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[b]Casterly Rock, The Westerlands, Westeros[/b]

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There was no escape. No place to hide. In the darkness, far from any living set of eyes, shadow and blood collided. The creation of dreams and nightmares, set upon the last living souls of destruction using fire and blood. In the darkness, even Celena knew there was nothing to do. No prayers to be said, no mercy to beg for. In the palace of the Dream Kings, there wouldn’t even be a scream. There wouldn’t be time. 

Faceless and formless the spectres came howling, one haunting echo to leave her soul shaking, and her skin hard and cold and pale. Jewelled eyes twinkled in the morning light, the shapeless man’s naked smile sharper than steel as he crossed the threshold between dreaming and awake. Not even in the natural fortress of Casterly Rock would Celena be free.

The devil whispered it, the spectre’s rattled it, smoke filling the air as something darker, and hotter, than simple death crept into the vaults of Casterly Rock, a chain of whispers igniting from the darkness--right into Celena’s soul. All fighting did was make the fired blood smolder, tendrils of blood and smoke filling her nostrils, forcing into her mouth and throat. 

Two eyes, and the third, where no mortal soul dare cross. In the shadows of the Rock it spoke to her; [i]...come explore your soul’s creations.[/i] Seduction with bone fingers sharper to touch than to hold, tracing from the defenseless and sightless vision of her closed eyes to slicing underneath that sunned, silken, skin, threatening to fidget and fight for control of her hands. 

“Lady Celena? You--”

The dagger under the pillow was at the soft, pink, throat of the Lady in Waiting before the girl had so much as a moment to finish her sentence. Sheer terror filled the girl’s eyes as her body began to tremble, eyes locked onto the big, emerald, eyes of the killer with the dagger at her throat. It was as if the girl was physically unable to move so much as a centimeter until the Lioness took the dagger from the girl, and sighed.

“My apologies, Penny.” Though the girl appeared to want more of an explanation...she’d not get it this morning. Before the girl’s wits could return to her, Celena had rolled out of the bed and walked from the chamber, leaving her questions to silence and lonesomeness. 

[i]Dance with demons, Celena, and darkness will always find you.[/i]

The pirate had always been wiser than he’d any right to. The foggy freeze of the Doomlands came like a fresh memory to her mind, as if it was only yesterday she was daring the bubbling hot waters or braving against the agonizing screams of spirits long dead and longer tortured. 

There were moments in her life when Lady Celena of House Lannister was little more than a bad joke. It was only a matter of time until her past of devils and demons and blood and fire caught up to her. As the pirate warned her: 

[i]No magic comes without a price.[/i]

The cold morning had given way to a warm afternoon, even the usual drafts and sea winds that could be felt throughout the castle had dulled in the easy heat of the past midday sun. Usually formal business would have taken place in a study or hall, now those assembled gathered on a terrace overlooking the sea, sitting in the gaze of the surprising sun.

“I have heard more than mere whispers from the Iron Isles. They’re hardly subtle in their efforts, nor their plans.” Sandor Hill was one of Tybolt’s longest standing informants, now, as a familiar face around the Rock and Lannisport, he helped to coordinate the efforts of his employer’s vast network, and what couldn’t be gathered directly through agents, through the networks of other influential spymasters. He was valuable, but replaceable, as were all the men Tybolt gathered to him. The only people he would ever rely on beyond that point were family, and then only just.

“The Westerlands are hardly disunited, but it might be worth suring up such things, in the event the Ironborn decide to reave and raid, foolish as that may be in the long run.” Ser Terryn was the master of the Lannisport fleet, powerful as it was, that gave him more than a small amount of say among Tybolt’s advisers, especially in matters such as these where the might of the fleet would be tested. The Lord of Casterly Rock had long fostered an environment in which such individuals could freely voice their thoughts, so long as they bowed to his eventual authority.

“Wise indeed, I’ve planned a few visits across the Westerlands, I shall simply increase the number of Lordships I call upon. Besides, some amount of travelling will do my family good, we have been cooped up for too long.” Tybolt watched the sea as he replied, before sipping a drink from a small table beside him. Nothing more than water, savouring the cold chill before it would soon be warmed by the heat. “That, and the Lords of the Westerlands do so enjoy when my wife and I come to visit. Although I hardly think it’s my charm and good wit they miss.”

The Lady of Casterly Rock was as well known for her beauty and style as she was for the dark mysteries of her past. Famous for Myrish laces and rich silk gowns, the only true shock of Celena’s appearance came not when she appeared on the sunned balcony over the Sunset Sea, but when she walked onto the balcony without a gown, without a single rich cut fabric decorating her celebrated form. Only black leather and steel decorated Celena as she appeared, the survivor and fighter, not the wife of Lord Tybolt. The very same creature that had already started training the one year old Lord Tyrion in ways so subtle, no one had even picked it up. 

Like the Lioness, not Lady Celena, Tyrion would be ready with steel and shadow when the murderers and plotters came for him. She would see to that. “Lords,” was all the greeting the woman in black offered as she approached the stone edge of the balcony, her senses drinking up the sea like a drunk embraced his first drink in days. 

The way she smiled...gave no man the pleasure of daring to think he knew just what she did behind closed doors. “Talking of Kraken?” She asked, as if it were clear by her tone it was the very last thing any of them should have been worrying about. When she turned to face the little group, Celena leaned back on the edge of the balcony, grinning. 

Sandor and Terryn. The spy and the sailor. Boys playing at games, but at least they were youth with promise. Tybolt wasn’t a fool. If he was, Celena would’ve killed him, rather than married him. But both boys seemed concerned about her shadow, and not without justification.

Celena had left little doubt that she’d infringe upon their territory should the need arise. A fact constantly reinforced by the spies always just beyond the sight of Sandor’s spies in the dark corners of Lannisport, spies that just [i]had[/i] to belong to Celena--so Sandor Hill was certain. 

At least Sandor Hill dealt with shadows he could only guess at. Terryn didn’t have that luxury; the presence of the Lioness was much more real for him. The man was the lord of the Lannisport fleet--save for one ship. A smuggler’s ship with no flag and a crew that didn’t even seem capable of speaking. A vessel as infamous as it was desired for destruction by countless merchants and masters across the Narrow Sea. A ship with no name written anywhere upon it, a ship with a name even those who lived along the docks didn’t like to repeat aloud:

The Ravallah.

It was hard enough to be a good Lord Admiral of Lannisport without a ship, and a captain, like the Ravallah and it’s Lioness just waiting in the wings. Always watching over your shoulder, always giving your captains something to double guess themselves about. Without ever saying a cross word to the Lord Admiral, the Lioness had made herself clear: Fail to protect these Sunset shores for a moment, and the Ravallah would set sail. 

“We’re late,” was how Celena eventually cut through the tension and silence her particular presence inspired in the moment, a reminder to her husband they should’ve been off for Riverspring hours ago. 

As Celena spoke, Tybolt waved a hand, with a quick smile to both the other men present, they stood to leave. Neither railed any longer at the idea Tybolt would do so, maybe at the idea of how involved the Lioness was in the politics of Casterly Rock and beyond, but only as competition, never at the idea she should remain in some rightful place. Tybolt didn’t have time for such things. Once they were gone, he stood, approaching her at the edge of the balcony but not yet quite close enough to be overly intimate.

“So are you, the Lady of Casterly Rock cannot visit Riverspring dressed as a spy, even if she was and is one.” Celena past, her abilities and activities were what had drawn Tybolt to her. If he’d have wanted a vapid, proper girl raised in the halls of nobility he could have had many over the years, but he had tussled with, then loved, Celena. Times had changed however, and on occasion, for matters of politics and such, restraint was the key word. They still tussled though, in different ways. Then he approached her, his hand seeking her’s.

“Although, as you know, I can be an ardent supporter of the simple things in life.” The female Lannister would struggle to find and outfit, even buried under layers, that he could find her unattractive in, but black leathers had more going for it then it simply being her, but even as his eyes returned to her’s, there was business to attend to.

“I am sorry, I couldn’t ignore their requests to report to me, even if it is matters I already knew.” He did not need to tell her the importance of keeping such agents and advisers in your good books, to make them feel invaluable, and immediately before leaving to range across the Westerlands was an ideal time to show that to them, likely they would work increasingly hard in his absence now. “Is Tyrion ready?”

“He’s our son--he was born ready.” Celena smirked, but there was a trace of seriousness yet in the otherwise teasing tone. “I already said my farewell,” and hard as it was, she wasn’t eager to do it again.

The thought made Tybolt smile, even if his heart panged at the thought of leaving his son. The demands of ruling meant that he did not see the child as much as his wife, or as much as he would want to, but it was still uncomfortable to leave him. Her words, the combination of light heartedness with the deeper meaning within, still stirred a happiness within him. He was their son, no two parents could better prepare their child.

“Let us not waste any more time then.