[center][img]https://imgur.com/oJjLmYk.jpg[/img] [b][h3]Casterly Rock[/h3][/b][sub]The Seat of House Lannister[/sub][/center] [right][@Vanq][@Ruby][/right] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/naTaxQ7.png[/img][/center] [color=gray]Casterly Rock loomed before them, an answer to their prayers, something to give the princess hope. It had been hell, several times over, and the young Targaryen had no time to make sense of it. Her time on the road since Oxcross had seen her sob uncontrollably then shift into stony, vacant stares. Alayne and Samantha had suffered minimal injuries, physically at least. Out of the trio of women, Rhaena had suffered the most, the side of her face was bruised horribly and it seemed likely her arm was broken. Large bruises had formed across her chest and torso. She winced whenever she moved. Rhaena could not recall the events, or at least, struggled to recall them in order. There were flashes that would overtake her, freezing her in place or waking her when sleep briefly visited her. Aegon, unmoving before her. When Lannister men had arrived she had wailed, mistaking them for Warrior's Sons and not their saviors. A knight, blood splatter on his armor and face, had gingerly lifted Aegon before a maester had begged them not to. It was hours before they left the battle torn road, only once the maester was certain the heir to the iron throne was stable enough. Most of the Poor Fellows who attacked them were dead. Some had managed to flee. Others were corralled into a prison line to be escorted back to the Rock for judgment. Rhaena had screamed for them to be burned alive, forgetting that Dreamfyre was not with her. Her voice remained hoarse and rough. The prince was unrecognizable. The maester kept him sedated with copious amounts of milk of the poppy, necessary, he explained, to keep the young man still for the remainder of their journey. Aegon's face was swollen, even if he had awakened Rhaena wouldn't have been able to tell. He was bruised and bloodied, his skin battered with angry purple splotches and red gashes. Worse was the giant gash along his side. It wept, no matter how the maester tried to bandage it. They all tried to hide their concern from the princess but even she knew enough to know an infected wound was a grave danger to any man. She feared for the worst and cursed her father's name for leaving them defenseless. Had their escort arrived any later, surely they would all be dead. Ser Robin's relief was palpable. To lose the heir under his protection would have driven the man to suicide. More than luck had been on their side by the way the men talked of how they had been dispatched towards the village. [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/naTaxQ7.png[/img][/center] Ser Olyvar Estren had been afforded comfortable lodgings within Casterly Rock. Not large and with only spartan decoration but for him, it was enough. It was early morning still, with streaks of sunlight only just starting to pierce through the solitary window - the birds beginning to sing their early songs. After a quick splash of water to his face, he gave himself a once-over in the cracked mirror. Between his sharp jawline, straight-nose and dirty blonde hair, he cut a handsome enough figure - even if he gave pitifully little attention to his appearance. Good enough, he figured. Olyvar grabbed for the studded leather doublet, the same he’d had for at least five winters now, and tied the sheath that held his longsword about his waist. He was ready to face the day. Winding his way through the many corridors and halls of stone within Casterly Rock, he took his time to reach the great hall. He liked where his room was - just beside the servants' lodgings. Here, where the Rock still felt like the Rock, like it was when he was a child. Before they returned from Essos. He had sworn his blade to Loreon Lannister on his sixteenth nameday, and been with him ever since - including throughout all the travels of Essos. They had seen wonderful and terrible things together, undertaken feats worthy of song and seen half the world. Truly, he loved Loreon as his own brother - and that was precisely why he worried for him, more than most. As he neared the great hall, the thick smell of fragrant spiceflower and sandbeggar oak began to fill his nostrils. Exotic incense candles were burned day and night, both to remind Lord Loreon of his days across the narrow sea and, perhaps more importantly, to cleanse the smells of the night's activities. Drawing closer, the scent of incense was joined by the sight of men and women laying on makeshift beds from large, velvet and silk pillows. They were laid about the hallways wherever they could find comfortable space - some warming near fireplaces, some laying in the arms of whomever their companion at that time happened to be, and others only starting to recover the litres of wine consumed the night before. ‘A Lyseni whorehouse’, the Castellan of the Rock had decried it - though, there was far more than just Lyseni. Olyvar wagered those from every corner of Essos now called the Rock home. Finally reaching the great hall, he pushed open the great doors of dark oak. The doors that were intricately detailed, enamelled with gold and jewels - while carvings in the wood depicted the great lions of lannister, proud images of Casterly Rock and the stories of Lann the Clever. The scene within hardly matched those ancient, proud doors. Servants scrubbed furiously at stains of wine on the stone floors and dornish carpets, yet naked men and women lay about the tables - many in the arms of one another. Where some were clothed, they wore translucent, silk robes that clung to their bodies and accentuated their figures. The ancient portraiture and artworks of House Lannister that proudly adorned the walls for generations had been long taken down, replaced by maps of the continent beyond the narrow sea and foreign artworks. Plates of armor were thrown about the ground from a display by the resident mummer troupe. The stinging fragrance of incense, sweat and wine smothered him. Yet despite this chaos, there was one notable absence that Ser Olyvar immediately picked out - Lord Lannister. His eyes picked out an olive-skinned man with hair of ocean blue, with golden robes and similarly golden jewellery adorning his face. This was Xhondo, a beast tamer from Tyrosh and friend of their Lord, there was no doubt. “Xhondo. Our Lord Lannister - have you seen him?”, he asked on his approach. Xhondo’s eyes were glazed with the relaxing effects from the milk of the poppy. “The lion… has left for his quarters.”, he managed to answer - barely, but it was enough. With a curt nod of thanks, Ser Olyvar made his way over the piles of cushions and intertwined flesh to the more peaceful quarters of Loreon Lannister, the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. Two guards were posted outside the open door, giving a nod of recognition to Ser Olyvar as he approached. “What do you think, is too much?”, a smooth, masculine voice from within echoed. “I want to suggest divine without [i]actually[/i] wearing it.” “No. The gold will be louder in the light.”, came the reply in the purring, softly spoken tones that could belong only to Kinvara, the lover of Loreon Lannister. The pair had met in Pentos, not even a year into Loreon’s great expedition. If Olyvar remembered proper, she was from a once-wealthy mercantile family that fell destitute through some scandal or other. He had always been suspicious of her intentions to begin, and to an extent remained so - but even he had to admit, their love seemed as true as any. Entering the scene, Loreon Lannister was in the process of trying outfits for his ‘Golden Triumph’ soon to be held in Lannisport - a lavish display of Brightroar, and other treasures and riches brought back from across the narrow sea. It had been near a year in planning, and was finally set to begin in the coming days. For Loreon himself, even with the dark eyeshadow and tattoos across his hands - he still looked every bit a Lannister. Perfectly pale skin that glistened in the light, straight hair of true gold that fell to just below his shoulders, and a lean, athletic build. He looked more like a statue, or portrait, than a true man. As for Kinvara - she was perhaps one of the few that matched his beauty. Warm, hazel eyes were complimented by tanned, freckled skin - her petite form covered with an unusually modest dress of pure white, cut short at the ankles and with the arms exposed. “Olvyar”, Loreon turned to his sworn sword with a familial smile. “What do you think?” He wore a suit of entirely golden armor, with the faces of roaring lions as shoulder plates. A slim white cloak was bundled loosely over his shoulders, falling behind his back - it had a delicate, golden trim. The sworn sword could only give a huff of amusement in response as he folded his arms across his chest, relaxing against the doorway. “Something amuses you?”, the smile on Loreon’s lips faded, though his tone remained good-natured. His attention darted occasionally to one of the myriad servants fussing over his outfit. Everything had to be perfect. “It is amusing, isn’t it?”, Olyvar brought his hands from his chest to open his palms, gesturing at the wider room. “All of this.”, a nod then to the balcony that overlooked Lannisport below. “Dressing up for them, parading about the streets, playing at being a God.” The whole idea of a ‘Golden Triumph’ had seemed unnecessary to Ser Olyvar from the start. “Playing?”, the usually light-natured tone from Loreon fell then, as did the shadow of a smile still left in the corners of his lips. “I’m not playing. This is not a game.” There was no hint of jest in his words as he took a few steps toward the knight, his emerald green eyes locked intently with those of his sworn sword. Olyvar waited, expecting his lord to burst into laughter - but it did not come. He bowed his head in reply, “As you wish.” Could his lord truly believe the words he spoke? Olyvar hoped not, and concern flashed across his eyes. Loreon seemed content at that, the tension immediately breaking as he spun around on his heel, throwing off the white cloak. “Something with more gold - and have the banners now been laid out in the streets? They hadn’t last night.” One of the many servants confirmed they had, and the discussion carried on. Loreon, whilst few could call him the most attentive lord, did have a tendency to fixate over the minor details of something he cared for, and he cared for the Golden Triumph. Almost more than anything. Ser Olyvar took a breath, and moved away from the door to the dressing room to join the two guardsmen outside. His day had begun. [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/naTaxQ7.png[/img][/center] The world had been dark when Lorelai Lannister rose and left the Rock. The streets were quiet pre-dawn, near empty as Lorelai and her escort moved. Sometimes their trip took a short time, sometimes a longer time. Rarely was Lorelai’s route the same from one day to the next. That would have been an error in judgment and security. Wes was no Knight; he was a killer. The man was tall, ribboned in muscle, with lighter skin that got dark, fast, with too much sun. He was excellent at his job exactly because of his former profession of assassin across Essos and the eastern coast of Westeros. He had come to the shore of the Sunset Sea to disappear. Her whisperers had discovered him, and she had offered him a role. To her surprise, he took it. In the four years since, he had become one of the precious few she trusted. Even if the Rock was filled with famed fighters, she knew Wes could hold his own with any of them. She had seen the men fight, or rather, she had seen a blur and then heard the bodies hit the ground. She accused him of blood magic, and he had laughed at her. This morning, his dark eyes were at every window, at every roof, at every corner. But, as most mornings, nothing was there. Lannisport had decided Lorelai Lannister was one of their favorites. Even her whisperers admitted as much; there was rarely a bad word said about her from anyone. The worse it got, she was told, was one of the pot shops at the southern side of the city, run by women who looked to gossip. And, according to the report, Lorelai wasn’t alone. Any pretty, younger woman was a potential target. Honestly, at her age, Lorelai could understand. And it was nothing even half as bad as her own mother had said about other women. She spent a few hours at the docks and the Admiralty House. She checked barrels and chests, double-checking the rolls made by the overnight dock master. Between the dock-master and storeroom, there were a few hands with access. Yet it had been over two years since they caught Young Irv stealing from a chest that had a bad lock. Nothing, and no one, had done anything of the sort since. There were easier opportunities for men like Irv to skim in other storehouses in the city. Lorelai had garnered a certain reputation. She stayed just long enough for the pre-dawn meet between captains setting sail. A few trips to Oldtown, a few to King’s Landing, one to Braavos, and five to the Arbor. “Five?” She had asked, not sure she heard the number right. Everyone turned to the back of the room—it was rare Lorelai said anything at the meetings. Let alone ask a question. “Wine demands from the Rock.” Rarely was she called Lady or M’Lady in the Admiralty House. She was Lor, or Lorelai, or if strangers were around, Lady Lorelai. The captains liked their nicknames and informality in the Admiralty House; outside of it they were captains, with all the pretense and discipline that required to do correctly and not suffer fools, the greedy, or greedy fools. Inside, they were just a group of men who had been too long to sea, comparing their days at sea, jealous of those spending more than a week home in Lannisport. She stopped at the North Silver Street Counting House on the way back to the Rock from the docks. The cool darkness of pre-dawn spring was exaggerated by chilly winds as the windy season drew its breath onto Lannisport for the past month. Somehow, it did little to affect the fog, which seemed ever present at the docks but by the time she was all the way to North Silver Street, the sun had started it’s dawn, and the streets had taken a pink glow to them, burning the fog away from the cobblestones and the building filed neatly up and down the city. She did little at the Counting House but take messages and speak to Darwyn. He muttered under his breath about something, and she wished him a fair morning…to which he chuckled, bitterly. His apprentice, Heath, was half his age and had left the Citadel to tend to a sick mother who died a year ago. Lorelai had been at the funeral, Heath had never forgotten it. ‘My mum,’ he had said, with pride, ‘a real Lady of the Rock came to pay respects. I’ll tell my kids of that, they’ll tell their kids of that.’ She gently reminded him he needed to HAVE a wife, and HAVE children first. He simply sighed at the reminder. This morning, however, she had something special for him. “This,” she said, sliding a badly drawn black bird with three eyes onto his small desk in the corner. “Ringing any of your bells?” His face was twisted in puzzlement. Finally, his head shook, “I’m sorry, Lady Lorelai, but no. Would you like me to dig around for you?” “Please, send it to the Citadel if you have to. Anything you spend on riders I’ll repay, so don’t be shy about it.” That seemed to perk him up. She was nearly to the door by the time she saw the shadow pass in front of it. Just a casual walk across the door of the Counting House…that had half a dozen guards around it and Wes outside, plus the other five of her escort. That meant one thing: a shadow of a whisperer. When she stepped outside and closed the door behind her, Eustace was there, a tall and boney man with a middling merchant’s garb. He dressed differently every day. She’d even seen him in purples and laces and gold-cloth, once. His hair was uncut, puffed out, gray and white, his pronounced chin sticking out even further than normal. He had beady, mean eyes, but he had never been anything but true with her. “Good morning, fair Lady.” He said with a stiff bow of his head, and handed her the small roll of parchment with such a smooth quickness and precision, you would’ve missed it if you blinked. She read it as she was helped onto the horse, nodding to Wes, who had been staring at her. “Fast. Let’s go.” It was near mid-morning by the time she returned through the Lower Gatehouse that led to the streets of Lannisport. It took her and Wes some quick walking and a quick stop in the lower level in which she had the Maesters stored for the night to let them sleep, telling the guards to gently wake them, before heading up. “Ser Olyvar,” she greeted the man as she passed, a honeyed tone, walking to the middle of the room and leaving the scent of lavender and rose water in her wake. Loreon got a bright, but less warm, tone. Or maybe it was the words, less than the tone: “The heir to the Iron Throne is either seriously wounded or dying after a confrontation with the Poor Fellow near Crakehall. I dispatched a sizable escort to retrieve them, and they near. I had every Maester within a reasonable ride come here overnight. Most are here and being awoken now. Some are still arriving, our own Maester has been alerted and his quarters are prepared to receive the Prince.” She paused, before thinking to add: “His name is Aegon. Princess Rhaena, his intended, and some of her ladies are coming as well. I’ve had rooms set up for all of them near my own.” That was noteworthy, as no one from Loreon’s guests were housed near her. The entire floor was her mother and her, and a few ladies in waiting. “That’s all,” she finished, before smiling brightly to Kinarva, “Good morning,” she said with warmth, before starting out of the room as quickly as she had come in. Wes was just…there, as he always seemed to be. “Make sure my Uncle is told immediately.” [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/naTaxQ7.png[/img][/center] Rumors out of Casterly Rock, of the strangeness of the returned lord and the wildness he brought with him had originally excited Rhaena. She had heard of the wild beasts that now wandered the castle halls and courtyards. She had hoped to see the wild zorses, the lions, perhaps he would even have a troop of little Valyrians. Now, as they had been settled into well-appointed chambers, she cared for nothing except to see her brother. Her friend. Her arm had been set, the Maester who saw to her was pleased with it being a simple break. It pained her, but she had nearly become numb to the persistent pang in it. He had given her a small amount of milk of the poppy but she had pushed it away. It took much begging, but at last, she was led to where they had placed Aegon. The room was large, and though they burned herbs, the smell of sickness was already present,permeating the air. Maesters seemed to fill the room, some stopped and stared as she made her way towards the bed. They bowed their heads in respect before returning to their trays of metal instruments, of poultices, of stark white bandages. He looked so small. His chest rose and fell slowly, the movement barely perceptible. She felt a hand on the shoulder of her broken arm, fingers wound through her good hand. Samantha and Alayne had been sent to her. They said nothing, but their presence gave her enough strength to not drop to her knees with silent sobs. The young woman’s face, marred but the bruises yellowing now, crinkled up in grief. No noise escaped, her tears had long since run dry. Her head dropped, Samantha’s hand moved to rub her back softly, reassuringly. After several minutes of unmoving silence, Rhaena took a few steps forward. She gave one look to the maester that was bent over the bed, inspecting the gash on the prince’s side, and then crawled into bed on the opposite. She was afraid to disturb him, afraid that even the lightest touch would pain him. And so she sat curled towards him, her broken arm cradled against her and the other outstretched, barely brushing against his silver hair. [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/naTaxQ7.png[/img][/center] Loreon didn’t make an effort to stop his sister as she turned to leave, having promptly delivered her information. He’d always meant to set aside time for her, but things had a habit of getting in the way - or at least, that’s what he told himself. He knew the truth was deeper than that, but he wasn’t brave enough to face it, to face the regret he still felt for leaving her when he left for Essos. They were so close, once, and in many ways still were - but it was different, [i]he[/i] was different. There was so much he needed to say to her. One day, he’d find the courage. But not today. The following hour went in a flash as advisers made their way to him, giving constant updates and offering input whether it was asked for or not. It was in these moments he found himself most overwhelmed. Now, he was striding at pace through the halls, making his way to the maester’s quarters in which the royal siblings were held. He hadn’t been there to meet them at the gate, consciously staying clear to let the assembled maesters work. It was only as he neared the room that he realised he still donned his ceremonial plate. “Erwin”, he addressed his Captain of the Guard as they walked. Ser Erwin Vikary was headed toward the unkind side of his forties, and still bore the scars of his battles with the forces of Harren the Red. “Dispatch my cousin Cerion with fifty men to Oxcross. I want the wretches involved on gallows.” The veteran only grunted in agreement. “And send word to the watch. I want the guard doubled for as long as the prince and princess are here.” Word would spread of the royals arrival quickly throughout Lannisport no doubt, and Loreon wanted to anticipate any unrest from the poor fellows within the city walls - and, crucially, to ensure nothing would upset his upcoming Golden Triumph. “And of those in the dungeons?” The Lannister force sent to relieve the royal party had returned with a handful of poor fellows. “Oh. Have the-“ Loreon was silenced by the sight that greeted him within the maester’s quarters. The prince, Aegon, lay still - his skin a deathly pale. The sheets below his body were stained a dark red, and a bucket of bloodied bandages sat near him. The heavy smell of blood hung in the room. But it was not this that shocked him - no, he had witnessed death before. It was the princess, lay beside him stroking his hair. He imagined if she were Kinvara, and Aegon him. “…hells.”, he whispered in the doorway. “Seven, to be exact,” she added, as she appeared from behind her brother as casually as his own shadow might have, her slender body in crimson silk taking up the other side of the open doorway. “Those primarily responsible will not be caught by the men you sent—I fear they’re already on their way to King’s Landing.” Her voice was lower, slower, the warmth of her heart evident by the pain she wore as she watched the two dragon siblings suffer. Her green eyes stayed on the two siblings a moment longer, before shifting like shadow over gold, to her own brother, that hidden little smile he had seen so much so many years ago making a reappearance to him, now, “we have a chapter of the Warrior’s Sons here in Lannisport, though, fortunately, they are the smallest of the chapters in Westeros. The watch can manage them, but you’ll want to close most of the city gates but one or two, and allow not a single Poor Fellow or Warrior’s Son in beyond those already in the city for your parade.” Then the ghostly smile was gone as she looked back into the room, her voice reduced to a whisper meant for him alone, “This will not end well. For them, and I fear, for you. I’m glad you’re back, I’m glad you went. I’m just sorry you came back now, to this,” she said, not just meaning what was going on inside the room before them. Fear forced her forward, to sniff a sharp breath, and lean over to him. She hugged the side of him closest to her, her face against his upper arm, took a memory of his warmth and scent, and tried to smile again. Nothing came, but that whisper, again, “Remember, Loreon…we always had an escape plan, for every adventure.” [i]I still do.[/i] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/naTaxQ7.png[/img][/center] Time passed, though the princess had no sense for how much. Aegon's eyes did not open, he did not stir except for the occasions where his muscles twitched in response to some unseen stimuli. The learned men talked in whispers but Rhaena would not have heard them even if they screamed. She tried to pray to the Seven but images of the Poor Fellows filled her mind and her fist would clench, sending a wave of pain up her. Instead she silently called upon the ancient gods of Valyria to somehow return Aegon to her. A hand jolted Rhaena from her silent prayers. She blinked rapidly, her eyes struggling to focus. When was the last time she had slept for longer than an hour or two? She twisted, a poor choice, to see who had laid hands on her and relaxed at seeing Alayne. "The maester wishes to speak to you…and Lord Loreon is here as well." Her companion lifted her head and nodded slightly in the direction of the door. Rhaena looked him over, younger than her father but not by much. Looking at him, she briefly wondered how many of the stories were true. But then her pain quickly reminded her it did not matter. She sat up, Alayne helped her move off the bed, her heart threatening to rupture at leaving Aegon's side. She could not turn back to him again or she feared she would not leave the bed until her brother did. The maester bent his head and whispered briefly in her ear. He placed a consoling hand on her shoulder, but Rhaena pulled away. Her eyes glazed over at what he told her, the silver-haired princess shook her head with a tremble. Her lips parted as if to speak but nothing came out. She walked away, to meet the Lord Lannister, the maester behind her in confusion of what to do. "Lord Loreon." It was a simple statement, not a greeting, only recognition that she knew who she stood before, who's castle she had invaded with tragedy. What could she say? A hundred demands screamed from within. One demand called to her the loudest, her ears hummed with rushing blood. Justice delivered by fire. She'd burn Oxcross, she'd burn all the villages and castles that had even sneered at them. She'd burn Casterly Rock if it would appease the gods and give Aegon a long life. The maester's words roared back to life in her head and the demands that she wanted to shout were washed away in a wave of fresh grief. "He will die here, in a day, maybe two. There is no hope." Rhaena felt her legs beg to buckle beneath her. She turned her head up to watch the lion lord's reaction. Against the grief, against the danger and fear, she fought with every last reserve to be the dragon, not the girl. Instinctively, the man bent a knee slightly and offered an arm to the struggling girl - for it was a girl that Loreon saw before him. Despite all tales of magical blood, the command of dragons and unrivaled power, he saw that Rhaena Targaryen was as vulnerable as any man or woman - though whether or not she’d admit that was a different matter. In his eyes at least, it endeared her. “Princess.”, he spoke softly through a sympathetic smile. “You needn’t stay up on my account, please. I only wanted to…”, his eyes drifted to the crippled Aegon lay on the bed behind her as his words fell quiet. He pursed his lips apologetically, “I am sorry for this attack, and I [i]promise[/i] that these disgusting fanatics will be caught. Justice will come for them.” His eyes glanced to his sister momentarily, and then back to Rhaena. “You are welcome in my halls for as long as you need - and… some of your pets will arrive soon, I’m told. I will have them brought here, if you like.” His words were earnest, if uncertain. This was yet another moment that life had not prepared him for. She hesitated only a moment before gripping the arm offered her, her fingers gripped deeply through fabric to the muscled arm beneath. His promise was empty. What good would it do them now to care about the zealotry that had been allowed to flourish in his land. Nevermind that his men had saved her life, and that of her ladies. A sickening realization settled in that no matter her love for them, she would exchange their life for his, hers for his. If only Melyssanthi were here, there would be one who understood. “The ones who were brought here alive. I’d burn them myself if only I had Dreamfyre. By royal decree they are not to be hanged but burned for their crimes.” She bit at her lip, stifling a sob, willing herself to composure. “And if you have any other healers, I want them brought to me now.” She broke, her voice cracked. “These worthless maesters offer only death and pain.” Anger flared in her eyes, her hand pulled at Lord Lannister’s arm as if to force him to his knees before her. “They say you have been across all of Essos and her mysteries, surely you have [i]something[/i].” There was a flash of confusion in eyes of gold and emerald as the princess pulled at his arm, his brows furrowing. His footing held steady, and in that split second, the natural arrogance born in one praised daily as a hero broke through the surface. He knelt for no one. Then, as quickly as those emotions had flared, they passed. His brows relaxed, a warm and sympathetic smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Slowly, he set his other hand atop hers, and leaned forward - his words falling to little louder than a whisper. “All you have heard is true, and I… may have something for your husband, our prince.” He hesitated as he voiced the thought. Lysara - the Red Priestess that had accompanied him to Casterly Rock - was an unpopular figure at best, and a damned heretic at worst. The Septon had insisted on her removal more than once, not to mention the protests of his uncle. Every time, Loreon had refused. He’d seen her power across the Narrow Sea, and he knew the value of her as an ally. Could she save the dying prince? She’d performed similar feats before, but he’d be lying to say he was confident of success - but as he imagined if it were Kinvara who were injured and not Aegon, he knew that he would turn to Lysara also. Who was he to deny it to the girl, desperate to save the one she loved? He understood. Even if the rest of Casterly Rock wouldn’t. Lowering the arm that she gripped and lifting his hand from hers, he affirmed the thought. “Yes. There is something - someone - we can go to. I’ve seen her power, and she may yet save him, but we must be quick.” He turned on his heel to leave, hastily walking down the hall. “Come if you wish to, else I will return with the one we need.”[/color]