---

The Twins had a way of making anyone feel unwelcome, even more so when its many inhabitants decidedly wished to make a guest feel unwelcome. House Frey was an odd sort, an upstart by any measure against most other houses of the kingdom, in a land that had been contested for too many centuries to count before the Conqueror deigned to raise a high lord over mud and rivers. Elaena ascribed much of the flaws she found at the Twins to this fact. The rest, she decided, was due to poor breeding.

She had been there just shy of a fortnight, the respite from the long journey short-lived. The Freys, it seemed, had decided not to trust the aging Targaryen princess, a reminder of the most sorrowful king, of a bright flame extinguished too soon, of a zealot followed by the type of decadence the realm still recovered from. It was a shame how much she was defined by these men she had mostly known so little of, even now. Doors closed quickly when she passed, conversations dulled to quiet whispers. Though she dined with them, there was no effort made to ingratiate her ahead of the Princes' arrival. Those attentions, misplaced as they were, seemed saved for the Seastar.

It left her with hours to herself, which was not the worst that could have happened. In the quiet hours of the morning when she stirred before Shiera, she would write. Nothing of great importance that she would risk the Freys reading, at least one or two of them surely had the ability, but notes of her journey and a soft reminder that she did look forward to seeing the recipient again upon her return. Rather out of character for herself, she pressed her lips to the parchment before sealing that set of missives.

By the third day she accepted that she again was avoiding writing the letter that most needed to be sent. Again she had started it half a dozen times, yet the words never formed and her quill was left dripping ink across the parchment. It was better to do something rather than nothing though, and eventually she scrawled out a meager entreaty to her sister.



By the fifth day, Elaena was certain that Shiera had fully regretted her decision again and would attempt to find passage back to the capital. The attention the girl drew seemed to grow new Freys from the riverbanks. Sons, grandsons and greatnephews, distant cousins, occasionally an old, bloated, but bold uncle - they all found reason to be where Shiera went. They offered escorts she did not have need of, seats at tables she would never have requested, and all rather too blatantly done to even pretend that they knew the words tactful or subtlety. The girl handled it well, Elaena was surprised to find, and grateful that some of the more scandalous rumors about her standards were very much overstated. Shiera was adept at slipping away, not always graciously.

"I've yet to have anyone ask me if the King would give his blessing for your hand." Elaena said that night, when the girl returned to their rooms looking more distressed than expected.

Shiera gave a startled look before remembering herself and setting to the task of undoing her hair. "One of them will grow bold enough soon, to think that it was a possibility." Though she doubted most of them would not also accept a quick tumble with her. "There doesn't seem to be a Frey, unwed or not, who has not found some ridiculous reason to attend to me."

"They are an ambitious lot. It's worked for them more than they've had any right to expect." Elaena hadn't looked up until Shiera let out a sharp cry, having poked one of her fingers against a hairpin. "Not one of the various sons or cousins pulls your attention?" One brow pulled upward at the scowl she received for asking that.

Removing the pricked finger from her mouth, the wound barely more than a scratch, Shiera retorted bluntly. "Endless relations have not increased their odds that I could find one of them suitable." The girl's heart might have ached for a specific man, or two, but that had not always prevented her attentions from being distracted elsewhere. Yet not here, the Twins seemed a chilling effect on her desires.

By the end of the first week, Elaena finally grew annoyed that neither the Princes nor the Starks had arrived. Boredom did not suit her, and though her hosts were ever reluctant to engage in anything beyond what could barely be called pleasantries, she set her sights on the house steward. Not a Frey, not surprisingly, the man still had the same weaselly look to him, yet the princess could recognize the similar shrewdness she herself carried when it came to coin.

Coin was often the truest measure, it could be followed and traced, used yet never disappeared, and it would not lie - as long as one knew how to extract the meaning behind its movements. She did not wait for an invite but simply appeared in the steward's office the morning of the eighth day as if she had indeed been summoned. Elaena had already known his name, he had attended at dinner most nights since their arrival and for some reason, they'd had no chance to speak before now.

It took some time before he would accept that the silver-haired woman with the sharp look to her was not in fact lost and would not be bored by his work. She placated him, reminding him of her lord husband's position as Master of Coin, of her interest in his work. Elaena was doubly surprised by the steward, both that he understood who actually held the realm's pursestrings and that he managed to relay that with tact.

A standoff of sorts ensued between the two. Elaena's persevering interest in his work wore away at the man who steadfastly - for two days at least - ignored her questions, pointed statements, and overt judgements. The third day was the poor man's breaking point. No matter what he had been instructed or personally felt about the woman, he could hold against her no longer.

"Fine, yes, show me how you would sort through the mangled manner I am given reports of collections. Even in the best of times, they're poorly done. Now with this war..." Steward Hostyn trailed off, defeated. The various bits of reports he had been sifting through fell from his hands to the table between them.

Elaena broke too, for just a moment, a satisfying smirk across her face before she wiped it away. She spent the rest of the day and the next working alongside the steward. As much as she aided his efforts, she gleaned interesting bits of this and that from the villages and castles that dotted the Frey's domain, from the way in which Lord Waltyr fielded his men to process the collections. Late into the second night, though it couldn't be said the books were in order, there was at last an order to them. The steward too, had become more grateful as the hours wore on, and it was no longer just the notes and amounts that told a tale of Frey lands. Hostyn provided tidbits, unwittingly or not, and Elaena was satisfied that the Freys were as she had assumed. Conniving assuredly, not to be trusted, but she felt satisfied they were not actively conspiring against this meeting. It was possible, she thought as she finally made her way to bed, that they hid something more nefarious that she could not uncover in such a short time, but they did not seem the type to succeed in carefully hiding the trail of coin that would require. The Freys were, unsurprisingly, embezzling no small amount from their liege-lords, but that was a fact she would hold for use if ever the need arose.

The next morning, after too few hours of sleep, Shiera woke her with the news that a rider brought news of the Princes' approach. At last. Rumors coursed through the castle, and by the time that Prince Maekar had finally arrived, Shiera had shared no fewer than a dozen rumors of who was or was not accompanying him. Elaena chose to watch his entrance from a distance.

The brash young man was much as he was the last time she had seen him. A scowl and air of youthful ignorance, it was no wonder that some found it uncomfortable to stay long in his presence. Shiera peeked around Elaena's side, successfully having avoiding accompanying one of Lord Waltyr's sons or nephews to greet the prince and his men. Odd, Elaena thought, that the Prince Rhaegel was not at his side. If that rumor proved to be true, it was a dark shadow across these plans.

"He always avoided me." Shiera spoke, absentmindedly running fingers through delicate curls. Elaena stopped herself from rolling her eyes to see that the girl had taken great care in her dress today. Fine cloth-of-silver and lace and bejeweled with sapphires and emeralds, she was ethereal until her lips turned to the vapid pout she wore too often.

After the girl offered no further commentary, Elaena sighed deeply. "Not an unwise decision on his part, though I think even Brynden would have paused before challenging him over your attentions if he had sought them." Shiera scoffed lightly, but kept any rebuttals to herself.

"Come, I'd rather he know I'm here sooner rather than later. I doubt he'll be any happier at my presence than with yours." Of what she knew of the man, she doubted there were few more than his Dornish wife or brothers who he was happy to share space with.

“My Lord, your meeting with Septa Rhaena is nigh.”

Jon twitched slightly at what he heard. He supposed he had forgotten about that. Perhaps because he hadn’t deemed it important. But these days, he hadn’t deemed very much of anything important. When everyone was so much stupider, it felt simply unfair to himself to be troubled by their whiny entreaties. So many people were asking him for help, to do something, but only after they made a fool of themselves. What then is the point in helping, if as soon as things are briefly resolved the men of the world go back to their past ways?

“You can’t teach a man to fish instead of giving him a fish, if all he does is keep demanding a fish.”

He realized he had spoken the words out loud, and already began a soft moan in annoyance at the confused “My Lord?” that soon followed. Was he ailing with something? Much as he hated petitions every hour in their ever greater insignificance, he oughtn’t have forgotten this. He doubted the girl would have anything too important to say but to keep a member of the crown’s blood in the same dismissive headspace as a commoner was foolish.

It was also wrong and the man pinched himself to try to give his body a bit of a shock into wakeful activity. He despised the King, and every day he felt sardonic glee at their growing woes that began to accumulate not too long after his dismissal.

But though the menfolk had well and duly cocked it up, the ladies could hardly be blamed. He’d be a fool to think they were wholly powerless, but by and large they weren’t at fault for the state of things. To that end, he ought have treated Rhaena more kindly and nobly than he had in letting this meeting fall behind the drawers of his mind.

“Tell her I will be with her shortly. I- I had a meeting of great importance just prior,yes. Have the cooks rustle something up. Teas and whatnot. Things to pick at, wine, we ought be as welcoming as possible as befits a woman of such station.” He give a bit of a side-eyed glance at the man listening to his orders, before waving about to indicate that she was respectable for both her royal blood and her ecclesiastic position.

Spiteful, vengeful, and so much more could describe Lord Hightower, this he knew well enough. But he at least like to think he wasn’t quite a bad person, and hence bid no will to women that never slighted him. Setting aside that he didn’t want her to deliver to kin that he had effectively insulted her and her dynasty he didn’t want to offend the sensibilities of somebody genuinely faithful despite the cynicism that her privilege typically engrained.

Much as he had become a skeptic and ever more a misanthrope, he was still a believer in the Seven. He had read every treatise of the Maesters about contradictions in the scriptures and rituals, he had read every oddity of historic account and the cyclic corruption and knew well how his own distant ancestors had accepted the faith first and foremost solely to prevent themselves from being run down by the lances of the Andals as so many other ancient families of Westeros had been.

But he had more than enough to find that all the alternatives to the Faith of the Seven were so unconscionable that it was a default of sorts. For long he had examined this position in itself, skeptical in it for the reason it was likely just comfort that lead him to such. But with every new book he requisitioned from the Citadel, he found it ever more merited.

So, even if he cared not for the consequences on this earth for how Rhaena was met, and even if he cared not for her, at the very least he had to be concerned for the reaction of the Gods.

“Dress me in something new, quick. I’ve been in this a bit long.” he murmured, standing up and raising his hands. How many days had it been since he slept? More than a nap in his chair, anyway.

He wished he was more presentable, a shave and a grooming would do him good as would a bath, but at the very least as servants hurried in with food and drink and a change of flowers he hadn’t remembered asking for, he was at least making clear he was putting in effort. "Your Royal Highness!" He announced with spread arms, furs on his shoulders wriggling alongside the movement of his shoulders. "I wish things were somewhat more worthy of you gracing us, forgive me." an at least somewhat sincere bow followed this.

Jon realized he ought have asked for simple water to be brought, but it was a bit late for such a thing unprompted, lest that merely draw attention to its presence.

Starpike’s southern wall featured a small postern door leading down a narrow flight of stone steps carved into the rocky hillside upon which the keep sat. A quay built from the shore stretched out into the halfmoat where cool water offered tempting solace on a warm day. A private place for the inhabitants of the castle to warm themselves on the sunning stones, to swim and for the children to play in the meager stretch of sandy shore. In Antonine’s opinion it would never be warm enough to swim in the moorland, where even in summer the winds blew down fierce and cold from the red mountains. The boys were of a different mind. Halys Swyft arrived not three days past alongside the promised loot and reinforcements sent from the west. Ser Gyman Peake who’d escorted the captive child departed a mere two days after his arrival for Dustonbury taking ninety archers and leaving a mere ten of his number for Starpike. For a brief moment it felt that the castle became full again before shrinking back into its skeleton garrison as before. How long would their ten new bows grant them if the Dornish or Leo Tyrell arrived? Ser Derrium Daring insisted the hundred sixty men in the garrison, now swelled to hundred and seventy, could hold these walls for years until the food ran out. Antonie was not so certain, though she did not argue against the knight’s experience.

Instead she tended to her duties as head of household, seeing to her ward and ensuring he felt as comfortable as possible in his new home. Halys was a boy of nine with a head of golden curls and weak chin. Despite his situation he put on a brave face with all the dignity and grace his noble name afforded. Antonie wasn't fooled by his act, for she had heard him weeping in his chambers on that first night when he thought nobody was near enough to hear. Antonie ached at the thought of how it would be to send her own children away to a far away castle, the implied threat hanging over their little heads. For a moment she thought to go and offer comfort, but her courage failed her and she left the child to cry alone. The Lord of Cornsfield would be safely out of the war while his heir resided here, that could be certain but, everything about this felt cruel to her. Halys found himself compelled to swear an oath that he would make no escape, nor allow any person to free him. He seemed forcibly cheerful while he promised upon the seven faces of god to be a good prisoner, like someone trying to make the best of a bad situation. Unfortunately it seemed her son Meryn was not making things easier.

There seemed to be a clash of personality between the two boys. They were perfectly courteous to each other to a point, both raised proper to mind their manners. However the sense of animosity between them could not be denied. Perhaps it was as simple that their fathers were enemies, and therein so were they. It started as simple challenges, as if the boys were testing each other’s courage and toughness. If they were walking the curtain wall around the castle and Meryn seemed to be staying too close to the center away from the edges Halys would suggest a game of walking along the merlons. When eating, if Meryn spotted something Halys did not favor the taste of, he would propose a challenge of eating as much of said culinary item in a short time as possible. Back and forth it went, each one rising to the challenge of the other without fail. They discovered Meryn was a better tree climber, and Halys the faster sprinter, and Meryn the greater swordsman and Halys the superior archer and on and on. The conflict culminated one morning when Meryn spotted Halys shivering ever so slightly when they were in the godswood and suggested immediately they ought to go swimming. After hesitantly giving her leave Antonie followed them out to the private space off the southern wall and observed them standing on a high rock over the water’s edge arguing who should be the first to leap into the chilled waters beneath.

“Guest rights, I should be second.” Halys presented his case logically. “I cannot be sure the water is safe, what if there’s lizardlions lurking beneath the surface?”

“Lizardlions!” Meryn scoffed at the absurd notion. “In the Marches? The water is too cold for snakes let alone lizardlions. Are you daft?”

“Lizardlions live in the Neck and in Dorne.” Halys argued in turn, giving Meryn a shove that nearly sent the younger boy spilling into the water. “Dorne is close to here, and the North is much colder than the Marches. One might have swam into the ocean from Sunspear up the Mander, and then followed the tributary and into your moat. Do not call me daft either, I am smarter than you.”

Meryn sputtered, unable to quickly compile a functional retort to the reasoning presented. “There’s no lizardlions in the moat.” He said at last. For the first time in their many interactions he glared at Halys, the mirage of his courteous demeanor wavering. “I assure you it is too cold for them. I have swam here many times. The only thing in that water is snails and little fishes.”

“If you’ve done it many times why do you not jump? Or is it too cold for lizardlions and for you too? I think you’re just craven.”

That seemed the final straw for Meryn who pinched his nose and without another word leapt from the rock into the waiting water below. Halys let out an audible groan before he too jumped. The boys emerged from the water and waded ashore to the thin patch of sand that separated the wall and moat. They were glowering at each other still and noticeably shivering.

“See any lizardlions?” Meryn spat wrapping his thin arms around himself.

“No, but they would have made better company I think.”

“You must not think much at all.”

“Says the craven.”

“Your father surrendered you, who's the real craven?”

That it seemed proved to much. In heartbeat the boys were on each other, tussling in the sand. Antonie twitched from her seat on the stone steps, worried she may have to intervene. To her relief they were not throwing punches, biting nor kicking, merely wrestling. Antonie had seen much the same from her brothers, and her own sons. Able and Meryn were fiercely competitive, and wrestling remained one of their conflict resolutions. In fact, Able might have been the key to Meryn’s chances here. He never showed mercy to his younger brother, and more often than not would pin Meryn within moments. Halys was a fair inch taller than Meryn, and broader in the shoulder and fast, but he was no Able. Meryn kept pace, and proved skillful and eventually pinned Halys securing the older boy in a proper hold from which there proved no hope for escape. After a brief struggle Halys relented.

“I yield.” He said in the same rueful voice he’d used to swear his vow to not escape.

Meryn relented and let him up and they both sat still for a moment brushing sand from their faces. Halys looked sour and disappointed in himself, but a thoughtful look passed Meryn’s features “You’re faster than my elder brother Able.” Meryn said at last, and though Halys might not know it, Antoine recognized a genuine compliment from her youngest son. “I am sorry I named your father a craven. That was wrong of me. Ser Gyman said he fought bravely, and yielded only when the cause was hopeless.”

For the first time since his arrival at Starpike a real smile spread on Halys’ face. “You're the strongest boy I’ve ever fought, and not a craven at all.” He said his tone lacked any of the false optimism it had carried before, replaced by something real. “You must show me how you did that chokehold, I could not break free.”

“Sure.” Meryn showed him, and then they were playing like they had known each other all their lives. Wrestling and swimming and building sand castles and trying to snatch fish out of the water using only their bare hands. The coldness of water and opinion forgotten. Antonie could only shake her head and marvel at what strange creatures boys were. Bitter and fighting one moment, and then friends in the next. They played for hours before Meryn suggested he show Halys the castle town and all its inhabitants. Even offering to let the other boy ride Able’s old gelding grey. They raced past Antonie up the steps, begging to be let out to ride amongst the town.

“Very well,” Antonie gave her permission and they charged past towards the postern door laughing and jesting all the way.

______

That evening when Atonie checked on her slumbering children she passed Halys door once again, and heard the muffled homesick crying from within. Taking a deep breath she eased the door open and walked in, finding the boy crouching by the window looking longingly to the northwest. he swiftly wiped the tears from his face, bearing a look of terrified embarrassment. She shushed him, and offered what comfort and solace she could to the little boy, so far from home and surrounded by strangers and foes.

---

Arrangements had been agreed upon before he had ever set foot on the Sea Dragon that carried him to Gulltown. Lord Donnel Arryn could not greet them, of course, busy as he was with gathering support for the king. Rhaegel understood that a lesser branch of the Vale's Arryns kept residence in the port city and would host him for a night or two before they carried on through the lowlands of the Vale towards the Kingsroad and up to the Twins.

He also understood it was likely not meant to be just about hospitality. His own marriage had never been seen as heavily needed after his younger brother wed. Yet he knew a marriage pact would be sought in time and House Arryn had some drops of dragon's blood already. Whatever was left of dragon in the blood, anyways. He'd made his peace with it, doing as he was instructed as he often did until he couldn't.

In any event, he had not minded the arrangement, it was easier to go along with the plans others made around him than it was to dispute them. Dark-haired like Baelor, and, while not as silver-tongued, much more so than either of the other brothers. Like Aerys he had little talent for swordplay or tactics, things best left to both the eldest and youngest of them. But neither was he to be so enamored with all types of knowledge as Aerys was. He was ever in the middle, ever the lesser even, of the others, even if they did nothing to make him feel so. He was glad that this thing he had to do, would be done with Maekar.

He would have rather not have matters go so wrong so quickly though, particularly when he had been having so many good days at sea before they disembarked at Gulltown's bustling harbor.

They were met, as had been planned, by a dozen household staff and guard. The deep blue and falcon was perhaps less grand than what those high in the Eyrie would have worn, but they were a welcome sight regardless. That was short-lived. The bustle of the harbour was not the standard trade and fare of the docks. They were meant to have joined up with Lord Arryn's grand-nephews once away from the docks, but the crowds quickly turned violent.

Banners rose around them, red greatly outnumbered in a sea of black. Shouts too rang out, chants for King Daemon, first of his name. Cries erupted, calling for the false king's death. Men did not long leave their disputes to words and too quickly, the prince's men and Arryn's men were separated.

In the chaos of everything, the group of men on horseback were not directly targeted. Rhaegel was pulled from his horse with a yelp only to find it was one of his own men, Ser Willem. "Blend in better down here my lord." Better to not tempt fate longer than necessary, the safety and danger of their mounts was a gamble they were unwilling to take in the increasingly violent crowd.

The prince had simply nodded, and followed as much as he could, pressed on all sides by four of his men. If they had a plan, it was challenged at every turn. One moment rushing back towards the docks and the next forced up one alley and then another. Quickly enough, Rhaegel had lost any sense of direction.

They found a quick reprieve, pressed against the entry of an alehouse that smelled of stale sick. "We should separate and make our own ways back to the ship." Rhaegel's men did not hide their shock at the command. He did not often make demands and it took him off-guard as well. "We're no good clumped up together and soon enough someone will look long enough to see our attire." Red dragon on black, finery unlike those around them. Unhappily or not, they came to agreement quickly and at the end of the alley separated. Rhaegel had charged them again, that this was his command, and gave a silent plea that the gods would spare them all.



"Absolutely not." Her brother said, for a third time, hoping that repetition would finally convince her.

"Jon." Alys busied herself checking her saddle, a steady hand against the horse's underside, ensuring it was secure. "Uncle was clear that I was to join you in meeting our Prince. First impressions and all. I see no reason why that should change."

"He said that before we had reason to believe things would be so dire here." Jon stood behind her, arms firmly crossed, willing her to stop her preparations. "The city is on the brink of boiling over. We will get to the Prince and bring him back here immediately, we cannot risk -" He was cut off abruptly.

"I will not believe that you fret I would slow you down." Alys spoke as sharply as she turned, her head needing to tilt back to meet her brother's eyes.

He relented, with a sigh. "No, not that, but it will be enough that we need to protect him, nevermind having to worry for you."

"Brother…" She gripped both of his arms beneath gloved hands. "Perhaps they will be swayed from doing any harm so as to not hurt me."

In any other situation, perhaps her presence could have helped, she was not an uncommon sight in the city nor along the harbour. And she was well-liked enough. "This mob of men that threatens to form is not the same as the one that does from unhappiness over the rising cost of grain." He shook his head but his shoulders dropped all the same. "Wait for us with our cousins, I will seek him out with the rest of the guards. Please."

Alys bit her lip and nodded.

As soon as Jon had left, she too mounted her horse. "You may come with me, or wait here as he bid, the choice is yours."

As she expected, she heard the men scramble to their horses and ride off after her, down the long winding road towards the heart of the city, and beyond it, the harbor.

Bells rang out.



If he had known which way he was meant to go, he was definitely no longer going that way. He thought he'd made it through the worst of it, turning a corner to something nearly quiet.

Then he looked the other way down the road. There were four of them, and one, presumably dead man on the ground between them. Before Rhaegel had turned that corner, he thought they must have been searching the man's pockets for anything valuable, for they now they were standing, very keenly eyeing him up.

"Wrong street, I think." The one nearest to him said, already full standing, wiping his hands - no, a blade - against a dirtied rag.

"I think you're right, I'll be on my way. Please do…carry on with your…work." The prince stumbled out while stumbling backwards a step.

The rest of the men were standing now, taking slow steps towards him, the distance closing. They glanced between each other, to the buildings that surrounded them, one at a time to the street behind them. Rhaegel would have told them there was no one there. He was very aware that there was no one there to save him or distract them.

"No need for any of that." He gulped, gesturing behind the men at the dead one on the ground. "Here!" He pulled out his coin purse, not overly heavy with gold, but more than tempting enough he hoped.

He lobbed it towards them, meeting them just over halfway, not with a thud but with the sudden clinking of the many coins split from the bag.

It was enough, they stopped long enough to look again between Rhaegel and the glint of gold before them, and dove instead on the gold. Seven, it worked. And then another thought followed, that Maekar would have hated this. 'Just fucking cut them down,' he'd say. Always a man of brevity, his brother's voice was loud in his head as he remembered he did carry a dagger. His hand flexed towards the weapon, a consideration only requiring another small moment of bravery and an immense amount of luck.

Accepting that his brother would be disappointed, he found his original plan more to his liking. The prince took off with newfound speed, away from them, away from the direction he thought was meant to be going again, down more quiet streets, but now ones that began to open up from the pressing buildings into wider, independent ones.



They were still a good distance from the roads that would take them to the docks when at last her cousin's pleas forced her to stop. The people in this part of the city had overwhelmingly barred themselves in their houses, no banners flew from their windows. These were the ones who would wait to pick a side then. She turned her horse to face her three cousins, all younger than her, only one having been properly knighted.

As they again admonished her that they should now turn back and await Jon's return, Alys urged her horse forward and around them, ignoring them and her own counterarguments that had been on the tip of her tongue.

A man had just come out of one of the narrow side streets, hunched over and breathing heavy. He was alone, but even at this distance she could see he was far better dressed than anyone coming from that direction should have been.

He looked up, either at the sound of her approach, or at the ongoing raised voices from her cousins. For a moment, she thought he would take off running again. It would have been a stupid decision, if they were not who they were. Dark hair, a shock of silver, though he was covered with a sheen of sweat and his hair clumped together. Quickly enough she had the confirmation of who she thought he might be.

"You were not meant to be greeted here like this, yet I bid you welcome to our city, my Prince." She knelt her head quickly, perfunctory. "Normally the city is more welcoming than this, I can promise you that our manse will offer a much better greeting." There was no humour in her voice, just an edge of concern at the bizarre situation that placed them here.

Alys did not dismount, though her cousins had finally come to join her, realising their unnatural luck at stumbling upon the royal. They formed around her, every vigilant, scanning the streets around them for any sign that the mob would continue to spill out to their street.

She held out her arm towards the Prince, not waiting for his response as he seemed still be catching his breath. She wondered just how horrible the city had been to him, but she saw no sign of blood and was satisfied enough at that, for now. "I'm afraid we have no spare horse for you, and it would be best if we made a hasty retreat with you, together." If her cousins thought it improper they did not speak up.

She watched as the Prince blinked once, twice, and a third time before approaching her, gripping her arm in his hand and hoisting himself behind her.

"I am Alys Arryn, my prince. Perhaps we can save the rest of introductions for the manse."

She nudged her horse back towards where they had come from. "Ser Derryk, go find my brother and our men and urge them home."

With no other words, she took off at a canter, the other two men again having to give chase to catch up.

---

Lord Armond sat in his chair uneasily before the larger elegant table centered in the room. He took a small sip of his Arbor Red, before setting the ornate goblet down. Clearing his throat, the Lord of Bitterbridge looked to his advisors before looking back at the large unrolled map on the table. He couldn't help but notice that large portions of the Reach were in open rebellion, chief among the rebels being House Peake to the south and House Ambrose immediately to the north. Sighing, Lord Armond still had yet to hear if his liege lord, House Tyrell had sent any word as to what they expected of their vassals who had both remained loyal to the Tyrells and to House Targaryen. Hoping that he could still bide his time, he chose to heed the words of his advisors, all of an age similar to him, to continue stockpiling supplies, primarily food and fodder for any extended marches, and to slowly call the levies to muster.



Lord Armond sat in the candlelit room, musing to himself. In his mind, he saw House Peake, Ambrose, Vyrwell, and others as disloyal traitors, and as such, he'd need to keep an eye out for raiders and outriders, as their lands were the closest to his own. For now, still no word as to what the perfidious Hightowers were going to do, aside from Lord Jon Hightower, per rumors, was a bit off his rocker. A problem for another time, though history for his own family reminded Lord Armond to both distrust the Hightowers and loathe them. His only other concern was that of his hot blooded nephew, but he was sure Ser Ryam would, begrudgingly remain loyal to his rule and that of their oaths.



Ser Ryam stood in a circle of his most trusted fellow knights, upjumped hedge knights as his uncle mockingly referred to them. Fifteen armored men carefully checked their provisions and gear, before Ser Ryam spoke aloud, "The Old Centaur may sit and drink, counting bushels of corn and grain from the comfort of his lavish hall, but we shall ride out and find both glory and honor in this new age. House Peake has openly declared for the Black Dragon, and so have Houses Ambrose and Vyrwell. We have options of who we choose to throw our lot in with." The gathered knights nodded their head, some speaking softly their agreement. Ser Ryam spoke again, making sure his armor was properly fastened. "I say we ride for the Peake lands, and offer our services to them. Better to fight a bit farther from home, and not earn the ire of our neighbors. Plus, we can better blend into a larger host than act as mere raiders from the woods. Ser Theo, gather the men, we shall ride out within the hour."

Ser Theo Rivers bowed his head, before hurrying out to give orders to the Sergeants and other men of note. The "Wardens of the Rose Fords" would ride out to battle, and per their leader and captains, it would be for the Blackfyres. An hour would pass, the sellsword company assembled, all 150 mounted men, and with a bit of fanfare, they road out of Knettshall to the south, aiming for the lands of House Peake.