was here that Alester found himself, amongst the sealed pots and urns of Dayne’s that came before him, sitting before the urn of his uncle – Garett Dayne. Before Aron, Garett was the Sword of the Morning, and carried Dawn to defend his family for as long as he lived. However, that responsibility oft came without need of their ancestral blade, instead he became the uncle that his niece and nephews aspired to be like, and raised Alester when his brother, King Gerald, put all his focus on Andrey.

    Under his tutelage, Alester learned how to swing a sword with a decent technique, though the greatest lessons he took away from his Uncle Garett were that of love and approval, things he never received from his father. Garett taught him how to hunt, and often they would track, just the two of them, for days in the wild until they scored the game they were hunting. Those moments passed as quickly as a waterhole in the desert, and for that Alester regretted not having spent more time with him.

    Placing his hands on the edges of the urn, he felt a warmth that only his uncle and a couple of others had given him, each and every one of them leaving him alone in this world. Leaving him only with the cold. He bowed his head in sorrow, dreading their loss. Kaina, Susan, Garett… and a child he would never know, taken from him along with his wife. This pain he carried had crippled him, living was a weight he struggled to carry on his weary shoulders, and purpose only existed with each job Wylis would task him with. Now that security was gone, and his life and purpose was at the whim of his brother, his existence only a political advantage and little else. Fuck them all.

    Pulling him from his thoughts was a shift of the heavy oak doors at the entrance of the crypt, and from the top of the stairwell a light invaded the resting darkness, separating Alester from his shadow. Alester’s gaze quickly met with his startled nephew, a lantern in one hand and a bottle of Dornish red. “Gods mercy, giving me a fucking heart attack!” the drunken voice of Andrey’s eldest son mumbled, before his lips widened into a grin. “Uncle Alester! Come here you miserable fool!” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around him, something very uncharacteristic for Andrey’s eldest son from what Alester could remember.

    “Hello, Donnel,” Al greeted awkwardly as he tried to ignore the foul stench on his nephew’s breath. He did not judge his nephew however, he too had found comfort at the bottom of a bottle in the past, but that had changed with renewed purpose at High Hermitage. Or just been replaced with a false sense of responsibility.

    “What the fuck are you doing down here? Crashing my drinking spot,” he slurred, waving around the wine bottle. Alester frowned as he glanced around the urns.

    “You drink down here?” he asked with disapproval, and Donnel smirked.

    “The only place my wife doesn’t find me! Peace and quiet, Alester! Plus, the dead don’t mind, they’re dead!” he bellowed, making Alester wince as he shook his head.

    “They deserve the ‘peace and quiet’ they are owed with death. Drink somewhere else,” Alester muttered, making Donnel raise an eyebrow before taking a seat by one of the urns.

    “Gone for two decades and you just presume to boss me around huh? Just like father, you two were made for each other!” he grumbled, which only made Alester sneer.

    “Don’t compare me to your father, Donny. I wish you well, but have some respect for your ancestors and drink somewhere else,” Alester implored, but Donnel paid him no mind.

    “My father… Sitting on his high seat with my son at his heels. That should have been me! But he never cared, just fucking gave up on me, but he’ll give my boy a fair go to be his heir. Pathetic.” Donnel took a swig from his bottle, not caring for the taste. “He never loved me.”

    Alester sighed. “Nor me,” he mumbled under his breath, but he could tell Donnel was in no mood for Alester’s own troubles.

    “So, what does he do? Marries me off to a pestilent wife that gives me many children, and… You know what?” he took another swig from his bottle. “You know… I fucking get it. Children are shits, a pain in my arse. I understand why he gave me up, I can’t handle it, and neither could he. I’m just a disgrace,” he muttered, throwing away his empty bottle and sinking to the floor. Alester shook his head.

    “You’re no disgrace, Donny. You just…” Alester felt himself stumbling on his words. Anything he wanted to say made him a hypocrite. “I lost everyone I loved before I got the chance to realise what they meant to me. That’s why I’m here, mourning for my uncle, instead of eating and drinking with your father.” Alester sighed before moving over to Donnel’s side and sitting with him. “I wish I had been there for my son before he left to pursue his own life. Don’t make that same mistake, don’t let your kids look at you like you look at your father.”

    Donnel gazed at him with dazing eyes. He shook his head. “I don’t know how… I’ve never been good at anything.” Alester nodded sympathetically.

    “They’ll tell you how, you just need to listen.”

    A small, sad, smile came to Donnel’s lips. “I’ve missed you Uncle, it’s been too long,” he said, wrapping his arm around Alester. Not long enough, Alester thought sadly as he gazed at Garett’s urn, struggling to keep himself composed. “You’ll make a better king than I ever will,” he surmised, and Alester’s frown quickly furrowed.

    “What?”

    “King… or lord, whatever it makes you when you marry Queen Carmella Holt,” he mumbled, and Alester’s eyes widened. He knew Andrey intended to use him for a power play, but this?

    “Who said this?” Alester demanded, anger rising into his voice. Donnel snorted with frustration.

    “My good son, Vyron, the son my father never had…” he muttered, and Alester found his fists clenching. He gripped the collar of his nephew and dragged the man up with him. “The fuck are you doing?” he growled, while Alester glanced over at Garett’s urn for a final time.

    “We’re going to go find your father.”

-

    The scent of stewed pear and brazed pork overwhelmed Alester’s nostrils as he barged into the Great Hall, but he paid these aromas little mind. Instead, his gaze fixated on his brother, who did not seem surprised to see him. Joining Andrey at the table was Donnel’s wife, Princess Laenah, and her eldest children, Vyron and Anisa. Opposite them were Lord Gared Nightfall, Lord Tyran of Southpoint and Wylis, whose reactions to Alester’s unexpected entry a mix of shock and disapproval, save for Wylis, who only bowed his head. Dayne guards quickly reacted by drawing their arms, though halted with confusion at recognition of the intruder. Again, Alester paid them no mind.

    Behind Alester, Donnel stumbled in behind, acknowledging his wife with raised eyebrows before collapsing to the floor with his intoxication. Andrey let out a heavy sigh before rising from his seat.

    “Guards, escort my son to his chambers,” he summoned, then glancing at his daughter-in-law with apologetic eyes. Laenah nodded dutifully, grasping Vyron and Anisa’s arms, following her drunken husband. Andrey gazed upon his brother calmly. “I had hoped to speak with you here with Prince Wylis. It seems my son found you first,” he observed, and Alester sneered at his company.

    “I don’t wish to speak to you with them here,” Alester stated coldly, making Andrey frown.

    “Lord Gared and Lord Tyran are members of my council, they have as much right to be here as we,” Andrey claimed, but Alester shook his head.

    “Go,” he seethed, and both Gared and Tyran did not hesitate in taking their leave. Wylis paused a moment as he gazed on Alester with careful eyes before following the other lords out. When the hall was empty, Alester turned his glare on his brother. “You would have me be your puppet in some faraway kingdom for your political agendas? Marry again for your benefit?” he spat with disgust, and Andrey crossed his arms.

    “I would ask you to consider your duty to the needs of this kingdom, Alester.”

    Alester shook his head. “I have been dutiful, minding your fucking trade at High Hermitage. Though that’s not enough for you, is it? You never liked the Manderly’s having so much power in our kingdom, so you decide the solution is to expand and conquer. You’re pathetic.”

    Andrey took all these stabs with a gentle stride, not attempting to add further heat to the situation – just like the diplomat he was. “I don’t wish to bring war to this kingdom, but I know war is coming. The Andal’s have ravaged all the east coast of Westeros, it won’t be long until they set foot on Dorne, if they haven’t already. We need territory if we are to defend this kingdom, we need alliances,” he expressed, making Alester roll his eyes.

    “I want no part in it. I’m not another one of your pawns to consume in his hungry game of power you play,” Alester remarked, to which Andrey nodded his head slowly, leaving the table and approaching his brother. Alester put up his guard, his muscles tensed as he held his composure before this man he both hated and feared – irrationally or not.

    Andrey dug his fingers into his breast pocket, freeing a parchment scroll which he handed to his brother. Alester hesitantly stared at it before taking it and reading its contents.

King Andrey,

I write to you on behalf of Queen Carmella Holt of the Kingdom of Brimstone, informing you of our dire situation. Recently, three lords of these lands were slaughtered without reason and their homes razed to their foundations. With Queen Carmella’s tenuous position as monarch in the absence of her lord husband, the people have demanded action – suspecting the Kingdom of the Torrentine to be responsible for this crime – and she has responded with precaution.

She extends an invitation to a political envoy of House Dayne to represent the innocence of the Torrentine in this matter. Your people will be hosted and protected under Queen Carmella’s honour, and their assistance in aiding the Kingdom of the Brimstone will be rewarded with negotiation of an alliance that will favour us all in the times to come.

Your nephew, Arthor Sand.

    Alester glanced at the scroll with trembling hands. Arthor is there? Five years of curiosity and concern, and now one was satisfied while the other was amplified. Andrey placed a hand on Alester’s shoulder.

    “I will not force you to go, but know that I do not wish to bring war against my nephew, and that is what will come to him if we do not heed Carmella’s invitation.”

    Alester shook his head with sorrow. “Why me?” he muttered, bowing his head. Andrey raised his brother’s chin, showing him a small, rare, smile.

    “He is your son, and you are my brother. I trust no one else better with this task.” Andrey turned to leave, then pausing a moment. “Think on it. Sleep on it if you must. Prince Wylis will be heading for Clearhaven at dawn.” With that, Andrey departed, and Alester glanced at the scroll a final time before crumpling it in his hand. He need not dwell on his decision – his last thread of family needed him, and he would not deny them.

    The small remnant fleet of the Black Sun rowed tiresomely upriver, scanning for a break in the cliffs where they could land their boats. The sailors working under the flag of the Black Sun had once been respectable soldiers of the warrior king, Qarlon the Great, granting him naval superiority over the Narrow Sea. That quickly changed when he rubbed his fleet commander, General Xaphan ‘the Black Sun,’ in a bad way. Xaphan gathered his people to the sea with the promise of settling on lands that they could rule over as kings. After months at sea, Xaphan had reduced his promise to finding dry land, and as they rowed out of the storm that had consumed half his fleet, he stood at the prow of his vessel with a grim realisation of the cost of his oath.

    “Ahoy!” a voice called overhead, and Xaphan’s eyes lifted to the watcher in the crow’s nest. The young man by the name of Damon Tiddle pointed eagerly ahead with a wide grin on his face. “Land ahead!” he cried, eliciting a groan from one of the rowers – Verrine Qorgyle.

    “We’ve been surrounded by land for hours you dimwit,” he grumbled, bringing a smirk to Xaphan’s dry lips. The Black Sun turned to where Tiddle pointed, around the mound of sandstone cliffs a mile before them. Xaphan nodded, turning his gaze back up to Damon.

    “Signal Drox’s ship. We’re close!” he shouted, then jumping to an oar and setting a hard, quick pace for his crew to follow. “Children of the Sun! Row with me! Row with me to dry land!” he cried, and his brothers and sisters in both arms and suffering joined him in cheer as they pushed their sapping strength into the final leap.

    Overhead, Damon signaled their other ship with the sun and a hand mirror. Andal sailors had long used this trick to communicate with each other across the sea during the day, while relying on flame signals during the night. Drox acknowledged their order with three glaring flashes in return. Come brother, we’re this close, Xaphan would say to him if he were by his side.

    Drox and Xaphan had known each other the last forty years, growing up together as boys, thus they were as close to brothers as men could get – even sharing a blood pact. While Xaphan had led his fights at sea, Drox had revered himself as a fearsome battle commander on land, winning Qarlon many battles against their neighbouring kingdoms. Though like Xaphan, Drox had been cast aside, and had joined his brother in their great desertion for a new land. Such a journey had met them with great loss.

    They had tried their luck at the Fingers, but many of the Andal kingdoms had been family of Qarlon’s enemies, and thus the Black Sun and his children found no reprieve there. They tried their luck at the Dusklands with Togarion Bar Emmon, an old friend of Xaphan’s, but their ships were turned back by the Small Merman’s fleet with the aid of his Valyrian beast. Dragonfire had consumed a dozen of their ships before they retreated, continuing further south. Once they had past the Stormlands they had danced with rogue waves, losing ships on the shallow reefs of the Stepstones. Initially their fleet surpassed two dozen ships, now they were only two.

    Both Xaphan and Drox had been swept far south of the continent, separated for days until a flame signal drew Xaphan back to the light. That was two days ago. From there they had tracked north with the aid of the sun and, finally delivering on his promise, had been rewarded with the sight of dry, unsettled land. They had found a river and started upstream, and now as they rowed, the sea legs of the broken sailors would soon be cured.

    “Row!” Xaphan cried, and his children shouted and wept with anguish and hope. Their calloused hands trembled on the oak oars that they had clutched to for months, their arms and faces blistered from the scorching sun.

    They came about the cliffs, and true to Damon’s word, a stony beach awaited them. Beaching their ship would surely gut their hull, but they had no choice. They had ditched all their landing boats during the great battle with the dragon to lose weight and evade the beast quickly. It had worked, but at great cost then and greater cost now. Settling here would be a certainty, their unforgiving welcome to a land more vicious than the one they had abandoned. Regardless, they were low on rations and without means to fish without their trawling nets or small boats. This was necessary.

    “Full speed!” Xaphan shouted, and a final cry of effort was rewarded with a jolting stop the hurled them from their benches. Then, everything was still. The ever-shifting flow of their path had finally ceased; they had landed. A cheerful cry escaped their lips, brothers and sisters turned to each other with embrace and deserved applaud. Xaphan pulled himself upright and moved to the prow of the vessel. He glanced down at the rocky shoreline that held them at anchor, then grasping the balustrades her hurled himself over.

    His landing was poor, forgivable for this seaman, and he tumbled over. His face and palms were grazed against the sharp rocks, a stinging welcome to their new home. He began to laugh, crawling on the solid, sturdy land that was theirs to claim. He clambered up the sand cliff and unsheathed his sword, a weapon that had seen no use these last few months.

    “Children of the Sun!” he cried, and his crew looked up to him on the mound of desert he had claimed. “Months ago, I vowed to deliver you to dry land! Look upon my oath and congratulate yourselves, we are here!” he bellowed, raising his sword and planting it into the sand before him. A mix of swords, axes and oars lifted into the air with cheer.

    “Dry land! Dry land! Dry land!” they cheered, and Xaphan smiled proudly as he took a knee.

    Before long, their cheers drowned out to a new sound. The sound of angry waves, or serpents of the sea breaking the surface of their great home. No. This was dry land, the angers of the sea were behind them, but that sound… That roaring sound was familiar, the galloping of hooves on sand. Horses! Xaphan realised, and instinctively he drew his sword from the sand as he turned to meet an army of warriors on horseback. They carried a black banner displaying a cloudy grey river alight with fire, and spears tipped with bronze heads. At their head were two men, the first an older man with a thick grey beard, and the second a much younger man, though his short hair was silver.

    “You’re trespassing, who are you?” the younger of the two questioned with a rough voice, and Xaphan gazed at his people before turning his gaze on these men.

    “I am Xaphan Dryland, the Black Sun. We are Andal’s. What kingdom are we trespassing in?” Xaphan asked, and the older of the two sneered.
    
    “The Kingdom of the Brimstone, ruled by Queen Carmella Holt,” he announced, then glancing at Xaphan’s crew. “Do you speak for this lot?” Xaphan nodded. “And the other ship?” he asked.

    “Also mine,” Xaphan confirmed, “Captained by my brother, Drox,” he added. The younger man of the two nodded.

    “Are there anymore of you?” he asked, and Xaphan shook his head with a hint of grief.

    “Not anymore.”

    “Once your other ship lands we will bring you to Brimholt to face our Queen. We implore you come quietly,” the older of the two announced, barking an order to his men who then headed to Xaphan’s ship. Two guards came up to Xaphan’s position, claiming is steel blade and detaining him. Again, Xaphan was brought to his knees. Moments ago, a free man, now a remorseful one.

-

    They had arrived at Brimholt blindfolded, likely a precaution given the reputation of the Andal’s in Westeros, and had been put into a holding cell. Xaphan sat patiently on the cool cobblestone floor, wallowing in the still purity that the castle brought. It was simply a marvel after being at sea for so long.

    After Drox had spotted the commotion ashore he had been hesitant to land, but with some signaling persuasion he had, leading to a quick and peaceful detain. The rest of their crew had been left at the ships under a guard detail, though Xaphan knew his people could easily overwhelm them if needed, he implored them to remain amicable. We’ve lost enough good people already.

    Though while Xaphan had been modest in this process, Drox had been skeptical. Growing up, the two men had always been competitive and not always like-minded. Xaphan was studious and precise, while Drox was rash and courageous. As a duo, the two made an impenetrable team, but coming to consensus over things that mattered was easier said than done at times, and Drox’s feelings seethed out of his skin as he paced the walls of their cell impatiently.

    Drox was a charmer, both his physique and features demonstrated that, and he had always been the better flirt between he and Xaphan. Even now after months at sea, his chiseled jaw was strong and alluring, lightly dusted with a greying stubble, while his dark hair was kept short – true to the soldier he was. Xaphan on the other hand had quite gaunt features, with a full beard and long swept-back hair that was charcoal black. While Drox’s eyes were like amber, Xaphan’s eyes were nearly as black as his hair – feeding part of his moniker, the ‘Black Sun.’

    “Remind me why we willingly left our people to sit in a cell, Black Sun? Or should I call your Dryland now?” he japed, making Xaphan roll his eyes.

    “Our people have faced enough. We are depleted, another battle would destroy us. Consulting with this queen might secure us a safe place in these lands,” Xaphan suggested, making Drox scoff.

    “You promised those people you would give them lands where they could be kings. Would you now ask them to bend the knee to some foreign queen?” he queried, his attitude cold, making Xaphan sigh.

    “I don’t know, Drox. I promised them safety, and I don’t see warring with a kingdom as any means to deliver them that promise. They have seen enough bloodshed for one lifetime,” Xaphan remarked, but Drox shook his head.

    “I disagree.”

    “Of course you do.”

    The lock to the door of their cell fumbled before swinging open, and they were quickly met by two guards and the young silver haired man who had been part of the group of First Men that had arrested them. His lilac eyes studied them carefully before he nodded for the guards to proceed. “The Queen will see you now. Your hands will be bound for this meeting,” he informed them, and the guards proceeded with tying their hands. Drox smirked.

    “You First Men seemed afraid of us,” he remarked with amusement, receiving a scowl from both Xaphan and this silver-haired warrior, who took a step forward and glared into Drox’s amber eyes.

    “Trust me, Andal, I’m about as fearful of you as I am a gutter rat,” the young man stated, humouring Drox.

    “Brave words to say to a man in bindings,” Drox taunted, and before matters could elevate further, Xaphan stood forward.

    “You were part of the host that detained us. Are you Valyrian?” Xaphan asked, and the man glanced at him before shaking his head.

    “I’m a bastard of House Dayne,” he stated, though his explanation provided little meaning to the Black Sun. Drox smirked.

    “Ah, a bastard. That explains things,” he japed, and the Dayne bastard shook his head disapprovingly before his guards confirmed that their hands were bound.

    “Come on, we don’t have all day,” the man muttered, leading the way. Drox glanced at Xaphan and raised his eyebrows, to which Xaphan only rolled his eyes before following the man.

    They ascended a stairwell and entered a main hall, where the eyes of many nobles gazed upon them with ill reprieve. Xaphan paid them no mind, instead observing the make of the castle. He was surprised to note it was mostly fashioned from wood and surmised that perhaps the Kingdom of the Brimstone was not as powerful as they made out to be. They followed the Dayne bastard through a variety of hallways until they reached two heavy oaken doors. The guards immediately swung them open upon their arrival, and within rested a simple throne which a woman occupied. She was not what Xaphan expected.

    From head to toe, Queen Carmella was adorned in garments, with a velvet headcover that draped a silk veil down her face… only it was not her face Xaphan looked at from behind the curtains, but rather an ornate mask of silver.

    By her side was the older man who had been with the Dayne bastard when they arrested Xaphan and Drox, along with another fresh face – a man clad in bronze armour which Xaphan suspected was the Queen’s royal guard. The Dayne bastard took a knee, bowing his head.

    “Queen Carmella Holt, I bring before you the Andal captains,” he announced, and the masked queen waved an open hand at him.

    “Thank you, Arthor. That will be all,” she dismissed, and Arthor raised his gaze with confusion before bowing his head a final time and taking his leave. Drox entertained himself with a wink towards the bastard as he passed. The Queen came to her feet, descending from her throne with her company.

    “I would say my introduction has already been made. You two have already met Mykal Sift, the General of my army,” she stated, motioning to the older man, who glared at them with hard eyes. Carmella then turned her gaze to her guard. “This is Jabrel Minur, the commander of my royal guard. What are your names?” she then asked, and Xaphan exchanged a glance with Drox, who only shrugged.

    “I am Xaphan Dryland, the Black Sun and commander of this fleet,” Xaphan introduced, then turning his gaze to Drox. His brother sighed impatiently as he uncomfortably fiddled with his bindings.

    “Drox Diemen,” he stated nonchalantly, to which Xaphan raised an eyebrow. The surname was a new addition. If you get one, I guess I do too, Drox was likely thinking, which amused Xaphan. Competitive to no avail. Carmella nodded.

    “What are your intentions here?” she asked, and Drox gazed around the throne room.

    “We are seeking lands to settle, we have been at sea for a long time,” Xaphan stated, and if Carmella reacted, her expression was lost behind her mask.

    “Andal explorers,” she then said, “I’ve heard that tale before.”

    Drox lifted his nose. “We’re not explorers. We’re soldiers,” Drox remarked, and Xaphan cleared his throat awkwardly.

    “Deserters,” he clarified, and Carmella turned her gaze on him.

    “Deserters?”

    Xaphan nodded shamefully. He was not proud of their abandonment to Qarlon’s cause. Xaphan had dedicated his life to it. Though at the end of the day, it was Qarlon who had betrayed him, not the other way around. “We were servants of a conqueror king, Qarlon, who made many enemies in Andalos, later including us. We left his army to give our people a better life, and that journey has been a strenuous one,” Xaphan explained, and Carmella nodded slowly, a gesture he assumed as sympathy.

    “Protecting loved ones is a difficult task, there are often great lengths we must go to do so. Tell me, Lord Dryland, how far would you go to protect your people?”

    Xaphan bowed his head with a short smile. If only she knew. “Queen, we have been to hell and back since we left Andalos. They are each my kin, and I would give my life to protect any of them.” Carmella held her gaze on Xaphan a moment before turning her eyes onto Drox.

    “And you, Lord Diemen?”

    Drox shook his head. “If you are wanting our swords, we can negotiate our services in return for safe harbour. As Xaphan said, we’ve been to hell and back, we’ve no intention in going back,” he stated, and General Mykal sneered at Drox’s tone.

    “You’re not here to negotiate, and you’d better tidy up that mouth of yours before I clamp it shut,” he warned, but Carmella quickly raised a hand for his silence.

    “It’s alright, General. These Andal’s are not accustomed to our ways, nor we there’s,” she excused, then turning her gaze back on Xaphan and Drox. “My kingdom faces many perils that I lack the resources to address. We are on the eave of war and bandits have taken to terrorising my lands,” she stated, and Xaphan nodded.

    “We’ll handle it if you will give us land to settle,” Xaphan offered, and received a cold glare from Mykal Sift.

    “The promises of a deserter. This is a waste of time, my Queen,” Mykal growled, catching the cold look Drox held for him.

    “Your people will remain on their ships until you have dealt with these terrorists, and the fortress they are based at you may have. I will be selecting wards amongst your crew to keep here to ensure your loyalty,” Carmella declared, and Xaphan nodded.

    “Deal.”

    It was a rare day in Dorne when the sun was not trying to kill you. Jaremy stared up at the clouds with dark eyes. A storm was brewing, and they were heading right for it.

    The Bastard of Brownhill turned his gaze onto the Brownhill force he had been sent with. Most were good men; Jaremy had spent nearly the last month training with them and was happy enough to have them by his side. Harrin Wern, on the other hand, was another story.

    The General of the Brownhill army sat high on his horse with a stern look on his cleanly shaven face, his brown eyes lacking any base of emotion. He wore a suit of bronze armour, proudly displaying the sigil of House Brownhill – a brown hill on a field of blue – and his slicked back dark blonde hair was tucked under a bronze half-helm. This was the man who Jaremy’s sister, his love, had married. Pathetic fucker, Jaremy sneered as he gazed at the back of the man’s head. The two of you will shelf this petty rivalry, Edgar had said to him, more a command than a suggestion, and this entire journey they had avoided each other like the plague.

    Their rivalry aside, Harrin was a good man, and a respected commander in their kingdom. However, Jaremy’s sparring and training of the foot soldiers in Brownhill had led to some discern in the ranks, and there was a clear division in the men that followed them. The younger lot looked up to Jaremy, be it because his ferocious tenacity inspired them or instilled a fear of consequence if they dare not follow, while the more experienced soldiers… the ones who remembered Prince Ethan Brownhill and Jaremy’s acts as a kin slayer, sided quite clearly with their General.

    This division was poor for morale and even worse for Harrin’s control, and hence the General had taken stricter measures on his younger recruits. One of the young scouts Harrin had sent ahead came barreling down to them from the sand dunes. Jaremy pushed his steed into a trot to join Harrin’s side and meet the lookout, receiving a cold look from his adversary as he reached his side.

    “General!” the scout called, gazing between Jaremy and Harrin nervously before bringing his steed to a sliding halt as he reached them. “Smoke rises from Wade’s Helm,” he stated, and Jaremy gazed up at the sky. Had the day been sun and blue skies they would have seen the smoke of a campfire from a mile away… though now Jaremy was starting to question if the clouds overhead were indeed clouds at all.

    “Show me,” Harrin ordered, and both Jaremy and the General pushed their steeds into a gallop up sand dune their scout had just descended. As they reached the summit, their eyes were unveiled to the disturbing reality that had come upon Wade’s Helm. Smoke and fire danced from the city, and if Jaremy’s eyes did not deceive, it looked as if the main gates had been blown apart. Harrin anxiously rubbed his jaw. “Gods mercy,” he muttered to himself.

    “Could Horvis have already beat us here?” the scout suggested, his voice timid. Harrin shook his head cluelessly, still visibly in shock, making Jaremy scowl.

    “Only one way to find out,” the Bastard of Brownhill stated, and the General immediately shook his head.

    “We do nothing until we have a better understanding of what has happened here. Send word back to King Edgar, we will make set up here and scout,” Harrin ordered, and the sentry nodded. Jaremy sneered at him.

    “You want to fucking make camp and watch?” Jaremy asked, shaking his head with disbelief. “Are you fucking craven?”

    Harrin turned his glare on Jaremy. “I might remind you who is in command here, bastard. We don’t know what’s down there, and I won’t risk the lives of my men until I better understand what has happened here. Is that clear?”

    Jaremy shook his head. “Bugger that,” he growled, turning his horse back around. He galloped down the dune back to the small force that joined them from Brownhill. Unsheathing his Valyrian steel shortsword, Jaremy pointed past the hill. “Wade’s Helm lays in ruin. Shall we ride for the castle or tuck tail and ride home?” he shouted, and the men glanced at each other before a few unsheathed their swords, rallying the others to do the same. “With me!” Jaremy yelled, leading the host over the dunes and past the furious General.

    They descended upon the fortress of Jaremy’s stepmother, the old hateful crone that had caused him much grief in his earlier years. He did not ride to the Queen Mother’s home to discover the fate of her family or avenge the tarnishing of her old home – he could not care less for any of that. Let them burn. No, he rode because he had a thirst. A thirst for blood and a hunger to fight for it, and he was willing to wager whoever did this was likely still behind those walls.

    As the distance closed between Wade’s Helm and the Brownhill host, Jaremy spotted men atop the walls shouting as they nocked arrows, though their voices were lost to the wind. At the broken gate a force of foreign soldiers gathered with shields and spears, their dark skin barely concealed under their cloth uniform. Those who rode with Jaremy would not recognise these folk, but as a man who had been a slave for both the Freehold and the Old Empire, Jaremy immediately recognised these foes. Ghiscari Legionnaires… but what were they doing here? They were about to find out.

    Men in white tabards with seven-pointed stars for a sigil came flooding out of the main gate with swords of iron and shields of oak, revealing their identity. Andal’s, as Edgar had predicted. They were here. Jaremy twirled his Valyrian steel blade, then making the first contact and cutting the chest open of the first brave Andal to charge him on horseback.

    Jaremy dismounted his horse, leaping onto an unsuspecting foe and burying his blade into the man’s heart. His single engagement against this army of invaders was quickly met with reinforcements, as the Ghiscari line broke and more Andal’s came flooding out of the open gateway. They were quickly met by the rest of the Brownhill host, who were eager to bloody their swords in the names of their allies.

    Bronze clashed with iron, fists connected with jaws and Jaremy’s rage was unparalleled. The Bastard of Brownhill massacred any man who dared face him, carving them like butter with his deadly foreign blade – the blood it spilt coating Jaremy’s hands, arms, and face. Jaremy exhaled a thunderous roar as he cracked a man’s skull beneath his boot while simultaneously decapitating two others with a single swing of his blade.

    Around him, the First Men trades blows with the Andal’s, their deficient armour and weaponry proving fatal against the superior arms of the foreign invaders. Jaremy had taught his division to be vicious, however, and as the young men watched their blades get severed in two or suffer multiple dents in their armour, they quickly shifted to more primal methods – punching, clawing, biting… Their survival depended on it.

    Harrin and his men appeared shortly after the initial engagement, crashing against the Lockstep Legionnaires with their horses. The Ghiscari lived up to their reputation, hardly budging despite the injuries that were inflicted, and took down numerous riders and their horses before their line broke. As Harrin was dismounted, his sword and shield met with the greatsword of a giant fucker dressed in iron plating from head to toe. That’s my kind of fight, Jaremy thought as he spat blood.

    He carved his way through his opposition, making for Harrin and this iron knight, and came damn close until his sword sung against the blade of another. Jaremy turned his gaze onto a sister blade to his own – a dark Valyrian steel longsword, wielded by an Andal with a long face, dark hair, and bright green eyes. Jaremy growled as he slid the edge of his blade off the Andal’s, circling with him in this arena of corpses.

    Jaremy did not hesitate, throwing himself against the man. The Andal dodged his first attack, slicing Jaremy in the back of his calf as he flew past. The Bastard of Brownhill let out an agonising roar before turning upon his opponent and pummeling him in the jaw. The punch was unexpected and made an opening for Jaremy to clutch the man’s throat. With the pommel of his sword, Jaremy beat the man senseless, but let his guard down. He barely felt with dagger slip into his thigh with all the adrenaline flowing through his veins.

    Jaremy released the Andal and stumbled back, gripping the hilt of the dagger and pulling it free – a foolish act, as blood started to stream out his open wound. Jaremy did not care, he turned his fiery glare onto the Andal, who had collected himself enough to raise his sword. Jaremy stepped forward, raising his weapons, and immediately felt the weakness cripple his leg. He plummeted into the sand.

    The Andal loomed over him, lifting his blade overhead to finish the job – and in a dark flash he disappeared. Jaremy propped himself up, watching as a rogue horse galloped through the midst of the battlefield in a mad ditch to escape the chaos, bowling Jaremy’s opposition over in the process. Jaremy gritted his teeth as he clutched his sword and pulled himself upright.

    All around him was death, mostly on his side. Their numbers had dwindled to less than two dozen, they were outnumbered and fucked, to put it lightly. Jaremy turned his gaze back to Harrin, who had endured a fight for his life against this iron foe but received a whack across the chest from the giant’s iron longsword, throwing the General back with a ruptured chest piece and likely a few broken ribs. Harrin’s body fell limp, he did not try to get back up. His foe moved in to take the kill.

    Jaremy took a step towards them, feeling the pain jolt through his leg, but with a thunderous war cry he willed himself into a quick pace, attracting the attention of the iron suited brute as he hurled himself at him. The two collided and fell to the ground, tackling for superiority. Jaremy’s fingers poked through the man’s visor, trying to inflict any damage he could, and managed to force the brute’s helmet off. It revealed the thick bearded face of a man almost as rageful as the Bastard of Brownhill. The brute secured his hands around Jaremy’s throat, suffocating the life out of him. Jaremy’s hands stretched frantically in the sand for a weapon he could use. Nothing. He brought his hands up to the man’s face, clawing at his eyes, but the brute was adamant at claiming this life.

    His vision started to blur, darken as his life ebbed away from his body. Memories suddenly seemed to flood into the forefront of his mind. Memories of the damned, fighting with the tribes of Sothoryos against the remnant Ghiscari outposts on their lands. Memories of hatred, lodging that dagger into his half-brother’s throat all those years ago. Memories of love, which all came back to Elise. These memories specifically called to him, and Jaremy almost felt a comfort in slipping away from life to answer them. He began to let go.

    These visions cleared as a gasp of air rushed into Jaremy’s lungs, and the brute above him slid off him, a bloody line drawn from his temple down to his jaw. Jaremy clutched his throat as he watched the brute fall, then gazing up at his saviour. Harrin clutched his breastplate, gazing down at Jaremy almost ambivalently before collapsing. Jaremy crawled to him, slapping him hard across the cheek. He did not wake. Fuck! Jaremy glanced around, there were perhaps a dozen or so Brownhill’s standing, while the Andal’s kept coming. Jaremy shook his head.

    “Run! Back to Brownhill!” he shouted, willing himself up and hauling Harrin over his shoulder. He started hobbling away, harbouring no false illusion that he would get away with his life or his lover’s husband’s. Jaremy watched as the remaining Brownhill soldiers past him, making for the dunes, and turned back to see the Andal’s advancing.

    “Stop!” a voice among them commanded, a small voice, but no less assertive than the likes of the brute Jaremy and Harrin had faced - and the Andal's ceased their pursuit. This man was like the rest of them, wearing a white tabard with a red seven-pointed star on his chest, though a golden spear pierced the star on his surcoat. His brown hair was long like Jaremy’s, and his beard short, and his small brown eyes had seen enough of this conflict. By his order, he let Jaremy and Harrin narrowly escape with their lives. By his mercy, he would plant the seeds to a new Dorne.

    The keep of Blackmont was a forbidding castle built into the cliffs of a dark mountain, and overhead loomed the vultures to which this kingdom took for their coat-of-arms. That and more, Warmond thought as he stared at the depiction of a newborn in the talons of a vulture. The Blackmont’s had a dark history, one which Dia had explained to the Iron Merman long ago, though the details were lost to Warmond.

    The crown prince of the Kingdom of the Mander and the Seas sat in the lobby before the throne room with impatience. They had arrived at Blackmont in the late morning after their dawn ride from High Hermitage, yet despite both Warmond’s status and the presence of the Dayne’s, the Witch Queen of Blackmont had denied them an immediate audience. Warmond considered that act as an insult, and the longer he waited the sooner he came to losing his temper. Does she not know we come to aid her with the terrorists on her lands? Does she not value the trade that finances her kingdom? Dia grasped his hand as she recognised his visible frustration.

    “It’s been quite some time since I was last here,” she expressed, and Warmond turned his gaze on her with half-interest.

    “I was not aware you had visited Blackmont,” Warmond admitted, and a shy smile touched his wife’s lips.

    “It was a short stay,” she confessed, “and a long time ago… before Hector was king. His father, Leomar, and my father had been discussing the idea of joining our houses for years by having me and Leomar’s only son marry. I was adamantly against the idea back then, believing myself meant for greater things at my ripe age of twenty-one, and Hector saw that when we were introduced. He was only a year younger, but he carried so much rage against his father.

    “Only a year before, his sister, who was betrothed to Prince Domeric Manwoody, had been assassinated by Manwoody radicals that did not wish to see peace between their two kingdoms. Hector was there when his sister died, only narrowly surviving, and when he returned to Blackmont he was outraged to learn his father still sued for peace between their two kingdoms. Prince Domeric came to Blackmont with the heads of a dozen traitors as a display of good will and apology, and Leomar was content with that. Hector on the other hand resented his father for his inaction, and I suppose our proposed marriage resembled that past,

    “We both found a strange comfort in our mutual disinterest of marrying each other, and Hector confronted my father with a polite refusal, claiming he had no intention of remaining at Blackmont. A few months later, Hector departed for Essos, and returned only when Leomar was dying, bringing with him a Myrish wife.”

    Warmond glanced at the closed oak doors. “The Witch Queen of Blackmont,” he deduced, and received a disapproving scowl from his wife.

    “Ashara Blackmont is no more a sorceress than a flint and steel is a pyromancer. I’ve seen greater displays of magic at the Flooded Citadel, do not condemn her,” Dia implored, and Warmond nodded apologetically. His impatience was getting the better of him.

    “She’s not fond of strangers, either,” a voice stated, and Warmond turned his gaze to the boyish faced stranger that accompanied Aron Dayne, suited in heavy steel plating. His skin was tanned, and his curly hair was almost black, his light brown eyes displayed a confidence and assertion that seemed beyond his young years. Aron bowed his head.

    “Prince Warmond, allow me to introduce you to Prince Gawain Blackmont, King Hector’s second son and General of the Blackmont army,” Aron introduced, and Warmond stood and accepted Gawain’s hand. The boy had the build of a warrior, but his age made Warmond question if he had enough experience to head the position he was in. Gawain seemed to read Warmond’s mind on this matter.

    “Fret not, Prince Warmond, I only look young. I can assure you I have nearly more than a decade over your son, Willow,” he stated, and Warmond gauged that would put the man in his mid-twenties – well over what Warmond initially thought.

    “Good to meet you, Prince Gawain,” Warmond spoke politely, and the young man nodded.

    “If you are ready, I will escort you inside now.” Warmond and Dia nodded before falling in behind Gawain and Aron. The guards nodded to Gawain before unlocking the doors.

    Queen Ashara Blackmont sat in her chair beside the throne, her exotic Essosi features standing out to Warmond’s eye. Like Dia, Ashara’s dark complexion looked like it belonged to a woman decades her junior, and her full head of hair flowed as dark as her skin. Her eyes were significantly darker than her son’s and held a haunting beauty to them that was unsettling. Warmond could not help but feel that despite her captivating charm, there was something harsh and decrepit about her.

    Beside her another woman sat, visibly younger only by lacking maturity, but with similar compelling traits. Warmond surmised this girl was Ashara’s daughter, given the fresher comparison of similarities she bestowed, though her eyes set her apart from her mother. A warm chocolate brown, her gaze was enchanting, provoking curiosity and intelligence in a vibrance that was both harrowing and alluring.

    Prince Gawain marched before them and stood sentinel before the women of Blackmont, while Aron Dayne knelt. Ashara bowed her head.

    “Prince Manderly, Princess Dia, Sword of the Morning, welcome to Blackmont. I see you have made acquaintance with my son,” she greeted, then turning her gaze to the young girl beside her, “Allow me to also introduce my daughter, Selena,” Ashara said, and Warmond nodded to the girl politely.

    “We appreciate you finding the time to accommodate our visit,” Warmond stated with subtle spite, something Ashara recognised but paid no mind to. “I take it you understand why I am here?” Warmond stated, amusing the Witch Queen.

    “I understand why a minor disruption in our trade with the Manderly’s and Dayne’s would summon a presence in my husband’s kingdom, though I do not specifically understand why the heir of the Mander King visits and not the Merman of the Torrentine or King Andrey’s brother,” Ashara remarked, bringing a small smile to Warmond’s lips.

    “Wylis and Alester Dayne have been reposted. My son is now Lord of High Hermitage and subsequent Merman of the Torrentine, and I represent the interests of the Kingdom of the Mander and the Seas, that is all you need concern yourself with. As for this minor dilemma you make mention of, I would consider bandits on your lands that disrupt your sources of import and income as a matter greater than a minor dilemma. Unless of course these disruptions are staged by the Kingdom of Blackmont to provoke an excuse for war. I can speak frankly that Andrey is looking at widening the borders of his kingdom.” Warmond’s accusations were perhaps overstepped, as was how Dia and Aron received them, but intended more as a way of holding Ashara accountable for these terrors on her lands than a genuine allegation. The corner of the Queen’s lip rose.

    “Such a dangerous game you play, Prince Warmond, I can see why Dia chose you,” Ashara remarked, winking at his wife. “As for this mutual dilemma, I can assure you Gawain has been looking into it, though these bandits are elusive, and with my husband taking a great chunk of our army with him to Yronwood, I lack the resources to do much more,” Ashara claimed, making Warmond cross his arms with frustration.

    “So why not call upon High Hermitage for aid? This disruption concerns us as well,” Warmond stated, and Ashara forced a smile as she crossed her legs.

    “This is a Blackmont matter, and it will be resolved once my husband returns,” she assured him, but Warmond was not convinced.

    “Nonsense. Each day of disruption only serves to weaken our kingdoms. Aron and his men will aid your son in his search,” Warmond declared, and Aron stood, bowing his head.

    “It will be an honour to serve, my Lady.” Ashara’s nose lifted slightly before she reluctantly nodded.

    “Very well, your assistance is appreciated, Prince Aron,” the Queen conceded, and Warmond then shifted his gaze onto the Princess Selena. She looked to be Willow’s age, and with the right negotiations, a marriage between them could solidify Willow’s position in Dorne for their kingdom.

    “The Princess Selena… is she intended to marry soon?” Warmond questioned, and Ashara glared at Warmond disapprovingly – as did Dia.

    “We will accommodate you and your wife for the night, then Gawain will accompany you and Aron to Nightsong, we have good relations with House Caron. From there, Gawain and Aron shall resume their search for these bandits,” Ashara announced, and Warmond nodded in recognition of her generosity. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have much to oversee and time is fleeting,” she stated, and both Warmond and Dia bowed their heads before being escorted out of the throne room.

-

    The Iron Merman rubbed his eyes tiredly as he donned his tunic. The sun was just creeping over the peaks of the Red Mountains as they were roused and informed their escort awaited. Warmond looked forward to returning home and enjoying a full night’s rest, but for the meantime, duty called.

    Warmond and Dia walked hand-in-hand to the Blackmont courtyard where Gawain and Aron awaited, however their attention was focused not on them, but on three men who stood in the gate. They donned heavy grey robes with drooping hoods, and the leader of the three was a small man with a cleanly shaven head and face. It was clear from the other side of the yard that Prince Gawain was in some sort of disagreement with these men. Warmond and Dia quickened their pace to the scene.

    “Leave!” Gawain demanded, unsheathing his steel longsword, and the men glanced at the general fearlessly, but bowed their heads peacefully.

    “The prophecy will be heeded,” their ringleader stated with a dry monotone voice before donning his hood and turning with his companions. Warmond stopped between Aron and Gawain.

    “What was that about?” he asked, getting a strange feeling as he watched the three hooded folk slither away from the castle. Gawain held an unforgiving glare on these men before sheathing his sword and turning back to his men. Warmond looked to Aron for an explanation, but the Sword of the Morning only shrugged.

    “They said they were Servants of the Great Other, and that the Princess Selena was involved in some kind of prophecy,” Aron stated, then turning his concerned eye on the back on the three men. Warmond’s grip on Dia’s hand tightened as he stared emptily at these men, and their ringleader turned at the touch of his gaze, his eyes meeting Warmond’s and sending an icy shiver down the Iron Merman’s spine. “Come,” Aron beckoned, leading Warmond and Dia’s horses to them, “Let us get you out of Dorne.”

    Half-a-dozen banners marched into the great hall of this foreign castle under invitation of a Prince Benedict Yronwood, each colouring the room differently. The black banner of the Toland’s, the orange banner of House Vaith, the golden banner of the Gargalen’s, the white-blue field of the Santagar’s, the gyronny red-black of House Allyrion, and the checkered green of House Jordayne – the house Reya served.

    Each house brought a gift. Cradled in Reya’s arms were assorted dyes, meant for clothes and hair, as evident by Reya’s purple shoulder-length hair. Other servants of their house carried crates of pear brandy or components of steel filigreed armour. These were the gifts of the Tyroshi, who the Jordayne’s had sided with when war came to Andalos. Instead of fighting, Emphryus Jordayne had submitted to the Freehold and taken a noble Tyroshi wife, the Lady Melora, who Reya had served faithfully since she was a little girl.

    The same story applied to the other Andal kings who now gathered before the Yronwood’s. The Allyrion’s brought Lysene wines and girls for their host’s pleasure, similarly to their vassals, the Gargalen’s and Vaith’s. The Santagar’s offered Myrish lenses and tapestries, along with the knowledge of how to work Myrish steel to resupply the Yronwood’s army with greater weapons, while the Toland’s brought rare exotic fruits and sweet red wine from Volantis.

    Their host, King Olyvar Yronwood, sat upon his throne with a stern glare on his guests as they presented these gifts at his feet. As Reya came forward and placed the brandy before him, his gaze lingered on her for an uncomfortable duration. By his side were many of his family, including Prince Benedict and his father, Prince Eddin. Emphryus had hosted Benedict in Pentos some years ago with talk of recruiting an army to aid them in an upcoming war in Dorne, though Emphryus had little interest in settling in Dorne or bringing war to his people. As the threat of dragons loomed overhead however, Emphryus was quick to arrange a deal with the Tyroshi that would grant them ships and passage to Dorne. He encouraged his allies, Cyrus Allyrion and Matthue Santagar, to do the same.

    Olyvar glanced at his grandson, Benedict, with a turned-up nose. “Is this all?” he questioned with verbal disappointment, and Reya could feel the atmosphere in the hall sour. Though Reya was a mere handmaiden, she was the handmaiden to the Lady Melora, and overhearing discussions between her and Emphryus gave her hope that they would find no trouble settling in Dorne. The reality seemed less assuring. Emphryus bent his knee before the king.

    “Your Grace, these gifts are only a taste of what we offer. With the promise of land in this vast desert, we would swear on an oath to aid you on any endeavors you direct, including this war you plan on the Stormlands,” Emphryus pledged, and the other heads of the Andal houses followed suit with his direction. An amused grin spread across the old king’s lips, sending shivers down Reya’s spine.

    “I accept your gifts and pledge, rise,” Olyvar announced, which stirred mix feelings amongst those present. Prince Benedict grinned approvingly, and his father bowed his head respectfully to their guests, however the other side of Olyvar’s large family seemed less than thrilled. “Though gifts only last so long, I would wish these friendships to last,” Olyvar stated, and Emphryus bowed his head.

    “What would you suggest, Lord King?”

    Olyvar glanced around at his large family with ambitious eyes. “I have many grandchildren, great-grandchildren and bannermen, and there are many of you. I propose a great wedding.” Emphryus and the other kings nodded in approval. “Bring forward your suitors,” Olyvar prompted, and the Andal’s swiftly sent forward their next of kin.

    For Emphryus, this was his son, Ser Emory – as his daughter, Emylia, was married to Cyrus Allyrion’s son, Ceptum. Hence, Cyrus sent forward his daughter, Cersei, and Matthue Santagar did the same. Emerich Vaith gave his son, Alaric, while Terrence Gargalen proposed himself. Lucius Toland’s was the only man not to present any suitors, his marriage with Wynona of Volantis still young and yielding them no children.

    “What of this girl?” Olyvar enquired, and Reya’s heart froze as she realised the old man was pointing at her. Emphryus and Melora turned their gaze on her momentarily.

    “She is my wife’s handmaiden,” Emphryus stated, but Olyvar shook his head.

    “She is now the handmaiden to my great-granddaughter, Jeyna, who will marry your son,” Olyvar stated, and one of the Yronwood’s shook his head angrily.

    “She will not,” he growled, and Olyvar turned his glare onto his grandson. An older man, Reya assumed the grandson’s father, stood between he and the king.

    “Forgive Braedon’s outburst, father. What he meant to say was we have other plans for Jeyna and Braedon’s sons. Something I would like to speak to you about in private,” the man remarked, making Olyvar roll his eyes.

    “Very well, but she still gets the handmaiden,” Olyvar grumbled, then turning his gaze back on Emphryus. “Your son will marry Benedict’s daughter, Gwenyth,” Olyvar announced, and Benedict proudly brought his daughter forward. Gwenyth was a stunning specimen, and Emory bowed dutifully as he made her acquaintance. Reya felt a pang of jealousy as she watched Emory take Gwenyth’s hand, she had secretly dreamed of being in Gwenyth’s place for quite some time now. A hopeless dream, she acknowledged, but a dream nonetheless.

    “Benedict, your son, Yorick, will marry Cyrus’ daughter,” Olyvar stated, and Cersei’s cheeks blushed with excitement as the long haired warrior descended to meet her. “Now, who else…” Olyvar grumbled as he looked upon his lineage like gambling tokens. Reya gazed around at her people with a sickened stomach. Their lives were being traded like cattle, and they were powerless to do a thing against it.

-

    Princess Jeyna was beautiful, with curly dark brown hair and eyes of the same colour, she wore a light silk dress that wrapped nicely around her slim figure. Besides learning that she was a couple of years older than Reya was, the new handmaiden to the princess had barely spoken a word to the girl. She had sat mostly in silence while Reya had familiarised herself with her new mistress’ room. She had tidied Jeyna’s bed, stuffing her pillows and dusting her shelves – though she had received no acknowledgement of her acts.

    Alas, Reya’s duty was not so bad, though she felt envy as watching her royal friends marry. Cersei was betrothed to the knightly Prince Yorick, Ser Emory to Princess Gwenyth, while her cousin, Princess Ella, was betrothed to Ser Alaric Vaith. Taylah Santagar had been proposed to one of Olyvar’s vassals from House Arrows, while Terrence Gargalen was offered a wife from House Vass of Watersmeet. Five marriages in the spans of five minutes. Reya tried not to think about it.

    “Princess, can I bring you something cool to drink?” Reya suggested, and the girl gently shook her head, her eyes scowling at the floor. Reya followed her gaze but saw nothing. “Would you like me to clean the floors, Princess?” she inquired, and the girl shifted her glare elsewhere as she shook her head.

    “I don’t require a handmaiden, let alone an Andal spy,” Jeyna remarked coldly, standing from her chair and glaring at her. Reya lowered her gaze as she moved aside.

    “If it pleases you, Princess, I am Tyroshi… not Andal,” she expressed, her foreign accent still sounding out the words of the Common Tongue. She had only started learning it when Lady Melora had married Emphryus.

    “And your old mistress is married to an Andal,” Jeyna spited, “Only days ago we met with allies who we swore we would support when the Andal’s arrived. Now we break bread with them. I mean you no offence, girl, but the quarrels and hypocrisy of my family greatly angers me, and I wish to be alone. Please go,” she stated, and Reya glanced at her for a moment before bowing her head dutifully.

    Closing the door to Jeyna’s chambers behind her, turning to meet a pair of eyes before her almost made her heart leap from her chest. She stepped back with a startle, and the young man before her raised his hands apologetically.

    “I did not mean to startle you, my Lady. You must be my sister’s new handmaiden,” he deduced, and Reya eyed the young man. His eyes were a lighter brown than his sisters, though he shared her dark curly hair – although it was kept much shorter. He had a lean build and was quite handsome. “My name is Alix,” he introduced, and as Reya gazed at him silently his eyes widened in realisation. “Al-ix,” he pronounced as he raised his hand to his chest, making Reya giggle.

    “I speak your tongue, Prince. I am Reya,” she remarked, and Alix laughed awkwardly as he scratched the back of his head.

    “Right, sorry about that. I take it Jeyna has not taken well to your appointment,” he said, and Reya nodded. “She’s never liked others to do her own handiwork. I’ll have a chat with her. Maybe in the meantime you would like a tour of the castle?” he proposed, and Reya nodded appreciatively.
    
    “That would be very good,” she expressed, and Alix bowed his head dutifully.

    “Allow me, then,” he offered, extending his arm to her. She hooked her arm around his, and the two started down the hall.

    Alix guided her to the kitchens, the washing chambers and wine cellar before escorting her through the courtyards. Already the Andal presence was becoming known, as Yronwood soldiers started training with iron swords and armour. Alix then guided her to the great gardens of Yronwood, through the aisles of flowers and under the hanging leaves of palm trees and dangling fruits. They stopped at a balcony that overlooked the road to the harbour, where their Andal fleet had anchored under a white banner. To think it had only been days ago Reya had been spending time with her family in Tyrosh, and now she was here in Dorne with a completely new life.

    “So, tell me, your hair… Has it always been purple?” Alix asked with genuine interest, and Reya gazed at him for a moment to tell if he was serious. When she realised he was, she could not contain her laughter.

    “Yes, I was born from a dragonfruit. I also shit blueberries,” she laughed, and a wide grin spread across the young man’s face. He was perhaps only a year older than she, and had a personality that was warm and open. This was the first time Reya had felt comfortable in a while. “No,” she sighed as she fought of her giggles, “in Tyrosh we dye our hair in many colours. Purple is my favourite colour,” she explained, and Alix nodded in agreeance.

    “It’s a beautiful colour… as are your eyes,” he commented, and Reya’s dark blue eyes locked with his for a magical moment before her senses came back to her. He was royalty, nothing could ever happen. She shifted her gaze away in an attempt to conceal the sadness in her eyes. “Sorry, that was abrupt of me,” Alix apologised, but Reya shook her head.

    “It was sweet, thank you. You are very kind,” she expressed, and Alix flashed her a smile that was infectious. She felt sensations flush through her body she felt too inappropriate to acknowledge. She was a servant, she could dream, but she could not have. “I should go…” she said, looking down at the stream of her people moving stock and belongings from the ships to the castle. “I must work,” she stated, and Alix nodded.

    “I understand. I will go and speak with Jeyna,” he promised, and flashed him an appreciative smile before parting from him. Feeling his eyes on her, she straightened her back and held her head high, whipping her hair back for his delight. She turned to meet his eyes for a final time, smirking at him before disappearing around the corner, her heart swimming with emotions.

    The Bastard of Brownhill grimaced as he regained consciousness, immediately feeling the sharp pain in his thigh and calf from the injuries he had sustained during the battle at Wade’s Helm. Jaremy’s head was foggy, and he unveiled the blankets over his body to discover his legs were already treated and bandaged. He barely recognised he was in his bed back at Brownhill. How…

    He had no memory of getting here. This last thing he recalled was saving Harrin’s arse from that big fucker and dragging him out of there, and that Andal who had called off the pursuit on them, fatefully saving their lives. Why their adversary would spare them was beyond Jaremy’s understanding, as was how he got back to Brownhill. He turned his gaze around his room and was startled as recognised Edgar’s little girl sitting on chair beside his bed, her eyes fixed to a book.

    “You’re finally awake,” Abrey commented dryly, slipping her bookmark into her novel, and shutting it. “Was starting to think you wouldn’t come out of it,” she added, a touch of concern in her small voice. Jaremy snarled as pain shot through his leg.

    “Will take more than that to kill me,” he growled, startling the girl. She put her book aside and examined his leg.

    “I’ll go ask one of the maid’s for some mulled wine, that’ll help you with the pain,” she said excitedly, but Jaremy shook his head.

    “I don’t need mulled wine. What are you doing here? How did I get here?” he grumbled, and the girl frowned.

    “You don’t remember?” she asked, and the glare he gave her was enough of an answer. “You arrived with no horse, just my uncle Harrin over your shoulders and a long trail behind you stretching to Wade’s Helm. Then you collapsed. That was two days ago,” she said, and Jaremy shot up. Two days?

    “I have to speak to your father,” Jaremy muttered, though Abrey tried to combat him on this, another voice talked in her place.

    “He is already aware of the situation at Wade’s Helm, and you are in no state to walk yet,” she claimed, her voice soothing and sweet. It could only belong to one woman. Jaremy’s eyes turned to meet the gaze of his half-sister, Elise Wern, her beauty still unparalleled to this day. Her black hair was tied back into a tight bun and her green eyes met Jaremy’s with a varied response – her beautiful smile absent. “Abrey, sweety, could you go play with Riler? He’s quite bored,” she asked, and Abrey frowned.

    “I need to take care of Uncle Jaremy,” she argued, and Elise grasped the young girl’s shoulder with an appreciative smile.

    “I’ll take care of him for now, thank you, love,” she said, and the girl nodded hesitantly before grabbing her book and running off. Jaremy did not try to contain his smile. He liked the sound of her ‘taking care of him.’ Her eyes did not express his level of excitement, however. “My husband is alive and on his feet because of you. I wanted to thank you for saving Harrin’s life,” Elise stated, though her gratitude was thin and distant. Jaremy shrugged.

    “Don’t mention it,” Jaremy muttered, averting his gaze from her. Elise nodded.

    “Keep resting. I’ll inform Edgar you’re awake,” she said, turning to leave. Jaremy reached out and grasped her hand, startling her. The two looked eyes, but Jaremy abhorred at what he saw in hers – fear, sorrow, pain… reluctantly, he let her go. She pulled her hand back to safety, a tear streaming down her cheek, before egressing from his chambers.

    Jaremy felt a range of emotions circulate through him. Guilt. Remorse. Despair. Fuck. He could not stay here and be consumed by his thoughts. He hoisted himself up, throwing his legs off the bed and pushing himself onto his feet. The pain that shot through his leg almost sent him back down again, but his determination to move kept him going. He hobbled to his door, grabbing his sword on the way out.

-

    Jaremy brought his sword down, hacking through the straw dummy with a rage this opponent had likely never faced. He followed up his attack with a quick thrust through the strawman’s belly before striking off his head. Then he moved to the next dummy.

    The soldiers of Brownhill stood together and watched as Jaremy rotated through his straw opponents, though while they initially observed with sniggering contempt, now they watched him revered admiration. Some might say he was foolish to have charged their small host against the Andal’s head-on, it had certainly cost them, but having lived to tell the tale was a morale boost for the men… and Jaremy carrying Harrin on his back the entire journey only added to his reputation. He was gaining their respect, whether he cared for it or not.

    Jaremy cut down his next opponent with a single strike, splitting him in half from the midline. The upper half of the dummy collapsed into the dirt, and Jaremy drove his Valyrian steel through its chest.

    “He looks dead enough, Jaremy,” a voice called, and the Bastard of Brownhill turned to meet the gaze of his brother, King Edgar. Beside him, Harrin Wern hobbled beside him on crutches, his breathing shallow and painful. “Elise told me you were awake and resting. Imagine my surprise finding you here,” Edgar remarked sarcastically, to which Jaremy shrugged.

    “Apparently, I was out for two days. I’d say I’m rested,” Jaremy stated dryly, turning to his next opponent. Edgar sighed as he stood forward.

    “We should talk, Jaremy,” he urged, and reluctantly Jaremy sheathed his sword and turned to his brother, glaring at him with impatient eyes which Edgar paid no mind to. “A raven arrived this morning from Greenbrook. King Lyonel is summoning the kingdoms along the Greenblood to discuss an alliance against Horvis Shell, and now the invading Andal’s,” Edgar announced, and Jaremy raised his eyebrows. Their father, Franklyn, had sided with Lyonel Brook against Horvis Shell once before, back when Horvis had been voted as High King of the Greenblood. A vote they quickly came to regret, as Horvis mercilessly did away with those who fought against overarching rule. Franklyn and Lyonel’s alliance destroyed Horvis’ army, but in the process also destroyed the unification of the Greenblood. It was a bittersweet day for the kingdoms.

    Jaremy shrugged. “What’s this got to do with me?”

    “I want you to come with me. You have experience fighting this new threat, and you appear in a better condition to travel than the General. I believe that information will be invaluable at this hearing,” Edgar stated. Jaremy crossed his arms.

    “Do I have a choice?” he muttered, and Edgar smiled.

    “We all have a choice, brother, and I believe you have already made yours. We leave at dawn, I would suggest you get some rest before then, but I don’t expect you would heed that advice,” Edgar remarked with a smirk before turning away. Harrin lingered for a moment, staring at Jaremy with hard eyes before giving him a nod. He then turned and followed his king.

    Jaremy watched after them with cold eyes. His brother was right, as much as he hated to admit it. While he continuously fought with himself, he had already made his decision long ago. He had chosen to stay and make his place at Brownhill, already making a good name for himself among the men and now with the man he cared for the least in this whole castle, his decision to follow Edgar was already made.

    Clearhaven was a trading port stationed on the southern coast of Dorne, stretching between Southpoint and the mouth of the Brimstone. Built upon sandstone foundations, the township served as an open port for all ships traveling either direction along the southern coast. Of all Dorne, Clearhaven was the only city in the desert to see continuous trade with the rest of Westeros and Essos alike, which brought great wealth to the Dayne’s and Manderly’s – who had helped erect this port when Warmond took Dia’s hand in marriage.

    At the town’s centre was a five-story tower that served as the seat for House Wythmail, who had been loyal vassals to the Dayne’s for centuries, their banners flailing in the wind beside the banner of House Dayne. Alester frowned as he gazed at the banner of the Wythmail’s, not eager on meeting with Lord Samwell.

    Twenty-five years had passed this Susan’s death, but Lord Samwell had been distraught at the demise of his daughter and grandchild, and Alester’s grief only distanced their relationship. Samwell was now an old man, nearing his eighties, yet still stood tall outside the gates to his keep.

    Alester averted his gaze as he felt his old father-in-law’s glare pierce him. Wylis observed this, grasping Alester’s shoulder.

    “Chin up, boy,” he encouraged, and Alester shot a disapproving glare at him before heeding his advice. Prince Wylis was in a jolly state, it had been decades since he had visited Clearhaven, and his old bones shook with excitement. When Wylis helped establish this port he had hoped to be its lord, though the negotiations between his brother and Alester’s father resulted in him becoming Merman of the Torrentine and claiming his seat at High Hermitage. Now that young Willow had filled those shoes, Wylis looked to seize his old ambitions.

    They had sailed from Starfall at dawn, graced with good seas and a south-westerly wind that blew them along the southern coast directly to Clearhaven in good time, arriving by the mid-afternoon. Accompanying them from Starfall were Captain Kollion Nightfall and General Nicovacia Wythmail, who escorted them with a host of five hundred Dayne men across five ships – a number Alester considered grossly extravagant given they were still traveling in the waters of their kingdom. Still, Alester knew better than to question his brother’s reasoning.

    Lord Samwell stood with four men of his own: Captain Barrack of the Southpoint, the head of the port guard, Simon Wythmail, his son, and Mors Sand, his son’s bastard, and Gerris Upton, his page and cupbearer – and Artos’ younger brother. Wylis chuckled as he approached Samwell, and Alester hesitated in following him.

    Samwell grinned as he welcomed Wylis, embracing him with open arms, chatting and laughing like the last two decades had only been days ago. Alester nervously stared at Samwell’s bald head. The old man kept his head cleanly shaved after he started receding, though his facial hair was another story, grey and protruding down to his chest. His bushy eyebrows obscured his brown eyes, though Alester could feel the tension that looked out from them. That tension was shared between General Nicovacia and his father, Simon, who only reunited with glares.

    “Alester,” Wylis called, pulling the Cursed Prince from his trance. Alester unwillingly joined his Manderly Prince and nodded to Samwell.

    “Lord Wythmail,” he greeted awkwardly, and the old man stared deep into Alester’s eyes before his eyes turned sullen.

    “It’s been a long time, Alester,” he remarked, and Alester nodded uncomfortably. The Lord of Clearhaven turned his gaze to the Upton boy standing around clutching his elbow. Like his brother, Gerris had his mother’s lilac eyes, though his hair was a darker blonde instead of Artos’ burning orange hair. “Gerris, take our guests inside and prep the hall for a feast. A royal welcome is in order for the return of the Merman of Clearhaven. Make it so. Simon, go with the General and see that their ships are secured and his men are provisioned,” he commanded, and both Gerris and his son obediently nodded before going about their duties. Samwell then turned his gaze onto Alester. “Walk with me, son.” Alester masked his frown before nodding.

    The two men walked in silence down the busy road of stalls that polluted this town. Merchants sold wares Lannisport to the Free Cities of Essos, promoting wines from the Arbor and fish caught along the southern coast.

    “A raven came from Starfall two days ago talking of Andrey’s plans to move his army into the Kingdom of the Brimstone with you heading the mission,” Samwell remarked with a gruff tone, accepting an apple from one of the stall owner’s they passed. “The Holt’s have been pretty reasonable until the disappearance of King Noeh, now they’re like ants on a beetle carcass.”

    “Men jump at the opportunity for power,” Alester said dryly, and Samwell nodded.

    “Aye, but you don’t. You don’t even take lordship of an ancient Dayne castle, instead you work for a foreign house without question. I don’t have anything against the Manderly’s, but I know you’re no man of ambition, so frankly I’m confused why you’re here,” Samwell stated, and Alester struggled to meet Lord Wythmail’s eyes as he answered.

    “Andrey intends for me to be Lord of the Brimstone. He wants me to marry Carmella Holt,” Alester revealed with a mix of disdain and angst. Samwell held his silence for a moment before slowly nodding.

    “Oh.” He placed his apple down and knelt on the edge of a stall, crossing his arms as his eyes studied Alester with a deep frown set into his wrinkled expression. “You still hold yourself responsible for my daughter’s death,” he said, and Alester’s gaze met his with hesitation. Samwell sighed. “It wasn’t your fault, son. Took me a while to accept, you avoiding me like the plague didn’t help, but you had nothing to do with her misfortune,” he assured him, but Alester was numb to his words. He doubted he would ever stop grieving for Susan.

    “Her misfortune came because I am cursed, Sam. The gods will do the same to this Queen of the Brimstone as they did to my wife,” Alester stated coldly, turning Samwell’s glare on him.

    “Stop that. I heard the rumours across the kingdom, and I quickly silenced them here. If there are any gods to blame, they have my utter contempt, but I don’t waste my years lamenting on that. It’s been 25 years… There hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought of my little girl, son, but I know she wouldn’t have me wallow in her memory. She wouldn’t have that of you either,” Samwell stated firmly. Alester felt his mind swimming with agony and despair as Sam’s words circulated in his mind, and behind a wall of tears he lifted his glance to meet Lord Wythmail’s.

    “I don’t want to let her go, Sam,” Alester admitted, the realisation that all his years of work was no more than a distraction to hide him from facing his heart. His scars were no more healed now than the day they were torn open. Lord Samwell grasped his shoulder.

    “I’m not telling you to forget her boy, I’m not even asking you to stop loving her… I’m begging you to live. Live in her memory, live for the life she gave, use that love you hold in your broken heart for something other than hurting yourself.”

    Alester wiped his tears away with shame, flicking between Samwell’s eyes with a loss for words. The last twenty-five years he had been avoiding this interaction from fear of facing this man’s wrath, feeling responsible for the death of his daughter. This he had not expected, and his self-damnation struggled to accept it. Without warning, Samwell wrapped his arms around Alester and held him close, the two men locked in an embrace that spoke more than the words they had just shared. A weight seemed to be lifted off Alester’s shoulders, if only for a moment, and it was bliss.

    “Lord Wythmail!” a voice shouted, abruptly separating the two men. They both turned to meet the startled eyes of a sentry from atop the walls. “You’d better come take a look at this.”

-

    Alester stood over the eastern gate of Clearhaven overlooking the road that led to Brimholt. Together with Lord Samwell, Prince Wylis, General Nicovacia and Captain Barrack, the small Dayne army gathered behind the walls awaiting their orders. On the road before them, a host half their army’s size gathered carrying the banner of House Holt, and between them and the gates of Clearhaven, a plump man on horseback came forward cradling a bag in his arm.

    “Lord Samwell Wythmail! I am Lord Abadon Cascade of Bitterfall and representative of Queen Carmella Holt of the Brimstone,” he announced, and without hesitation he chucked forward the bag he was carrying – three rotting heads rolling out into view. “If the Kingdom of the Torrentine wants our land then you’ll have to pry it from our corpses. Accept the heads of the lords you massacred knowing the next lords you face in our kingdom won’t be so forgiving as I. Tell King Andrey, We Will Hold!” Abadon shouted, and the men at his back roared with support. Samwell grasped the battlements as he glared at Abadon with anger.

    “I know nothing of the death of your lords,” he growled, and Alester sensed the Dayne host growing uneasy. But I do, Alester reached into his pocket and freed the letter Andrey had given him from his son, Arthor. He passed it to Samwell before clearing his throat.

    “Lord Abadon, I am Alester Dayne, father of Arthor Sand. Our kingdom made no advances against yours, and I am here to make that appeal to your Queen,” Alester stated, and Abadon glanced back at his men before sneering.

    “Run back to Starfall, Dayne. Any Dayne boot that makes a mark on our land will be met with bloodshed,” Abadon warned, making Alester frown. Wylis leant forward with a smirk on his lips.

    “And if you take the sword up against us you will actively start a war against a kingdom that will destroy you. In what tone would you best like to bring that back to your Queen?” Wylis taunted, and when Abadon stuttered on his response, Wylis overwhelmed him. “Return back to your mistress and inform her we will be sailing up the Brimstone tomorrow with the intent of declaring our innocence in your accusation,” Wylis stated, and Abadon muttered something under his breath before ordering his men to return to Brimholt. He glared at Alester before following them.

    Alester let out a sigh of relief as they left, much to Wylis’ amusement. “Don’t get too excited, this is only the beginning.”

Hey guys, I'm excited to announce that we're (about) three parts away from the interlude of this chapter, something which I didn't expect to approach so soon but I've been pumping out these parts like nothing else so I guess it was inevitable! On that point though, I confess that I've got a busy/cruisy couple of weeks ahead of me starting from today with a lot of packing and some festivities that extend to tomorrow, then a short holiday to the Whitsundays before I head to my old homestate to see family for a week. In total this will disrupt my writing flow for the next two weeks. I will be taking my laptop with me, though willing myself to be sociable instead of writing, but we'll see how I go. Nonetheless, I hope to be through with the interlude and on track to the second half of this chapter by the start of July. Can't wait to get back into it but until then take care!