One Who is Many - [Worm / Game of Thrones]

Doomsought · Nov 13, 2021

ATP said:
Dornish killed dragon with scorpions.Taylor should gave them missile launchers and guns.

Technological uplifts require literally thousands of people getting specialized college educations and leading tens of thousands of people in the restructuring of infrastructure over the course of decades. Westeros to missiles is three or four times the progress that Japan made during the Meiji restoration and would require a full century at best. A few novelty fire arms might be possible with a dozen skilled artisans and a few years, but something like muskets would require training hundreds of blacksmiths, tens of alchemists and thousands of menial laborers.

The_Bajar · Nov 13, 2021

Doomsought said:
Technological uplifts require literally thousands of people getting specialized college educations and leading tens of thousands of people in the restructuring of infrastructure over the course of decades. Westeros to missiles is three or four times the progress that Japan made during the Meiji restoration and would require a full century at best. A few novelty fire arms might be possible with a dozen skilled artisans and a few years, but something like muskets would require training hundreds of blacksmiths, tens of alchemists and thousands of menial laborers.

I also doubt Taylor knows how to even start making a missile. Gunpowder? plausible. Maybe even a primitive cannon. But anything more advanced ...

Jubjub3000 · Nov 13, 2021

The_Bajar said:
I also doubt Taylor knows how to even start making a missile. Gunpowder? plausible. Maybe even a primitive cannon. But anything more advanced ...

It's possible she knows the basics about a couple machines like the Miller, pillar drill and lathe. If these are created then it would mean that they can create more things both faster and more accurately, plus they can be powered by water or wind cause I doubt Taylor knows how to make an electrical generator.

ATP · Nov 13, 2021

Doomsought said:
Technological uplifts require literally thousands of people getting specialized college educations and leading tens of thousands of people in the restructuring of infrastructure over the course of decades. Westeros to missiles is three or four times the progress that Japan made during the Meiji restoration and would require a full century at best. A few novelty fire arms might be possible with a dozen skilled artisans and a few years, but something like muskets would require training hundreds of blacksmiths, tens of alchemists and thousands of menial laborers.

Yet nations manage all that without college educations.
Muskets were worst then bows,so she could forget them,but guns were made from bronze,and projects of modern missiles were made in 17th century/polish inventor Arciszewski,if i remember correctly/
Making good gunpowder is easy for people with elementar knowledge of chemistry/not for me/.
And blacksmiths - pustun blacksmihs made working copies of AK47.,the same goes for philippine ones.

The_Bajar · Nov 13, 2021

ATP said:
Yet nations manage all that without college educations.
Muskets were worst then bows,so she could forget them,but guns were made from bronze,and projects of modern missiles were made in 17th century/polish inventor Arciszewski,if i remember correctly/
Making good gunpowder is easy for people with elementar knowledge of chemistry/not for me/.
And blacksmiths - pustun blacksmihs made working copies of AK47.,the same goes for philippine ones.

Copies yes, but doing so, would require them to have access to a copy. I doubt Taylor has the faintest clue on the insides of a modern gun.

masterofmadness · Nov 27, 2021

Alright! After far too long I have finished my review! Sorry it took so long.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Keeping his shield held high, the young prince ignored the growing numbness in his shoulder. This battle would be over soon enough - then he could get an armorer to pry the damaged joint apart and he could properly inspect the damage.

"Steady!" Instead, he screamed his already sore throat raw to keep his men firm. "The ships are coming around!" More pirates gathered on their crude wall and continued to hurl stones and abuse on the trapped men. "Hold damn you!" One of the mercenaries wobbled, dropping his shield for just a moment and had a heavy stone nearly take one of his eyes. Quentyn mostly focused on shuffling a few men over and allowing his comrades to tend to the wound as best they could under a roof of wood and iron.

"Thwack!"

A large bolt smashed through a pirate above, catching him in the chest and knocking him off of the wooden rampart and several more soon joined the dead man on the ground below.

Oh yeah! while we were having drama about an accident in a forge potentially costing someone a leg their was a war going on! How is it going Quentyn?

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
By now, the Gods alone knew how many months into their operation, the pirates were well informed of the fury coming for them. Some fled, some chose to hide, and the most desperate chose to fight. These pirates in particular, the largest remaining group in the islands according to their prisoners, were known as the Rake's Bastards and were, allegedly, an entire clan of bastards descended from some rich Essosi nobleman.

They slit their father's throat and used his gold to buy a fleet… and the hundred or so men that escaped were all that remained of that mighty armada after a run in with Euron Greyjoy.

What was important is that they held the entrance to Bloodstone, the largest of the islands in the Stepstones, and had chosen a sheltered cove as their stronghold.Vitally, all three other landing sites on the islands had been blocked with scuttled ships, mostly fat bottomed whalers and merchant vessels, and the enterprising pirates had even raised many of the sandbars by hauling large rocks onto them.

This forced the coalition under Quentyn's command to funnel itself into a single, narrow passage they had well fortified. Firstly, they had a chain of sorts, though a crude one, that had been lowered when the coalition ships had first approached, but more than that they had also set up a palisade around the landing site, several raised platforms to hold missiles that ranged from stones to cauldrons of boiling water to archers and even a large number of low, squat towers that would allow the Bastards to pour flanking fire onto any vessel that entered.

Not to well it appears.

An amphibious assault against a prepared enemy is not exactly the best situation to find yourself in.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Rowboats had deposited his forces along the scorched sands of the beach and, with a squad of mercenaries sent ahead to find the way, the princeling had taken a moment to look out over the smoke-wrecked battlefield. Charred corpses hung from blackened supports, a great gaping hole had been smashed into the first palisade where one of the ships had managed to bring itself far enough up the beach to slam into it, and the other two still smouldering hulks had shifted to just below the waterline where all that was left of them now rested.

That had been fifteen minutes ago.

Now he and his men were pinned down before the second wall and were unable to climb it. This left them vulnerable as hundreds of enraged men set against them with everything the pirates could lay their hands on. However, zeal and fury was no match for the accurate, steady fire of scorpions.

Those damnably accurate weapons could keep a position suppressed and would remain at the ready to fire for as long as it took for a target to expose themselves. Moreover, now that friendly ships had moved into the cove proper, more troops could be landed to support their advance. So, knowing what he wanted, Quentyn reached over and grabbed a knight's shoulder.

Well if nothing else Quentyn has gained a level in badass!

Holding the damn line like a badass! It is easy to fight someone when you can hit back but just sitting their and tacking a beating? That takes some discipline.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
His dagger took the fingers off the first pirate to lay hands on the lip of the device, arrows and scorpion bolts having dissuaded any other from trying up to that point, and hauled himself over the edge with his blood on fire. Half ducking back down the ladder, the Dornishman dodged a club before stabbing out and burying his blade in the throat of a surprised looking old man. Blood, hot and wet, splashed down across his face and it was half blind that he finally pulled himself over the lip of the enemy's wall.

Laying into the nearest man with his knife, he managed to get inside the man's guard, taking a glancing blow on his already wounded shoulder as he did so, before managing to bury his dagger into the unarmored belly of his opponent six or seven times.

Pushing the man back and ripping his blade free at the same time, he knocked the pirate into a group of his fellows. Catching their comrade easily, they were able to hold him up until they noticed his intestines had started spilling out along with large gushing spurts of blood. This momentary distraction, and the wailing of a man already condemned to die, bought the knights behind Quentyn enough room to climb to his feet.

And he is leading the charge up the walls? Quentyn is a man with something to prove no doubt about it. I mean that literally since it is clear he is.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Quentyn, exhausted and sore and mind still filled with a lingering haze of killing, shuffled over to one side as a maester tended to his shoulder.

"Definitely something cracked my prince. You'll need a sling for a while. Of the rest of your wounds, only bruises and a bit of bleeding. Your armor did well."

He was a young man, more wisps of hair about his cheeks than even the start of a beard, and it occurred to Quentyn that he'd killed a man today that could have passed for his very own healer's brother. It was queen enough to draw a laugh from him. A great, sudden laugh that burst out of him and washed over the prince in a sudden, all consuming fit of mania.

His escort stood there in the dying light as the healer recoiled, wariness in the young, though still older than the prince, man's eyes. Each man was a veteran and knew the laughter would pass soon enough. Instead, they stood in a blood splattered vigil as the smell of charred flesh, death, and burnt wood wafted through the air, a strange and rather new sense of respect in how they looked at him.

Normally I would be concerned about how he is breaking down into mad laughter but given he is a martel I don't think it is too strange. I am fairly certain each sand snake is born cackling madly rather the crying..

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Prince Martell." One of the captains approached the nobleman, inclining his head and saluting him with his sword, and spoke rapidly. "We've chased the pirates all the way up the beach, but just before the forest's edge they have a fortified cave entrance. They're firing on us from there and covered the fleeing men's retreat. If we don't catch them now the damn cowards will make it inland!"

Calming down, and accepting a towel from Ser Daemon, Quentyn wiped his face and spoke.

"Fire served us once today." Rough and raw, his throat practically burned from the mixture of smoke and screaming. "Smoke them out. And have men in the ships look for smoke plumes, that'll tell us where their exits are."

Soon more and more officers came and the prince found there would be no rest for him, the mercenaries and knights now strangely eager to ask his opinion and look for orders from him. This, the first true battle of their campaign, had seemingly made him a man at last.

Enjoy it Quentyn you earned that respect. You still have a long way to go but this is the start of standing on your own two feet as future ruler of Dorne!

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
And only one part of many different operations taking place concurrently. Ser Garlan and Prince Xho both had their own detachments sent to clean out other islands and their own campaigns would likely be smaller, but far more numerous mirrors of his own.

Hopefully his men's superior arms and armor would mean that those operations wouldn't take too long. After all, this was only the first phase of his father's plan and there was still much work to be done.

Logical, a little disappointing that so many people didn't get to see him get bloodied first hand but given this operation I think a lot of the men are in similar situation of having come to prove themselves as first time commanders. Besides it will probably help thing the leaders of other factions in the army got their own little campaigns to glorify themselves at least in the short term. Hopefully this doesn't further divide forces because everyone assumes they are the hot shit who did the best so far.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Waking up in a bed she didn't remember getting into was always a bit terrifying, the smooth stone walls before her known only by the roughness on her palm. The room itself was pitch black and without so much as a hint of light and the whole of her situation seemed to press down against her - doubly so when she could feel a body clasping to her from behind.

Thankfully, the loud snores of Obara were almost hilariously recognizable, had been for almost as long as the once-hero had been living in this world.

Daw! The fact that Ohphelia woke up tp big sister Obara cuddling her is absolutely adorable.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"I know you're awake."

Obara adjusted her position a little and brought the witch's head over a bit and away from the wall.

"How did you know? I kept my breathing even."

Rolling her eyes, the once warlord relaxed as she sighed.

"You snore."

Ophelia: It's so bad maybe I should call you O-bear-a!
Obara: Ugh!
Ohelia: Look I am ruining this language and their is nothing you can do about it.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"No I don't." The spearman grunted. "You cheated using your swarm."

Chuckling, the younger of the two women couldn't help but feel a pang of regret.

"Perhaps." A few moments of long silence later and she found the words she wanted to use. "So, I take it the lot of you were worried I'd disappear again? How did the boy's leg turn out?"

"Aye. We drew lots. I lost the draw. That's why I'm on a too hard bed in the back of a butchery instead of entertaining the Not-So-Little Jon."

I know she is talking about Smalljon Umber but a part of my likes to imagine this is her talking about Jon snow just for the thought of what his face would look like from her talking about him like that. Also Damn Obara an Umber? Has Ophelia ruined your language enough to have the phrase size queen makes sense?

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"I suppose you want to know what I did?"

Shuffling over a little, the spearwoman pulled the blanket up a little higher, their room wasn't heated and the witch's sisters didn't benefit from her own resistances, before finally deciding on how she wanted to answer.

"Will it help you to tell me?"

Shrugging, the girl from a poor street on Earth Bet turned over.

"Maybe. I don't know. I… I guess I want to think that I'm doing better, being better than I once was. But it feels like the temptation to backslide is constantly there." Thinking back to the spell, the witch wasn't sure how to explain it to someone who'd have no frame of reference. Ultimately, she spoke as truly as she could. "When I felt his leg start pulling from me, it was like my warmth, my life, my soul was being pulled out. Not even a great deal, but just a little. A tiny part of who and what I was, was being used up. So I panicked." The shame had returned, but still Ophelia pushed ahead. "Tapping into my swarm, I used them up instead. I felt their light die, because I chose to do something that wasn't natural."

Ah this makes a lot more sense when it is explained like this.

Her control using QA was always different when it came to sacrificing them, a distant alien that moved the flesh like a puppet instead of a connected soul. Combine that with the fact Ohelia knows she is nearing the end of her vacation and will have to go back to being a warlord who make terrible sacrifices again? Recipe for some angst.

The classic Taylor is suffering formula. She wants to be a hero but accomplishing her heroic goals takes some villainous means, add in a dash of self justification and you have a classic ready to go!

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"So you're saying it's worth the life of a few bugs to leave a boy crippled?"

Confused, the witch recoiled, pulling away.

"No, I'm not saying that I should have left Gendry a cripple, but-"

"But what?" Pushing forwards, Obara didn't allow her sister a moment of room. "You chose to heal his leg. You chose to pay a price. And when you did, instead of giving up part of you, you ate up a few bugs. Are you going to claim that you'll not eat meat again next?"

Frustrated and angry, Ophelia pushed back.

"It's not that simple! What I did was wrong, on a fundamental level. I twisted up nature and perverted the very course of life and death itself - no matter why I did it, I still crossed a line."

The unimpressed snort that answered her said a great deal.

"Hardly. You're whining like a child that just had to gut and clean their first fish. I have killed dozens of men in my life, a few women too. Does that make me someone evil who perverts life and death?" After a few harsh breaths the older sister calmed herself. "Do not take my words to be an attack against you, sister, but you used up bugs-

"And took from a few birds and the last bit of life in an old dog and I took a few years off a cat too. I have felt insects die, dogs die, men and women and thousands of them at once die. But when something dies it simply leaves my control and my perception, it is gone in a moment before I can do more than simply move on. What I did… I felt their life be torn from them, like everything I ripped from their fles was twisted up into a ball and shunted into a splinter of Gendry's flesh."

Feeling her sister put a hand over her mouth, the young woman smothered the urge to lick it just to annoy her sibling. Instead she sighed and settled down to listen to the rest of her telling off as, now that she had stopped, it was clear she was growing manic. But truly, what she had done was even more alien than the height of her powers as Khepri. And that alone had cost her all that she was. What, then, could the Blackest Arts take from her should she let them?

"In the end, by your technique, you made his leg whole. Or at least as whole as it could be." Obara allowed. "If the act was so wrong then do not do it again, but accept what you have done and move on. To linger on it indefinitely is to revel in cowardice and to insult the sacrifice of those you took from."

I think this is a damn good example of why Obara is really the one here comforting her.

She is the best at dealing with a situation like this but cutting through the bullshit so to speak. She is very good at cutting away any excess and focusing only on what is most important as opposed to more introspective members of the family like Sarella or Ophelia who get lost in their heads. She basically got Ophelia over what could have been a whole angsty character arc and back out their in one conversation, I wish I had a support network that good! Props to you for your sistering skills Obara.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Then I suppose you won't mind chewing on them raw like a rabbit when we get back home."

Her danmable older sister chuckled. Clearly underestimating the power a petty sibling could bring to bear.

"I know you, sister. And I know turning people into animals is outside your domain for now."

Gasp! The set up! Could it be? O-bear-a is canon! coming soon!

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Aye. For now." Eventually the two settled into an amicable silence, with small moments of sleep from both, though neither truly returned to it. And, eventually, once Ophelia felt ready for it, she once more turned to her sister. "Obara, would you help me to the Godswood? Bathing in the springs there would be… good for me, I think."

"Of course. You're feeling weak aren't you?"

"Is it so obvious?" Her tone soft, the would-be sorceress hated the fact she was vulnerable.

"Indeed." Rolling out of bed, the warrior stood and popped her back. "You've been asleep for almost a full day and you didn't immediately get out of bed to pee."

Crying out, Ophelia did the sensible thing and threw a pillow at her sister's head.

I love how Ophelia plans to just turn up to a sacred grove of the Gods and use it as a spa no questions asked. #Witchgoals

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"If you had been in my brother's place, what would you have done?"

"Excuse me?" Oberyn looked up, genuinely confused, and Eddard Stark bowed his head slightly. The lord considered that melancholy might not be the best game to play, but that, at his wife's insistence, it was a somewhat safer first foray into Southron play than he might otherwise find.

Well Ned is certainly being ballsy today!

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Apologies, I was thinking, Prince Oberyn. And I find myself with a rather serious question. My brother, Brandon Stark, was challenged for the hand of my wife, then Catelyn Tully, by Petyr Baelish. Are you aware of the story?"

Closing his eyes for a moment, the prince slowly nodded.

"Aye. I think I am, but I do not remember the details of the duel, save that your brother won."

Leaning back in his chair, the Lord Paramount nodded.

"Sometimes I wish he lost the duel, for he would not have been able to ride to his and my father's death had he been overcome." Looking out of the window of his office, Ned sighed. "Then I hate myself because I realize that, if he hadn't died, I wouldn't have my children. And I don't think I could choose my brother and my father over them." Looking back at his… guest, he finished his thought. "So I ask you, if you were in my brother's place, what would you have done?"

Ah yes Ned's inferiority complex and guilt about his brother.

In all honestly he is probably did much better as Lord of Winterfell and husband to Catelyn then Brandon ever would not that he would even hear it himself. The man was basically northern Robert and would have had way more then one bastard if he had lived to marry Cat, he got himself killed for a reason. I do find it curious that he brings up the duel with Baelish though to me it always seemed like something he mostly forgot about, only thinking about it in canon when he met Petyr personally. But I suppose to him it is also one more moment where if things had gone differently his brother might have been alive.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"I would take them both then and there. That way everyone is satisfied."

Ha! Yeah that is the Oberyn answer isn't it? Never change you horny shit.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"From the perspective of a Southron I suppose preventing an enemy makes sense. Though I am surprised at how concerned you would be for another man's honor." Blunt words, unkind words, insulting words, even, but the Martell simply grinned across the desk at him.

"I know my own reputation is poor amongst many, but I am neither cruel nor callous. "

Remaining quiet, the Stark lord allowed the silence to speak for him.

"Truly, I am not!" The prince protested. "My passions are strong, my love is stronger than my hate though. Other than a few choice enemies I am without disdain for any man!" Oberyn smiled. "After all, it takes love to hate and while I may love greatly and love a great many… few are the men, and women, whom have proven worthy of my true enmity. That is why I slay my enemies quickly and grant them that honor which they have earned."

You know I will never truly be sure if Oberyn's life philosophy is profound and enlightened or a pile of bullshit to justify endless self indulgence. I mean either way I love to watch him but I am very glad I can do it from behind a 4th wall at times.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Settling into his high backed chair, he admitted to himself that there would never be love between this man and him. Ned was simply of the North, moreover they were too different. On top of that, Oberyn held a little hate for him, having been the one to draw up the plans that saw Lewyn Matell and his sister and her royal children dead. Eddard would similarly dislike how the prince challenged his guardianship over Jon, even if only privately, and the disrespect the man had and continued to show.

'He's already been in two duels with my bannermen, though neither were lethal. I have to wonder, though, if the Red Viper is called so from the red faces of the husbands whom he has cuckolded. One day that'll see him dead if his pride doesn't get him first.'

Yes, there would always be friction between the two of them. But that didn't mean they couldn't work together -for the king's sake at least.

"When I received Robert's letter and word that he would be journeying North, I genuinely hadn't known what to expect from him. He is an old friend but I confess I parted ways with him in a situation that could be said to be… fraught. Frankly, I didn't know what to expect."

Pausing, he gave his beard a stroke before frowning.

"No, that isn't right." Thinking over what he wanted to say, and what should not be said, he eventually settled on the obvious, subtle and gross at once. "I had suspicions. And fears."

Now that I think about it Ned is kind of playing murder mystery right now isn't he? I mean their was always an element of him investigating Jon Arryn's death in canon but here it is far more pronounced. In canon you had what is presumably a natural death but a potential conspiracy where according to Lysa it was in fact the Lannisters ultimately leading to the incest reveal supposedly giving motive at the end. Here? It is very clearly a poisoning, one that very clearly was done in a way to point to the Dornish and Ophelia as the poisoners.

Ned has an more complex murder plot were the obvious suspects are someone he meets and realizes 'No they were responsible just scapegoats to try to reflect the blame". But that still leaves him trying to find the murderer! Did Ned get the letter about the Lannister this time? Is he considering telling the Dornish? If not who does he suspect and what is his plan?

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Eddard knew Robert didn't trust anyone in King's Landing, least of all the Queen's family. The man had always been headstrong and prone to rash decisions while in the throes of rage. So when Jon Arryn had died… of course he would come all this way.

Because Ned was his closest living friend, maybe his only friend left in the world.

And that could only mean one thing. Ned was to be offered the seat of Hand.

One of highest honors a man could hope to achieve. The right to rule with the power King, to wield his word and work in his best interests against all those who wished to betray Robert I Baratheon. To, in theory, carry the weight of the realm on his shoulders as much as his foster brother did.

It was a dangerous offer.

Ned hadn't been to King's Landing since their rebellion. He had no allies or acquaintances amidst the courts that far south. All he would have was the King and what few men he could afford to bring with him. Starks had a bad history going South and Ned considered rejecting the offer.

Honestly I always wondered what would have happened if Nd had just not gone the King's Landing and turned down the job of Hand. Say what you want but he was very right to be worried about the job, he does not have any of the allies or skills to really do the job successfully and it does end up getting him killed. I suppose Robert is right that he is the only person in Westeros who he can actually trust and is one of the most moral leader you can put in the position but really Ned's worries are sadly right that Stark going south always seem to lead to tragedy.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Me? Not my daughter?"

The question was honest and it seemed that the prince was more confused than insulted.

"You aren't the type to send a child to take revenge for you. Besides, Ophelia seems to be more interested in… communing with the gods than in killing old men."

That got him a leer.

"Didn't you happen to have a run in with her when she was 'communing'?"

Ned frowned.

"You're not upset I saw your daughter naked?"

"I'm just happy she has ambition." Chuckling, Oberyn waved Ned's concern away. "Besides, if she decides to seduce you, then Doran will stop whining like a child that's had its toys taken away every time she wants to spend money."

Running his hands over his face, the poor Northman sent a quick prayer to the Old Gods for patience. Partly because he dreaded having to explain that previous chance meeting to his wife at some point, better she hear it from him than a servant gossiping, and because it seemed like the Southrons truly were all lunatics.

HAHAHAHAHA!!! I love the encouragement Oberyn! Dad of the century truly! What other father would try to help his daughters become a Lord Paramount's mistress rather then trying to killing him?

I also love Ned's hilarious straight face and disappointment here, how exactly do you deal with someone like Oberyn responding to your seeing his daughter naked like this? Aside from getting an aspirin of course.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Honestly, he didn't know what to make of them quite yet, the Dornish that was. Their animosity as a people was well known, House Nymeros Martell playing the stereotype to an eccentric, swarming, sometimes charming T. They were, perhaps, one of the few Houses Ned had always had a measure of respect for, even if only in passing. They were passionate and prone to volatile behavior - a good match for the King's own temper.

And Oberyn Martell exemplified those qualities even more than the rest of his kinsmen.

He was indulgent, passionate, prone to whims which matched the King's own. In another time and place, if he was a younger man and still the second son, Ned was sure that the two would have been either bitter rivals or the best of friends. Admittedly, he still found the man's company to be enjoyable at times… despite their disagreements.

Interesting perspective from need on the dornish. A good bit of sterotyping about the dornish from him which to be fair Oberyn and the Sand snake play into their stereotype to a damn T and I love them for it.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Brandon had been similar in that way too.

As quick to anger as he was to humor. When he'd been alive Brandon Stark held that very same fierce temper, that fire which quelled the chill of winter with its ferocity. Seeing shades of that fire in the Dornishmen kindled a sense of bittersweet nostalgia within Ned. Of easier times when he'd had both a Father, a Sister, and an elder Brother.

Perhaps that's why they could see eye to eye on this matter.

Because for all their differences, Ned Stark found there was something both he and the Dornish prince shared.

They loved their children.

Ned says he doesn't know what to make of the Dornish but seems to like them an awful lot. If nothing else his experience with them have humanized them to him since he has compared Oberyn to his dead older brother and noted his love for his children. If something were to happen to them within his power to help with I can't really see him not doing so unless it conflicted with something more important like his family or honor.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Gendry Waters was a great bastard, of that much Ned was sure, there could be no doubting he was Robert's son. And as the host of the King's entourage, it was his responsibility and honor which demanded he defend his friend's unacknowledged boy. Because the King wouldn't stand for anything less and Oberyn wouldn't stand for just his daughter taking the blame.

Both girls were at fault, so both would have to be punished.

"The boy will recover?" It was the topic they had both refused to touch on and, perhaps because Oberyn could see the change in the set of his face, the Southern man asked.

"Aye, the Seven were kind to him. The Maesters told me he will have a scar from this ordeal, but that the worst has been avoided."

His companion took a sip from his cup, rising from his chair and standing across from him as the King suddenly entered, clear surprise at the seemingly perfect dramatic timing of the third of the three fathers. The royal moved slowly, dark circles around his eyes clear proof of both his drinking and his lack of sleep. Saying nothing as he entered, he instead gave the two men a wave and a nod and walked over to the small fireplace.

It was a little eerie, how the amber glow illuminated the weary father's face as he seemed deep in thought. Not something others expected from him. Ned knew better. The man who conquered the Targaryen Dynasty was not a simple brute.

One thought did consume Eddard 'How long has it been since I've seen him like this?'

"He is lucky he kept his leg."

Honestly it is a little touching to see Robert be such a Papa bear, the man shows so little that isn't depression or lustful compensation for it. Having a son who is well... not Joffrey is seems to have genuinely affected him. I imagine a part of it is just not having that many strong connections at this point since now that Jon is dead he is basically down to Ned by this point in term of people he really cares about. I wonder how much The strong impression given by his work on the sword has affected this?

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"We have my daughter to thank for that." Oberyn Martell, standing to the side now and nursing his drink, couldn't help but brag. Unfortunately the King didn't seem to approve, shooting him a warning glance for bringing up such a thing without leave.

"Daughters are tricky little things. They make fools out of us, their fathers. Your girls went a tad beyond the line this time. And I can't overlook it." Robert was calm though, his voice steady and words without great anger. Because his son might be the one hurt, but it had only been by the actions of two children in a moment of foolishness and there would be no terrible maiming."

And neither man would dispute it. Had it been them in his place, they would have surely demanded justice just as fervently as their king.

"But I can be merciful."

Ned Stark found himself grateful once again - this time to the Dornish witch.

There was no doubt that Robert was being lenient because the boy's leg had been saved. Had he lost it, then the Demon of the Trident would have surely demanded something just as grievous in return. Reparations would have been made, of course, and Ned's heart would have been that much heavier for it.

Even Oberyn, passionate and given to protective anger, accepted this truth.

Had one of his daughters been hurt, he wouldn't have stopped at reparations.

This was a slap on the wrist.

"And what would your Grace demand?"

"Cut the horse shit, Ned. I'm not chopping off your daughter's leg." The King poured himself a cup of wine. "But I can't let those two get out of this lightly. An attack on the King's family is an attack on the King himself. Hmm." Before either man could speak, the knight-king nodded to himself. "They have to sit at the high table during the New Year's feast, they aren't allowed to train or to watch the knights train until we all leave Winterfell, and they have to spend the whole day in lessons with that Septa that serves your wife, Ned."

"Oh Gods." Oberyn spoke. "Elia is going to be inconsolable."

NO!!! ROBERT YOU CRUEL MONSTER! TRULY YOU HAVE SURPASSED AERYS IN YOUR EVIL!!!

More seriously yeah they are very lucky that this didn't end with a lost leg. This mean it can all be forgotten rather quick and quite compared to the mess would have occurred. I mean to start off with Robert would need to acknowledge he is a member of the royal family formally, then punish the family of his best friend and most tenuously Lord Paramount who he has just seen first had to have a powerful witch on their side. And none of that would help anyone Gendry most of all who would be no better off.

Necromancy saves the day once more everyone.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
For some reason, this made the Dornishman laugh. When the other two turned to look at him, he simply grinned.

"One of my daughters is aiming for a Lord Paramount, the other the bastard son of the king himself! I'm so proud."

Taking a moment to realize what the prince had said, the Stormlander turned to his foster brother and simply nodded.

"It's about time you took a mistress, Ned! And those Dornish girls are wild! Just be careful about the blonde one, I think she works for my wife. The warrior woman is great though."

Sighing, Eddard Stark simply buried his face in his hands again.

'I really am going to have to speak to my wife soon.'

HAHAHAHAHA!!! SEE NED EVEN ROBERT APPROVES!!!

Everyone has mentioned JonXOphelia but apparently NedXOphelia is where the good money is! I so look forward to that time speaking to your wife too, please explain all about how you saw the Witch of Dorne naked and the king is encouraging you to take her as a mistress. That can only go well! Surely they will become best friends over it!

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
A proper lady didn't run.

A proper lady didn't skip.

A proper lady most certainly didn't hum to herself as she strode through the Godswood on a cold afternoon. Nonetheless, that is what Sansa found herself doing as she hurried through the damp and loamy soil of the sacred forest, boots sinking awkwardly into the snow-melt made muck as the young lady struggled to walk as swiftly and respectably as she could. The surprisingly warm day, just enough for the light snow from the day before to melt completely in the clear noon sun, doing little to aid her advance.

Gasp! Sansa not caring about cating like a proper lady? Don't you know that is her sole defining trait? How dare you display her as an actual 3-d person and instead of a bland cut-out that! Don't you know you are making all the bad fanfiction writer look bad?

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Frankly, she couldn't understand how her best friend wasn't every bit as excited as she was.

How couldn't she be after being invited to a meeting with the visiting ladies? The queen's very own retinue. Sansa could scarcely believe it herself when she'd been handed the missive by one of the Queen's servants. An invitation to spend the evening in the company of one of the most important women of the Seven Kingdoms.

How could they not come?

And Sansa, above all others, had to.

This was her chance.

The chance to prove to herself, prove to her family, that she was ready to be like the intelligent and graceful ladies who'd traveled to see them. To show her mother that she could trust her eldest daughter to be the woman she was raised to be. That she wouldn't be a disappointment.

Sansa seems to have a bit of middle child syndrome coming on. Well a mix of that and just 'I am so an adult and ready to do adult things!' that every kids her age does at some point.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
And maybe, just maybe, Sansa… might be able to help Arya this way.

Winterfell was aflame with gossip, servants and visitors alike chattering about what occurred between her sister, the Dornish girl Elia, and one of the boys who came with the King's retinue - some kind of bastard blacksmith he'd brought along to work with the others.

Sansa didn't know and she didn't particularly care about bastards either. What mattered was that Arya, her sister, was in trouble.

Injuring a boy to the point he'd almost lost a leg, both she and the Sand girl had been confined inside Winterfell until the King, her father and the Dornish prince could decide on a proper punishment.

What that entailed, Sansa didn't know, but she wanted to help.

Robert Baratheon was known as the Demon of the Trident and had… tolerated the deaths of the royal children, as recompense for Rhaegar's rape and kidnapping of her aunt, Lyanna Stark. He wasn't exactly known for being merciful and she knew that that meant talking with the Queen and the Prince's daughter, surely they could help if anyone could.

And if the worst came to pass, no matter how loath she was to plead with people who were so wild, Sansa would even beg the Dornish prince and his daughters for help. After all, she loved her sister more than her pride and the Stark girl very much preferred her sister to be called Arya Horseface, not Arya Horsemeat.

What! Sansa actually love her sister instead of treating like shit and calling her names! What is this strange bizzarro Sansa! Your are scaring all the bad fanon believers out their!

More seriously I am glad to see Sansa concerned for her sister. People remember the moments of conflict between them cause they are big like her not backing her over the while Nymeria attack Joffrey incident but they forget the little moments like her covering for her to the Septa and thinking about naming her first daughter after her when she think she is dead.

Don't worry Arya your big sister is on the job! Even though she doesn't need to be and you are already safe... look it is the thought that counts!

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Come on, Obara! I got gold riding on this!"

One of the Dornish girls, the one Sansa had seen snooping around Maester Luwin's study, called from the sidelines, aged diary in one hand and in the other a small purse which rattled with the sound of coins. By her side, her sister, a beautiful blonde woman giggled in amusement and waved a handkerchief like a noblewoman at a tourney. Both of them were in one of the hotsprings and a tray of fruits and cheeses and a bottle of wine sat between them.

Their older sister, the intimidating warrior woman, knelt on the muddy ground, arm propped up against a slab of stone, face to face with Prince Oberyn's latest paramour as each attempted to force the other's arm onto the slab, straining with all their might as chiseled muscle bulged angrily.

Sansa blinked, speechless.

Sitting around the women, the ladies who accompanied the queen whooped in support of their chosen champion, many of them lounging about in the hot springs, drinks and snacks and party favors in hand as the Queen herself reclined in her own spring, uninterested in the contest as she conversed with the last of the Sand Snakes.

The Witch… who was contenting herself with merely letting her feet soak.

HAHAHAHA!!!

Of course the Sand Snakes would turn the noble ladies meeting into a crazy party! Complete with arm wrestling by muscled women! I have to wonder how the ladies of Cersei entourage feel about this because if nothing else I don't think this is common entertainment for them. If nothing else the Sand Snake will be remembered by the lady of court for bring some memorable moments. I swear if this was in the modern day the Sand Snakes would be tweeting video of this #Sandsnakesensations.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Shunting aside the fact that they were all without even a stitch of clothing, the young woman focused on the magic user - as there was a veritable swarm of spiders currently weaving a web between her fingers. She was someone Sansa wouldn't have given much attention to before. But in hindsight it wasn't for a lack of beauty that kept her from noticing the older than her witch. Rather, it was how striking everyone else around the Dornishwoman was.

From the taller and muscle bound warrior sister to the innocent and beautiful blonde sister, or the regal and gorgeous second sister - Nymeria, the woman who shared a name with Arya's wolf.

Compared to them, the Witch's beauty was… humble. And made a little terrifying by the nature of her abilities. In a way, Sansa was reminded of Arya, or at least if Arya knew spells.

And that was the crux of the problem, all of their problems really. Why her father's foster father had died, why the southerners had come to see them, why her sister was in such dreadful trouble.

Magic. Or something as close to it as possible. But the point of all that was the fact that if the rumors were true, then Sansa owed a great deal of gratitude to the Dornish girl.

'If she hadn't saved the blacksmith's leg…' she shuddered at the thought.

Sansa might not have been her sister's biggest supporter, but she didn't want her mangled or crippled because of a stupid mistake. It was in the king's right to demand everything from a weregild to reciprocal injury to death. The North knew how damning it could be to lose a leg and royal blood was protected by their law.

So all she needed to do was somehow convince the Witch, her sisters, and the Queen to help her. Gods, she felt ill already.

First off, the comments on Sand Snake beauty are fun to read. Ophelia is a beauty but a humble beauty' sorry Ophelia you might get magic power but you are the slightly less hot sister by comparison woe is you! Also calling her 'Arya if she knew spells' is making think about witch apprentice Arya and I can't stop grinning, she is a Stark after all!

Second, I find her awareness of magic's importance interesting. She is 100% right how important Ophelia and her magic have been. But how will this impact her? I could easily see Sansa thinking this time around that 'Magic is clearly affecting a lot of my life and I know noting about it, maybe I should learn some so I am not so ignorant?'. A Sansa who is more in touch with her Stark side and warging or even her Whent connection to the Lothstons could be in the future.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Jeyne, finally finding her, had frozen up as she came out of the woods. She was also blushing head to toe and even jumped when a great cry went up, Dame Delilah Waters having managed to defeat Obara Sand, much to the dismay of half of the onlookers and the joy of the rest. Because somehow the bacchanal had needed gambling to go with the feasting and the drinking.

Of course it need gambling Sansa! The only thing more important then the entertainment is being able to brag about getting one over on other party goers and this is safest way to provide that while also stealing some money as the bookie.

Also no need yo blush Sansa really this will be tame compared to the stories you end up hearing about the Witch wild Bacchanal soon enough. After all women alone? Having fun? Debauchery! Women drink and feast while wrestle in the mud for the crowd while some swim skin bare nearby already! By the time you reach King's Landing all you will hear is about how the Witch of Dorne entrances good noble women into sinful celebrations of her heathen gods. Soon it is all the realm will talk about, every one of them public shocked and privately wondering about joining requirements.

Interestingly this is actually not to far off a real life early Bacchanalia. It was originally just a bunch of women getting together to pray a few days alone without men, then they moved to nighttime and added some food, then Men got added with some music and then we reach the possible exaggerated account by frighten moral guardians that created the term as we know it today.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Come on you two." However, it was the witch that spoke - through a raven. "Cersei wants to speak with you." More terrifying than anything else was the fact that it was the Dornishwoman's voice coming from the bird. "You have my word."

Fluttering off, the creature, just like the fox, seemed to tell them what they needed to do.

Grabbing her friend's hand, purely to calm the common girl - Sansa wasn't scared, how could she be with such an absurd scene happening around her - she started forwards.

Really Ophelia a raven? I mean it is one cool flex but was it really necessary with Sansa?

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Skirting around the main group of people, the Sand Snakes have decided to bully their eldest for losing in a rather public display of sibling fervor, the duo of young women avoided scrutiny as there was currently a pile of limbs flying about the place as several smaller and weaker, though equally as vicious, young women pulled their larger, stronger sister to the ground and got mud in her hair.

Truly, the Stark thought, the Southrons were a savage and cruel race to do such a thing to their siblings! Never mind that she and Arya had done just the same a week ago - in a spat over this very visit in fact.

Loving the self awareness Sansa! This chapter truly demonstrates the depths of your sisterly love.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"So, you're the little wolf cub?" The queen drawled, holding a cup wine in one hand, long locks of wet hair hiding her nakedness as she lounged in one of the springs. "Come before a lioness?" Sansa had, in fact, come to stop in front of the older woman. "You do know a lion's pride is her weakness… yet you keep shooting glances at my pet snake."

Curtsying, because there was no way in the Gods' infinite wisdom they had seen fit to prepare her for this madness, she fell back on formality.

"Y-yes, your grace. I r-received your invi-invitation." Swallowing, she cleared her throat. "Thank you for extending such a courtesy to me."

"Oh do relax, we're not Tywin, we don't murder children." The Witch snorted at the queen's glare and Sansa could only pale. "Don't worry Lady Stark, your sister is fine, and I'm sure her grace will be happy to speak with the king. Won't you?"

"Woe is me." Taking a drink, the queen lamented. "My pet not only steals the attention of fair maidens, but gives out my favors too. Whatever is a lady to do with such profligate servants."

At this the Witch giggled, Sansa looking from one to the other in confusion, before the Dornishwoman simply gestured at the Northerner and her servant.

"The hot springs belong to the Starks, she is a Stark, I'm sure you don't need me to do the rest."

Huffing, the queen contented herself with rolling her eyes.

"You're all lucky I'm in such a good mood." Turning back to face Sansa, she nodded. "Aye, as the bastard says I'll speak with my husband. Now, come and sit with me. You and your peasant girl should make for better company than my own ladies. They seem content with watching a group of young women bludgeon each other to death over ruined hair… an understandable casus belli, no?"

It is your lucky day Sansa, you don't have to try and play politics against two women who outclass you to such a degree it is a joke because they were already planning on helping you. I suppose your soul is safe from being owned by the Queen and her pet witch for now.Sadly this might also reienfocre her canoncal very wrong impression that Cersei si some king of Good Queen architype instead of... well the exact opposite.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Cannon ball!"

Myrcella Baratheon, princess of the realm, did a flying leap into a nearby pool and soaked the whole group. This treated the young lady of the castle to one of the most ridiculous things she'd ever seen, even as she herself was left soaked head to toe. The Witch, Ophelia, had used her body to shield the spiders and their webs, ending up half sprawled in the mud as she tried to avoid jostling the little creatures… bottom up into the air, hair fanned out around her, and several sticks and bits of debris covering her. However, it was the queen who had ended up the most compromised

Somehow entirely dry, the pure white fox had found itself on top of the Lannister woman's head, perched in her blonde locks, looking insanely pleased at it's excellent escape.

"Get the rat out of my hair, Sand. Or I'll turn it into the hat it seems to take after."

Upon hearing that threat the smugness immediately evaporated and the albino creature leapt away with all of its power. This somehow amazed the Witch who began laughing, despite her own compromised position.

"I, hahahahahaha, I didn't even make it do that!" Rolling over on the ground, the bastard girl brought her now drenched hair around. "You just scared a magical fox into running away! And they call me a witch!"

Glaring imperiously, the blonde woman simply turned her chin up and away before purposefully washing her hair - something that only made Ophelia laugh harder.

And it looks like we have a Dark Horse candidate in the best princess race pulling up! Late though she may be it looks like she is certainly starting with a splash!

Also the magic fox is at the top of his game today.Does it have a nickname yet? I am going to call her Inari.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Co-come on over Stark." Waving to Sansa the Witch gestured for her to come closer, even as she let the spiders in her hand crawl onto a nearby tree, somehow transferring the web with them. "Do me a favor?"

Suddenly a bit terrified, and not just because holding in her own laughter had started to hurt, she glanced over to Jeyne.

"I… ma'am? What could I do?"

Lifting a single eyebrow, the Dornish sorceress was thankfully more amused than offended at the clear stammer in the redhead's voice.

"Go distract Myrcella for me? You and your friend over there should get along with her wonderfully. I need to apologize to the queen for laughing at her… and possibly for passing on words to the princess that shouldn't exist."

Nodding, still rather confused about everything, Sansa tried to lean on her mother and the septa's teachings.

"With your leave my lady, your grace?"

A witch's laughters and a haughty, queenly sigh were her amusing, and slightly terrifying, answers.

Yes Ophelia please finally realize that your words should not exist! Westeros has no cannons but the princess of the realm is doing cannonballs! Do you see the damage you have caused!

Also why do I get the impression this is the tart of Sansa and Myrcella becoming friends? If so good choice for Sansa, Myrcella is probably the best of Cersei's kids for all that is something of a low bar in a lot of ways.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"You were daydreaming again."

Grunting, he shoved the bottle into a tree's hollow, wondering if he should reconsider his decision to cut back.

"Can't blame a man for dreaming. It's all most of us have."

"Quite." She inclined her head. "Though you're not like most men, are you? A Myrish slave, risen to a Red Priest, then to a famed tourney fighter who wields a flaming sword. I would hope that whatever you were dreaming of would have been at least interesting."

And there it was again - that damn sense of knowing. As if this wisp of a girl, barely a woman really, had lived long enough to know what ailed the hearts of men. As if she knew their suffering. He'd met those who pretend to understand and sympathize with the common folk, masters of empty words and reassurance, but she cut through it.

Her eyes said she already knew what he wanted to say and that the only reason she asked was to help him puzzle it out. How she stood there, the light snowfall drifting past her, covering up the faded signs of yesterday's revelry, simply waiting.

Honestly I don't think the part about rising from slave to priest is as impressive as it sound though I do agree about the tourney fighter part. The Red Priests seems to profit off of the slave trade pretty heavily; they buy acolytes as children to indoctrinate and have their own slave troops in volantis. They claim they you should be 'a slave to none but R'hllor' but they in practice they seems to be a big part of the system of the slave based society of Essos. The fact he is such good fighter when unlike many knights he is not trained from birth but the best teacher is far more impressive.

Anyway it looks like we are getting an interesting look at Ophelia from the outside here. Because of her past life she has a lot of experience dealing with damaged people and the average person that a normal princess would never have. Since nobody knows that she spent years working with damaged by definition parahuman in an apocalypse or was a normal person most of her life as Taylor it seems uncanny for a noble princess barely into her teens. Also magical even one could say!

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
And it wasn't even as if she was patient! No, Ophelia had precious little patience when dealing with people she thought foolish…. Yet she always had time for a child's foolishness too.

The Royal children, her own sister, even the Stark children, she more than tolerated them, doted on them, seemed to get along with them.

A mother, though without children of all.

A student, yet one who knew all the answers.

A girl-child, yet with knowledge of the hearts of men.

I think this could also be another example of Taylor shining through. She did have a strange way of being very good with kids, I mean how many people will say to a child 'drugs and crime are awesome, but really only in the short term after a while they end up ruining you life.' which is probably a better line then anything I got at school to not do drugs! Though this could also be her experiences as Ophelia too, after all she went from a single child to having a gaggle of sister who helped her through her trauma, she spent her childhood being an adult having to deal with children in a way.

But still we see the, technically not incorrect by some definition, supernatural level of experience she seems to have for her age.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"If I said it was you, would you begrudge me?"

The witch sighed and he hated her for it, because it was an understanding noise. A sound that said she wished she was less of a problem and more of an answer, that she didn't choose to be so difficult. For a moment, Thoros almost wanted to strangle her.

"Me? Of course not. But others might. You'll have to be careful around Tyene, of course, but I'll keep your secret. Though if you wish to stroke my ego I am afraid I shall need to know more."

Drawing a knife he let the tool sit in his hand for a moment. In the end, he gave up the murderous impulse and slumped in on himself, finally committing to his great sin.

Well fuck Thoros.

I won't pretend I don't understand, Ophelia basically manipulated your alcoholism into making you betray your faith as a priest even if she regrets it and is still doing so. I think it just bear some focus that Thoros is a violent man, not one who wants to be or indulges in those without restrain but he is one regardless.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Answer and question, truth and lie, the Sand Snake gave her prey a sad little smile. Thoros saw the self loathing in her eyes as she did so and the bottle of fortified brandy slipped free of a single, voluminous sleeve. Taking the bottle, Ophelia finally advancing close enough to the Red Priest to hand it over, he took her in.

A crown of daylilies sat on her brow, the burnished skin of the witch contrasting with the blue-white of her dress. Falling from her collar bone to about mild calf, it was a simple thing, heavy and woolen and warm, and with a great deal of embroidery about it. From stags, to wolves, to roses, to even a few trout, it took the foreign born man a moment or two to realize that it had heraldry from the house of every lord paramount in Westeros, lions and suns and dragons included, from a generation ago. Most significant about it was how the sleeves billowed, several colors of fabric visible from within and telling him the garment was actually heavily layered. Oddly, though, she walked with bare feet in the cold and dirt and seemed to dig her toes into the ground as she swayed, step to step.

Around her neck was a scarf to keep out the chill, small gusts carrying with it unseasonably fierce winds for Autumn, though this was a simpler bright yellow and red, quartered, and unadorned. Her hands were free and as she stood there took up her hair, tied in a long braid, and began to lay it about her shoulder - keeping the ends from dragging on the damp ground.

Somehow, the snow didn't stick except about her eyebrows and on the flowers, and he couldn't help but love her and hate her at once, that same murderous urge coming to him once again. This time it had a mouth and a face and a voice, his old master, and it snarled and screamed and pleaded with him… even as the memory lashed out, kissing his skin with biting, knotted leather, and it was in those jolts of pain that he remembered his very first vice.

Thoughts of a knife and a bottle alike tormented him and so, setting aside the Dornish venom, for it was poison, he instead pricked a finger, the red of the blood somehow alike the green of her eyes in how it held the world.

First off, Scrim have you been missing you calling as a fashion designer because I am loving the dress descriptions!

Second, I am still disappointed that Ophelia is ultimately wordlessly following through on the deal she know is wrong.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Allow me to teach you of my first desire."

Kneeling on the ground, the snow settled a bit more heavily around her, creatures that scurried and creatures that flew settled around them too, the witch turned her full attention to him.

Thoros of Myr was not a blind man, he could see and feel the power she was already gathering about her and almost cried out. For this was an old and familiar vice.

"As you say, teacher. I shall listen just as surely as I do with Qyburn and Marwyn."

'One of three… yet never enough.' Shaking his poetry away he focused on the spell he worked at this very moment. "This is the vice of every mortal, master of their hearts." Nodding, he quite liked his thrust. "She is an old mistress whose whims are difficult to navigate and who's wiles were irresistible to any like me, like your father, like Lord Stark and King Robert and the Spider and Marwyn and every man, woman, and child to have ever been." It was more than what he could express, less than the truth still, and so very important he said this. "In all my many years basking in the many pleasures of the world, expensive wine, cheap women, and dalliances enough mischief to keep me afloat in the vast sea of the Seven Kingdoms, this is the single greatest thing I have ever imbibed."

Somehow she wanted with bated breath, though he knew the witch girl could control flames and snuff them out. Somehow she had turned a thousand eyes and a thousand minds towards this little Working. Somehow it was flattering and terrifying and the priest felt he was flying.

"Lately I have seen fit to flit from desire, to impulse, to orgy, hoping to find a new vice to occupy my time with. But the thrill of spilling one man's brains hardly compares to this."

Power, pure and simple, burned in his hand.

Reaching out, he grasped onto the power around his student too and pulled it down. Channeling it into the flames the embers roared up, almost singing his beard, before dying.

Once, where there had been a candle flame, now burned ten times that.

Ah yes the pursuit of power! A terrible and terribly common vice to have. I suppose it would only makes sense a former slave would crave the feeling of power brought by magic.

Also interesting that he can draw power from Ophelia's mere presence, that is some chosen one bullshit if I have ever heard it.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Fire is the prime mover, that which allows Earth to harden, water to flow, and air to drift. Without it, there is no ignition. It burns in a vacuum because it is the burn of the vacuum and death is only fuel to the flames. Purest of the four crude elements, fire is only overcome in potency by the Breath of the Gods itself and Aether is too pure to easily work in mortal shape. And men work fire through the use of breathing"

Interesting bit of Philosophy here. None of it is outright wrong yet I feel like this is also incorrect or biased as well, like I am reading Fire Nation propaganda from Avatar or something. This is a fire cult so I can sort of see why yet I also now want to see something similar from the other of the 'four crude elements' as well. Would an aeromancer proclaim that it is what lets fire burn, makes the wave on the sea and even in time erodes the mountains? And is their some sort of 'balance' style philosophy of how none is more important then the other and all create nature that Ophelia might end up with.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
And that's what their meetings had been about.

The power of breathing right.

Perhaps the greatest symbol of the Lord of Light's doctrine. Fire was the medium by which Priests and Priestesses alike conversed with and received guidance from Him in the form of visions and whispers from the flames. Some of the texts Thors had gotten his hands onto even spoke of how the greatest amongst the clergy could conjure a swath of flames into being.

A fanciful tale.

Perhaps a metaphor for their great power of persuasion. Or their ability to ignite the hearts of men into action. It was the tongues of the Red Priests, not their slave-soldiers, that had advanced their cause across so much of Essos.

But the Witch saw it differently.

She saw power where others saw fantasy and he was forced to agree. What he touched now was a different sort of thing. Unlike any magic he'd courted in the past.

To have the power his sworn brothers and sisters seldom, if ever, wielded themselves brought about a rush which Thoros couldn't quite understand. A thrill that many would attribute to the tales of danger and adventure toted about by bards in inns and courts.

It was like living in a dream, a never ending fantasy. One he could only live through as long as he held the attention of a certain woman. And after seeing the young woman call down beasts from the wilds as if they were loyal pets, Thoros was inclined to believe there might have been some reason to believe in her own obsession with the old stories of the Lord of Light's most faithful.

Either way, he won.

Waking up meant the truth of the limits of magic were confirmed, continuing to dream meant that magic had never died in Westeros. It wasn't normal and it certainly wasn't safe. His instincts, dulled as they were by years of drinking, told him that much. But at least it was interesting.

Looks like Ophelia is feeding more then one of Thoros' vices in more way then one. I don't blame him, their is nothing somebody want more then to feel like what you do matters. Without Ophelia he is a drunken priest who lights a flaming sword with chemical, but with her? He is the tutor in the Holy Arts of The Red God for the Witch of Dorne, a mentor for a figure of legends. All those lectures, all the time he felt wasted learning about magic that doesn't work, all the pain he endured to get here suddenly matters for a grander purpose.

That being said I worry about the result if he finds the reality of being Red Priest as the stories tell wanting. Like in canon right now he is riding high on renewed faith from his power but in canon? Once he sees the reality of what his magic does with Beric Dondarrion and Lady Stoneheart? His crisis of faith is even worse from not even having atheism or doubt to fall back on when he is already in far too deep. What happens if or when being mentor to Ophelia turns out the same? Nothing he does can change that he might be the servant of a God might not worth worshiping.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Enough breathing. Cast."

"What, I-" Blinking, and a bit confused at the sudden command, Ophelia tried to protest.

"Act!"

Standing, he threw the flame at her, old man and young girl caught in a mystical duel that lasted for all of a second.

Slashing out with a clawed hand, she caught the fire and took it from him, Thoros eagerly passing control of the Working over to his student, and brought it to her breast. Breathing in, the Dornish girl let the flame dissipate - heat and energy and life filling her from her fingers to her toes - before exhaling.

With it came a stuttering, guttering flame from nothing.

Another breath, another burst of light.

Another breath, a steadier flame.

Another, final breath and, this time, her breath was long. Easily reaching three or four feet in length, the tongue of fire rushed out in a narrow cone.

Snapping her jaw shut, whimpering slightly in pain, the witch screwed her eyes shut. Still keeping her hands cupped, she, tears falling from her eyes, managed to gather a steady flame about her fingers… without blood. Small, but steady, the fire was a cautious, gentle thing.

This scene feels like a mix of of two things.

First is Mr Miyagi or Uncle Iroh doing some sort of trickery mentor move. Reminding the student to not overthink and the nature of their lessons is to do and experience, fire is the element of action! Second is a C student tutoring an A student. Someone trying to cover their insecurity in a topic with someone more naturally skilled in it by throwing around their authority. A sort of 'see I know what I am doing!' type move.

Regardless Ophelia is showing her props here. Thoros threw a fire spell at her told her think fast and then she spewed four feet of fire out of her mouth and stabilized the rest. She really is a mythic tier magic user for a setting like this.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"Open your mouth, child."

As his student complied, Thoros saw that she burned herself quite badly. Not so badly as a normal person would have been, they would have likely killed themselves choking on the heat they conjured, but still quite injured.

Sticking a finger into her mouth, he pulled out the heat in her wounds with his own magic, gathering it to himself. It was a little trick, one all Red Priests learned in training.

Meaning that when he turned the heat onto itself, using it to soothe the burns and relax tense muscles and kindle the flame within all flesh just a bit he was very, very good at it. Eventually, when her humors had been restored, he withdrew his finger - finding the skin covered in soot and ash - and brought with it a little burning coal about the size of his nail.

Taking the burning pain, he placed it into a tree, watching as an area about the size of his fist crumpled and cracked as the heat and pain he drew out was paid for.

Honestly as basic as this is it is really cool and I hope it gets taught to Ophelia. It might be situational but it is a good healing trick and might have been invaluable with Gendry earlier, though it probably would have been enough to save his leg from the damage already done beyond burns.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
"T-thank you." Slightly slurred by the pain of it, Ophelia still managed to wipe her eyes and nod her head. "I almost lost control there."

Thoros was mostly focused on the fact that the flame she conjured, without using blood, yet burned.

"It is a little thing, one I will teach you in time." He paused, ultimately deciding to continue. "Though I am glad there are no slaves to practice it on. Now we sit… and breathe." Taking up his bottle with one hand and flame with the other he settled down under the singe mark his God given powers had made. "Remember that. Fire is about Breath and Blood. One way or another."

Her eyes understood and Ophelia did not need words. The burns to her mouth, only mostly healed, were her sacrifice for this knowledge as nothing was ever freely given.

I am not 100% sure about what the full implication of Ophelia not needing blood are but color me intrigued. Is this related to why he can draw power from her very presence? Usually Blood has to be some sort of fuel to power magic but Ophelia either by her experiences as a former parahuman or implied S+ tier magic bloodline doesn't need to or does need it but far less?

Also the breathe part is also interesting. In most incarnations breathe and fire's association is related to how fire needs air to burn yet the mantra we we're given earlier talks about how fire burns in a vacuum. Is this related to the 'Breathe of the Gods'? Or is this a part of a more balance focus fire magic philosophy that did have the breath-air connection in its teaching that has survived despite the growing fire supremacy as a sort of vestigial artifact that needed to continue to effectively use it?

Finally I have to wonder if Thoros is right about the burned mouth being Ophelia's sacrifice for this spell or if he is wrong and this is just a self justification to deal with something outside his understand of how magic should work.

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
But there was still something behind those too old eyes which cautioned him from testing the girl's limits. He'd seen eyes like those people. The eyes of an old woman who'd seen the horrors of the world and the ravages of time. On a young maiden's face, those eyes reminded him of some of the faith's priestesses.

'Eyes too old for those who should yet be children.'

He feared what they might do with all the power of the Red God.

For Thoros of Myr knew without a doubt that, upon this witch, his master would pour out all of his blessings… and curses.

Once again we are reminded of Ophelia' wisdom beyond her years brought about by her reincarnation and how it makes her difficult to place or understand. Also that the Red God is willing to give much to Ophelia if ha can and that might not be a good thing at all.

Now I will admit a bias about distrusting R'hollor as my reading on the intentionally vague worldbuilding about the Red God is harsh but I think the fact a Red Priest is saying that speak for itself. As such I dread the presence of a more fanatical priest like Melisandre getting involved with her.

selonianth · Dec 9, 2021

masterofmadness said:
More seriously yeah they are very lucky that this didn't end with a lost leg. This mean it can all be forgotten rather quick and quite compared to the mess would have occurred. I mean to start off with Robert would need to acknowledge he is a member of the royal family formally, then punish the family of his best friend and most tenuously Lord Paramount who he has just seen first had to have a powerful witch on their side. And none of that would help anyone Gendry most of all who would be no better off.

I am fairly sure that him being presented at court was Gendry's acknowledgement as a member of the family.

polarpotato · May 14, 2022

I just read and got caught up on this, is it confirmed dead or are there any plans on getting back to this. I holding on to hope that eventually QA and Taylor get reunited.

if it is confirmed dead could we get the spark notes to see how you guys wanted this story to go?

Jeff Roy · May 14, 2022

Burn the Witch!
He practices Necromancy!

PurgeTheXeno · May 14, 2022

Jeff Roy said:
Burn the Witch!
He practices Necromancy!

But a DAMN good fic to come back to. In the middle of a reread myself.

Edit to the below comment: Look who's talking.

Venyr4434 · May 14, 2022

selonianth said:
I am fairly sure that him being presented at court was Gendry's acknowledgement as a member of the family.

polarpotato said:
I just read and got caught up on this, is it confirmed dead or are there any plans on getting back to this. I holding on to hope that eventually QA and Taylor get reunited.

if it is confirmed dead could we get the spark notes to see how you guys wanted this story to go?

Jeff Roy said:
Burn the Witch!
He practices Necromancy!

PurgeTheXeno said:
But a DAMN good fic to come back to. In the middle of a reread myself.

When you just can't help but contribute to the fucking Necromancy. Hello.

EDIT: I know, Coversed the 2 that necroed first, just did this cuz I got lazy conversing them individually.

Scrimshaw_NSFW · May 14, 2022

polarpotato said:
I just read and got caught up on this, is it confirmed dead or are there any plans on getting back to this. I holding on to hope that eventually QA and Taylor get reunited. if it is confirmed dead could we get the spark notes to see how you guys wanted this story to go?

Hey, this is Alvor. Afraid I need to apologize for this one. I've had multiple family crises, including hospitalizations of family members, had an issue at school that has temporarily cost me my grants, and have been dealing with constant personal issues. it's to the point I almost never post anymore. I have also been severely ill as well. If anyone is a long time reader than I'm sure you guys know how prone I am to having stuff... just go wrong. But it's been quite rough this year.

As such, I can not in good faith say when this story will be updated again. Maybe next week, maybe next month, maybe (in the absolute worst case) next year. I just don't know.

So, if people are interested, we'd be quite willing to post a synopsis of our plans going forwards. Either in greater or lesser detail.

PurgeTheXeno said:
But a DAMN good fic to come back to. In the middle of a reread myself. Edit to the below comment: Look who's talking.

And thank you very much. Hopefully we'll be able to actually get more out one day.

PurgeTheXeno · May 14, 2022

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Hey, this is Alvor. Afraid I need to apologize for this one. I've had multiple family crises, including hospitalizations of family members, had an issue at school that has temporarily cost me my grants, and have been dealing with constant personal issues. it's to the point I almost never post anymore. I have also been severely ill as well. If anyone is a long time reader than I'm sure you guys know how prone I am to having stuff... just go wrong. But it's been quite rough this year.

As such, I can not in good faith say when this story will be updated again. Maybe next week, maybe next month, maybe (in the absolute worst case) next year. I just don't know.

So, if people are interested, we'd be quite willing to post a synopsis of our plans going forwards. Either in greater or lesser detail.

And thank you very much. Hopefully we'll be able to actually get more out one day.

Take care of yourself first, friend. We'll be waiting for when you are ready.

Scrimshaw_NSFW · Aug 5, 2022

Chapter 17 - Rolandskvadet

Jon Snow

This was a bad idea, Jon could already tell.

Granted, most of Theon's ideas tended to end with either him or his brothers in dire straits. The man liked to live dangerously, at least for Winterfell, and he liked dragging others along for the ride. Especially Rob. But as his brother was currently busy doing important heir things for Father, it was up to Jon to keep the excitable man from doing something that would cost him his head, or his balls.

Whichever came off first.

So it was with a heavy heart and a pounding migraine that Jon followed Theon down to the local tavern he so liked to frequent.

Frankly, it was also the only permanent tavern in Wintertown, meaning it was the only structure more than a story or two in height, and therefore it was stuffed to the brim. Men, women, kids, strangers, castle residents, the young, the old, the wise, and the foolish. The Tavern, called the Winter Rose, was a place to go for a meal, a drink, and a game of dice or conversation.

Itself an old, six sided affair made of a mixture of stone and timber, the walls were particularly sturdy and the old sloped roof was so miserably hard Old Nan told a tale about a trebuchet's missile bouncing off. Jon wasn't sure if he believed that or not, but the layered gray and white tiles were made of some stupidly strong mixture of clay and mud that no one doubted it could, at the very least, stand up to the fury of a Northern winter.

Today, however, there were no families or old regulars gathered for the festival and soon-to-start tournament - both held in honor of the Crown Prince - but mermen. Retainers of House Manderly, visible by the simple fact they were half Southron, but Northern enough to have a spine. Maybe about sixty or seventy of them, were he to guess by the raucous they caused.

Maybe they wouldn't even get into trouble, not with a sensible sort about.

A boring evening actually wouldn't be all that bad, not after everything that had been happening. On top of that a bit of it would give Jon an excuse to fob off looking after the children, should it be needed, as clearly the Greyjoy hostage needed to be looked after and clearly that meant he, the dutiful son, wouldn't be available to escort Sansa and Arya to and from their lessons.

'Not that anyone's stupid enough to try anything in Winterfell anyways.'

Once everything went well, his brother's friend would drink himself silly, then Theon would ask to visit the women nearby, and pay for a short night of short pleasures followed by a long, but loud, sleep. Jon, however, would spend his night back in his own bed in the castle, perhaps after visiting Ghost and the rest in the kennels, and then wake up just before morning.

A surefire way to make sure he was the one who got to drag his father's other almost-son back to the keep once everything was done.

If he were lucky, maybe it would go by smoothly and he might even grab himself a drink and be at peace with himself. Without having to worry about the specters that followed him everywhere he walked in Winterfell. Never mind the rather insistent guest who seemed intent on getting acquainted with Jon… blessedly not in the way the man's reputation suggested the Dornish prince might have wanted to.

Oberyn Martell, father said, was a passionate man.

A southern one, for sure, but one with a charisma and moral fiber, if of a peculiar weave, that very few men were acknowledged for these days. Not for temperance or patience. But for the ability to direct his savage temper towards accomplishing his ends without regard for how much those might cost him.

Honorable in his own way? Yes.

Dangerous? Very.

It was for that reason that when Jon arrived at the tavern with Theon he felt as if the Others had taken his heart on their icy grip. Fear and the sensation of impending doom hanging over them all as a very familiar young woman found herself already at the tavern.

Part of a circle of about eight girls, Ophelia Sand, clearly drunk, was spinning in a large circle and singing a sailor's song at the top of her lungs.

"-roll the old chariot along, roll the old chariot along, and we'll all hang on behind!"

Skin flushed, in even the low light of the tavern, the Dornish girl led a group of hollering Manderly-men in a joyous call for, what he assumed was, strong spirits and mutton stew. Perhaps a little more telling was the fact that the tavern, small as it was, had actually cleared up enough space for what looked like sailor's daughters to dance with the bastard.

"A night upon a whore wouldn't do us any harm, oh, no it would not!"

This line, still sung by the girls, got a particularly loud round of cheers… though half the reason might have been the fact that all of the girls chose that moment to kick up as one.

"No a drop of Nelson's blood wouldn't do us any harm!"

Still cheering and hollering, the men crowded at the edges of the wood and stone building, having dragged all the chairs and tables clear to make room for the dancers. There they sat, six or seven to table, drinking, eating, laughing, and making merry. Two or three had produced instruments, an accordion, viol, and a small metal thing that looked like a pipe or a whistle of some sort, but all joined in with the raucous chorus one way or another.

Though, after realizing Theon was looking somewhere else, the Stark bastard also noticed that a southron knight, going by the long knife belted at his waist and the make and cut of his clothes, sat over in one corner… with Ros on his knee and her hand brushing along his stomach. What was queer was that the man, out of everyone in the room, looked the least pleased at all. In fact, if Jon didn't know better, he'd say the man looked downright annoyed. Which, quite frankly, was a bit difficult to imagine considering the immense energy of the place.

Indeed, having been recognized, Sygerrik, the tavernkeeper, had dragged the young man over to the keeper's side of the bar and shoved a tankard of ale into one hand a steaming, crumbly meat pie in the other.

"They've been up at this for a while?"

The older man snorted.

"Dornish lass arrived in a huff, tossed a bag of coins at me and paid for a hundred rounds before getting into her head to pull this off. The boys just went along with it. Free ale is free ale. Probably would have cheered and clapped along even if she was a shit singer."

Which she clearly wasn't.

Jon eyed Theon. His friend looked ready and eager to jump in and Jon would have probably let him if not for the mammoth in the room.

"Think it's too late to stop her?"

Sygerrik snorted.

"Yer welcome to try, lad. Figured that if I did, that lousy bunch woulda thrown me out of the tavern."

And why wouldn't they? Nobody liked having their fun ruined. But Jon was more so fearing for their lives than their fun. He wasn't sure whether Prince Martell's reputation was accurate enough to risk the man slaughtering them all because something happened to his daughter while they were in attendance.

Even if she looked like she was having fun.

It was pretty jarring. To see the cool headed and unflappable Witch of Dorne hollering about ale and whores with a bunch of drunken sailors. Taking drinks of her own and dancing with a slight sway whereas lesser men would have long since collapsed from all the twirling and jumping she was doing.

Never mind the alcohol.

And it wasn't like she'd lost her head completely - she was neither debasing herself sexually nor exposing herself. Something Jon doubted the Ironborn could do if he was in a situation like this.

"Well you can just stand there looking like a gormless idiot if you want. Give me two drinks and put it on my tab."

Smirking, Theon pushed past the bastard and took up the demanded drinks, maneuvering his way through the crowd as the song began to wind down. Clearly intent on approaching the intoxicated Dornish girl, Snow figured it would be… wisest to stop his brother's idiot friend. If only so he didn't end up in the Martell Prince's first display of public hypocrisy. After all, when a man was deflowering another's daughter it was one thing, but when t was their own daughter being defiled by some jumped up Ironman….

"Where do you think you are going?"

Only for none of that to matter.

"Take your hands off me, Southron."

Theon's arm had been grabbed by one of the Prince's retainers. A pretty young man, with shoulder length white hair, purple, angry eyes, and a streak of midnight black through one of his forelocks, the foreigner only had a knife belted at his waist but Jon suddenly wished he had his sword. Theon, however, saw fit only to sneer and bluster.

"I'll have you horsewhipped if you don't!"

Smirking, the Dragonblooded man jerked his captive closer, knocking one of the tankards to the ground, and snarled in Theon's face.

"Oh? I knew you barbarians had no honor, but Ironborn usually fight their own battles. Too afraid to face a knight."

Unwilling to let this go farther, Jon, swallowing any hesitation he might have had, stood up to the self proclaimed knight.

"Ser, would you kindly unhand my companion? Let us not spoil this fine evening."

Trying to imitate his father's tone of voice and Lady Stark's more courtly choice of words, the bastard did his best to figure out how to avoid starting a feud. Obviously, Lord Stark would look after his ward. And just as obviously that would cause a feud with such a… strident young man. At least that's how Lady Stark would have put it.

"Here, take this, he and I will get our own drinks for tonight."

Pulling the last tankard of ale out of the Greyjoy's clenched fist and pushing it towards the knight, Jon gave him a wan smile and hoped that this all could end peacefully.

"Hmph. I do have better things to do with my time." Cutting his eyes back over to Theon, the knight smirked. "Turns out that Lord Stark's great mistake was a fortuitous fuck up for you, boy."

Grinding his teeth, Jon did everything he could to not lash out and smash the smarmy shit's face in. He was a bastard, this man was a knight. Nothing any Snow could do or say would do more than cause trouble. He was just a bastard, a mistake, and the rude Southron wasn't even wrong.

"How dare you speak of Lord Stark like that! I'll teach you a lesson about respect, you incest born Dragonspawn!"

Theon, however, was the heir of a powerful lord.

"Says the boat worshiping rapist, besides, your thrall mother was a sheep herder's daughter your father got around to mounting after he was finished with her father and her father's livestock. And I am a Dayne, you buffoon!"

By now the room had gone quiet as the nobles began quarreling, loudly at that, and the common men simply backed away. After all, striking a noble could cost you a hand… or your life.

"And you're a silver haired poofter, who spends more time polishing his liege-lord's 'sword' with your 'sheath' than training. I heard men like you shit themselves, how many times have you had to change your pants today, Sandborn!"

Snarling, red in the face, the two men continued to trade insults - Jon chose to back away. His father wasn't being insulted any more and getting into a fight now would only prove Lady Stark right.

"Hah. I see cowardice runs thick in your blood. The bastard runs away the first time he sees a true knight… not so different from his father, who could only kill a real warrior by stabbing him in the back!"

Whirling around, Snow could take it no longer. Seeing red, he stood there and visibly shook. His fists were clenched and his face hurt and he bit his lip so hard it bled.

"Fuck you, cunt!"

Theon threw the first punch, though, coming in with a hard right hook.

It caught the southron knight in the jaw, knocking his head back, and both men seemed stunned. Then Dayne punched Theon in the throat and caused the young man to start to choke and cough. Jon, deciding to act like his Aunt Lyana for once in his life, rushed to the Ironborn's side and threw every once into a punch aimed right at the knight's nose… only for the man to step to the side and grab the bastard's cloak. Dragging him down, he tossed Jon to the side and slammed him against the wood floor.

"Weakling."

Snarling, the knight picked his foot up and made to bring it down on the bastard's face.

However, the Ironborn had recovered enough to make his second move. Half leaping forward into the knight's leg, he knocked the man over with nothing but brute force. Yet, by the time Dayne had bucked Theon free, Jon was already on top of him and lashing out with his fists.

Not that the crowd tried to stop them.

No, no, no. In fact, the sailors were loudly cheering their liege lord's bastard and ward on, hollering, drinking, and eating while the three scrapped away on the dirty tavern floor.

Torfinn

"Damn buckets, why won't you… why won't you work!"

Pausing, the young man looked around, wondering if there was somebody waiting to prank him.

"Stupid dogs. Just like Brutus. Either slobbering all over me or wanting me to carry those huge bags of food. If only Rachel was still around."

Because standing in front of him, trying to drag two massive buckets of guts, was the bastard princess. Or, rather, at least one of them. And Torfinn wasn't sure whether he should try to help or not.

"Man, I really do miss Rachel. She would have loved the direwolves."

Pausing to fish a flask from somewhere inside of her dress, the bastard took a long, hard slug of some type of liquor he could smell from where he was standing… and then promptly fell on her ass when she tried to pick the buckets up again.

"Ma'am… ma'am, do you need help?"

Stepping forward, he held out his hand to help the southron girl up. However, as he approached, her eyes snapped open and several large crows flew down and started squawking. Flinching, the servant boy didn't know whether to stand still or run, because this was clearly the Witch.

Mother had always been very, very clear about those.

"Wha-who-who are you?"

Clearly confused, the young woman managed to sit up after trying a few times. Torfinn remained where he was, as several dogs and cats had now joined the growing horde of beasts.

"Oh. You don't look dangerous. Are you a faceless man?"

Genuinely confused why she was asking if he was a legendary assassin, the peasant boy tried to answer in a way that wouldn't get him ripped apart.

"If I say no, are you going to still kill me?"

"What the Hell are you talking about?" Scowling, the bastard half heartedly glared at him before, after taking another slug of something much stronger than beer or ale - Torfinn could smell it from where he was standing - she looked around. "Oops. Sorry. Poof."

Wiggling her fingers, the swarm dispersed, seemingly going back to being animals in a moment, and the princess flopped back onto the ground.

"So you aren't going to kill me, or, um, curse me, m'lady?"

A snort was his only answer. Less comforting than what he might have otherwise hoped for, but the girl held out her hand in turn and gestured for him to help her up.

After a few moments of staggering about the place, the Dornish bastard was stable enough that Torfinn figured it was better to step away. If only to avoid any accusations of impropriety. It was said that the temper of Oberyn Martell was nearly as legendary as his libido. Frankly, there was little doubt that it would be wiser to avoid potentially… arousing either. Just like with witches, the young man had been well warned about "that" sort of lord, the kind that could be "fond" of peasant boys. And what could happen when they got bored of them, too.

"Well? Are you just going to stand there?" Still more than a little confused, Torfinn took another moment to realize that the noblewoman expected him to pick up the other bucket of guts. "I can feel myself aging as you gawp, boy." She poked him in the ribs and smiled. "Now, bring that. If you behave yourself then we shall both get to see something amazing tonight."

Unwilling to risk a Witch's anger, he complied.

However, when he had the one bucket of entrails in hand, he reached for the other and was stopped.

"I'm drunk, not useless."

And now the princess was half mumbling as, with a very unlady like grunt, she heaved up the other overfilled bucket and began waddling away. It was almost comedic and more than a little terrifying.

Glancing about, he hurried along to follow behind her, hoping no one would see this.

"M'lady, please, let me carry that for you. If it pleases you of course. M'lady."

Her response was an equally unlady like grunt of refusal.

"No. Now keep walking."

Licking his lips, Torfinn tried to wrack his mind to figure what he should do - what he could do. Touching her was obviously out of the question, that was a quick way to end up hanging from the gallows. Not even Lord Stark would be kind enough to cut his head off if the kennel boy was that jumped up. So that left him with pleading.

"M'lady, I beg you. Please let me carry it. You already have left smears and stains on your dress."

"They shall be washed. I will make… Tyene do it. Yes. She will enjoy it."

Not sure who Tyene was, he assumed it was the girl's least favored maid. Or most favored. Nobles were weird people and so were many of the people that looked after them. Unfortunately, such truths would not save him from horsewhipping.

"But m'lady, if I do not carry the scraps for you, I'll have dishonored you. Please marm, don't do this to me. I don't want to be punished!"

Now pleading under his breath, because there were a few others around, he hoped against hope a knight or a warrior from one of the lord's retinues didn't decide he needed a thumping for not doing his job. And yet the cruel witch refused him again.

"Drink this and stop whining. God, you complain more than Alec did. Now just do as you're asked or I will put spiders in your breakfast every day for a month."

Caught by surprise, the young lad was a bit dumbfounded. Such a childish thing seemed like it better belonged in a children's tale rather than being levied as what he assumed wa sa serious threat. However, he was wise enough to know when a girl was angry enough at him to start pulling his ear, so, with no other choice than but to comply, he took the bottle and did as instructed.

Coughing and spluttering when the liquor hit his throat, Torfinn bent double as he tried not to choke.

"Hah! You're more of a lightweight than the serving girls pretend to be." Pointing a finger at him, the drunken noblewoman lost her balance again and, with the buckets of guts now in hand, ended up splashing herself with a good portion of the stuff and covering her legs in it. Falling over, she also stumbled, and ended up plopping onto her butt.

Desperately, Torfinn tried to fight it.

With all his might he tried to rail against it.

Tears in his eyes, the poor, poor lad tried not to laugh….

"'Snicker' Heh. Hehe. Hehehehe. Hahahahaha!"

He failed. And, tears still in his eyes from the liquor, he laughed almost hysterically.

For a moment several other people stopped and stared. A commoner was openly laughing at a noble's daughter, after all. And yet… she laughed too. Giggling like the young woman she was before throwing her head back and letting out a belly laugh. Unnoticed by the duo, their audience relaxed, now glad to know that there would be no incident. At least not immediately.

It took some time but, sooner or later, the laughter died down and, once again, the young man helped the witch to her feet. This time he snagged the second bucket before she could and, even when the witch girl gave him another glare, he just pretended like he hadn't noticed.

That was the best strategy he decided.

Huffing and crossing her arms, she just turned away and began leading them off again.

"So," he began. "Where are we going ma'am?"

"Call me Ophelia." The bottle was back in her hand and she waved his concerns off. "And we're going to see some dogs."

Frowning, he expressed his confusion.

"Yes m'lady, but the kennels are at the other end of the gates."

Snickering, she covered her mouth a little.

"We're not going to the kennels, but the Godswood."

Unsure of what to say or do to that, he shut his mouth again. After all, contradicting a noble was dangerous, even if this one was odd. Especially because this one was odd. Yet his wish was not granted as, after about a minute of silent walking, Ophelia began to speak again.

"Tell me, boy, what is your name? Who are you?" Smirking at him, the noble flashed her white teeth in what he might call a grin. "Or should I just keep calling you boy? No… no… I think… Chicken Little. Yes. You are now Chicken Little!"

Flushing slightly, he kept his focus on not slipping and responded.

"M' names Torfinn, ma'am. It's a name from Skagos. My da's da was from there and my brother got my da's name, so I got my gran da's. Or so Old Nan says."

"An accent and a rare name, I approve!" She gave him an exaggerated wink and giggled when he flushed a little more. "Peace, young man. I won't bite." Ophelia took another slug of her drink. "I'm drunk, that's all. It make me, well, not moody, per se."

"Mercurial, ma'am."

"Ooh, that's a nice word, I shall have to use it. Learn it from a Maester?"

"From a mummer, ma'am."

"I told you, Torfinn, call me Ophelia."

"Yes, Lady Ophelia."

That earned him a sigh of defeat and a bit of silence until they reached the gate to the Godswood. A few looks at the guard on duty later, and it was a bit telling how it only took a look from her to get the grown man to comply, and the two were being escorted to the edge of the internal woods.

Finding a rock to sit down on, Ophelia made a gesture that he should spill the entrails out before pulling off her shoes and stockings with a grimace.

"Is it odd that I don't mind the taste or the feeling of warm blood, but cold, clotted blood disgusts me? I've tasted my own blood enough not to mind the flavor of iron, of course. But when it's… clumpy and sticky… just ugh. What's worse is Tyene just adores black pudding. Absolutely can't stand the stuff."

Once more concerned about getting horsewhipped, after all there was a noble girl undressing just behind him, the poor stablehand focused on baiting whatever trap it was the witch wanted set.

"Oh God, not again. No more silence! I'm complaining, not stripping. You can look at me." There was the sound of a bottle hitting the ground and of a cork being popped. Turning around, he found the girl had discarded the, presumably empty, liquor flask and instead took a swig from what he thought might be ale or beer. Seeing his look, she gave him a bright smile and sing-songed. "Beer before liquor, never been sicker. Not that I've my liquor, I'll a have tipper. Tipper? Tipple? Close enough I do suppose. Now, while we wait, come over here and tell me about yourself."

"Well, Lady Ophelia, I'm a kennel assistant. But I suppose that's not what you wanted to know?"

Waving for him to continue, the high born bastard pointed at the ground next to her and kept drinking. Looked more than a little tired by this point… and more than a little melancholic.

"Um, I guess I like my job. Supposedly I'm to look after the hounds, but the Lord Stark and his kin always look after their own dogs. Direwolves need no looking after, as far as we can tell. Most of the time I help Maester Luwin or Farlen or Hullen with whatever they need. Mucking stables, helping tend to the dogs, assisting when there's a birth. Even a few things to help with the ravens and falcons, should the good Maester need the extra pair of hands."

There was a pause, broken only by the sounds of a few, small animals and the near silent swallows of drink. Eventually, Ophelia pulled the bottle from her lips and spoke.

"Any family?"

"Walder and Old Nan, I suppose. My father… didn't make it back one trip. Wildlings what had snuck past the Wall. My mam works in the Winter Town mostly, usually spinning wool or lace, but she's not been right since Da didn't make it back. So yeah. Mostly me and Walder."

"Huh. You lost your father. I, well, in another life I lost my mom to a drunk and then my dad to depression. Not Oberyn, I don't think he can be depressed, just blindingly angry, but yeah. In another life, I know exactly what you went through."

The witch held her bottle back out and he hesitated for a moment. Torfinn was deeply unsure what the girl was talking about, but she sounded serious. Not like she was making sport of him, not like a few of the boys or the Greyjoy might. So he drank and sat and listened when she spoke.

"It's strange. I thought death would be peaceful. When I let Contessa shoot me, I thought that of all things would end the Cycle. Zion was dead, Eden's corpse scattered, I had brought together pretty much every threat that remained too. One way or another Cauldron, what was left of them at least, should have been able to clean up." Pursing her lips, the young woman looked genuinely, truly furious for a moment. "But perhaps it was arrogance. I don't deserve peace, certainly not the peace and love that I have been given. Not after the lies and the killing, not after Aster, not after Alexandria, even. Certainly not after Khepri."

Another long swig and the young boy just listened. There was, after all, nothing he could say.

"Not that I regret all the killing, Hell, not even most of it. The Slaughterhouse 9000 needed to die. Coil needed to die. Ashbeast, well, I'm not sure if what I did was right, but it wasn't exactly human anymore. There was one hero, fuck, I can't even remember his name… but the villain he was fighting had a better power. It was one or the other, life or death. I, well, I made the choice I felt was necessary. But certainly not the heroic one."

These names meant nothing to him, even the terms Hero and Villain sounded wrong, at least how she used them. But something told the boy what he was hearing of was a war. At least, that was the closest thing he could imagine.

"Tagg, well, I liked killing him. I can't even lie about that. Alexandria deserved it, but I mostly killed her out of anger. Coil too, but I kind of enjoyed that kill as well. I felt vindicated. Right. Just." Ophelia spat the word, almost like it felt wrong on her tongue and in her mouth. "I don't think I even care about the Yangban I killed, they were drones, less than people, and were in my way. That idiot in the Behemoth fight, though I'm not even sure if I'm truly responsible for that. Not really, at least. Court's Castle and the refugees, though, were probably all mine. A thousand, probably more. I guess the ones inside Echidna too, but if I didn't convince Sundancer to end that problem then, at best, Jack would have gotten them. Like with Aster, I suppose, but more. And not a baby. God, you know I still see Aster sometimes? A baby's head isn't meant to just… pop!"

There was a great, heaving sob, several gulps of air and, out of the tree line, several dark shadows began to amble towards the duo.

Torfinn was frozen once again, but more from fear than anything else.

"I don't even know if I actually hit the poor thing in her head or not, I just… my dreams… they show it exploding. Like if you took a mallet to a rat. When that happens, after I swallow the vomit I always wake up with in my throat, I tell myself that if I hadn't done it that Jack or Bonesaw or or or… I don't know what, but they would have done something awful. They were monsters."

Those shadows had become bodies, long, lean, and heavily built forms that softly padded across the snow.

"There's the people I killed going after Mantellum, there's Cherish, but I'm not sure if she counts either, being a clone in all. Trickster… uh, I think I sent him to his death. But he was a Ziz-bomb, wasn't he? I… I don't… I don't think I remember?"

Grey Wind.

Lady.

Nymeria.

Shaggy Dog.

Summer.

One by one, the pack seemingly materialized. They circled about a bit, lapped up some of the meat that had been set out, and then plodded over. Nymeria was the first to reach her, immediately licking at the witch's blood stained toes, turning Ophelia's sobs into a mixture of giggles.

"Stop, stop you dumb mutt."

The bastard playfully pushed at the head of the giant apex predator and it was all the stablehand could do to sit there and stare in awe and horror.

"Oh, damn you, now I'm covered in blood and dog spit. Heh. Just like when I helped Rachel."

Playfully growling, Nymeria leapt up, and, using her front two paws, pushed the witch onto the ground. Once pinned, the direwolf began aggressively licking and sniffing and acting exactly like a puppy might. Of course, the other four weren't exactly far behind either and soon the first direwolf was "gently" tackled by one of her siblings. The two animals now snapping and play fighting with one another.

Summer, or so Torfinn though, had settled down next to the witch and half covered her with her bulk - holding her in place while he took his turn sniffing her face and making sure she wasn't crying any more.

And though he wasn't proud to admit to it, the servant boy squealed a little when the sixth direwolf, as silent as the grave, sat down next to him.

Ghost, as Jon Snow had named the albino, made no noise. Not when he walked, not when he had, seemingly, eaten - going by the flecks of blood on his muzzle - and not even when he breathed. Torfinn could watch as his chest rose and fell slightly and not a single sound came out. Instead, the great beast nose his hand up until, guessing what was being asked for, the lad began to scratch the monster's head.

Closing his eyes, the albino wolf simply sat his head on the ground and luxuriated in the attention.

"They're good, aren't they? Beautiful, honest, loyal. Good." Sitting up, the witch had started speaking again. "When I was at my strongest, I fought a god. Millions, probably billions, maybe even trillions died. Worlds burned. But I did my duty. I fought to the end. And still… I need to do it again."

Tears were trickling down her cheeks, this time as silent as Ghost himself.

"I don't want to kill a million people. I don't want to even kill one, I suppose. Gregor Clegane, yeah, I'll kill him. But that's family. If I have to fight though, if I have to do what I did before, am I going to destroy this world too?" In a small, scared voice, she finished her statement. "I don't want to lose my family again. I can't. Not… not again. I think it would kill me. After Brian and Alec and Aisha and Lisa and Charlotte and and and and my dad and all the rest… I'm afraid."

She curled up and turned towards the side of the of the giant wolf she was leaning into and sobbed. Ghost stood up too, giving him a gentle bump from his head, almost as if to say "thanks", before plopping down on her other side. Eventually all six of them surrounded her, seemingly trying to comfort the person whom had called out to them.

Sniffling, feeling tears pricking at his own eyes, Torfinn wished he could do more.

Wished he could help.

Wished he even understood what he'd just been told.

Instead… he took off his coat.

Walking over, he laid the thick wool garment over the shaking shoulders of the crying witch, gave them a small squeeze, and walked back towards the entrance.

Because he was pretty sure she wasn't a witch.

Indeed. This young man was convinced what he'd just heard was the confession of either a goddess or a demoness.

And he had absolutely no idea what to do.

Eddard Stark

"So the decision is set, yes?"

Eddard Stark gave a small smile. It was a wan smile. A tight smile. A very frustrated smile. Mostly because he was footing half the bill of this tournament, but a little bit because he really, really wished he could actually tell his friend no.

"Aye, your grace. We have the grounds clear and the final details are being seen to as we speak."

His friend and king gave a small burp of approval and patted his kingly belly.

"A shame you dogs fret and whine and fear to let me fight in the damn thing. Even if I've lost half the gut I started the journey with and gained back most of my old strength! You lot are just afraid I shall crush your vassals in the melee!"

Sipping at his water, Ned made a noise.

It wasn't a particularly coherent response, but it was a response.

'Hardly, my good king, you might swing and miss and throw out your hip!"

Oberyn had no such restraint and happily jabbed back at the other man… who wasn't that much older than he was. Though it might also be said the Lord of Winterfell was a bit annoyed because he was of an age with his friend and no one liked to be reminded of that small patch of hair thinning out or how there was more grey in their beard than not. But he also knew it was a jest given in good humor. Still, such a claim required an appropriate counter!

"Mayhap. But I think all of you shall find the Northern shieldwall unbreakable."

"Talking about the upcoming training battles?" A new voice called out to the trio, stirring them from their rather calm evening, for a given value of calm, and a Valeman approached. "King Robert, you know I mean no offense, but a Knight of the Vale is worth two or three of any other!"

"Lord Royce, come, join us!" Laughing, Robert gestured for the man to approach after a quick glance at Ned to make sure it was ok. The Quiet Wolf simply smiled and nodded. "We have drink and wool aplenty."

"If the Bronze-Yohn is joining us, why not invite a few others. I see your man, Lord Stark, speaking over there, and your Kingsguard is a Westerlander. Hmm. All we're missing now are a Crownlander and a Riverlander." Obery was stroking his chin, recently clean shaven, and his jaw length black hair threw the man's face into sharp lines. "Ah, but my Lord Royce, is the Blackfish not a Riverlander himself?"

Robert frowned a bit.

"Good man, I know you take delights from both man and woman, but I did not think you the sort to make the seven with old men such as us!"

Abandoning his faux-seriousness half way through, the king laughed and Oberyn laughed with him. So too did the others, once they realized the Dornishman took no offense.

"Hardly, hardly. You are all too grey for my blood to stir. And my spear too great for you to handle too!" Another round of laughter and even Ned had to snort at that one. After all, he'd been treated to the good Prince whipping out his "spear" and slapping a knight from the Stormlands across the face with it - a disputed game of cards turned into a burning humiliation for the man who promptly demanded satisfaction. To which Oberyn had simply knocked him out cold. "No, I speak of the tourney! After all, we all have contingents gathered, no? Our men will be performing as best they can, so should we all not have a good reckoning of our forces and skills?"

"I agree, my lords." Ned spoke up. "Best we not risk surprising each other. Nasty accidents happen that way."

That got a round of nods from everyone present and Lord Stark pushed out a chair for Lord Royce to join them around their table, gesturing for a page while he was at it. Moments later and the young man was rushing off, going to find a number of people.

When the fourth man sat down, servants brought over a second table, bread, salt, mutton, and meat pies. Ale and wine, too, was provided in abundance. In fact, they had about a third of the tavern to themselves. The building itself was a wooden frame with a strong, layered set of tents set over them. A mobile structure which had a couple dozen tables, plenty of high born men, and everything from dice, to the odd brawl, and a woman or two.

They were most certainly not high born, even if they were paid well.

Ned said little in that regard, though his thoughts were known.

What was important was that the four men were well settled, with a few retainers and guards about the tavern, and quickly immersed in their discussion.

"You see Ned, it's not just about the quality. There must be a spirit of aggression in the warriors."

Jabbing a drumstick like a sword, Robert half agreed with Lord Royce and half let his own Stormlander blood rise up.

"My kinsmen know. They'll crash into any shieldwall, any line of knight like the storms that named us. Now I know our eagerness sometimes gets the better of us," he raised a hand to forestall the obvious counter. "But the truth of the matter is that battle, and even war, is about momentum. And an army that marches to victory, marches to victory, you get me?"

"Perhaps." Eddard allowed. "But the Winter Wolves marched to death and won a war."

"Old men that went South, leaving their families to shield them from the harshness to come."

Lord Royce's words were approving and he elaborated.

"In that way you Northmen are like us. While our blood is not the same, us Men of the Vale still remember our own old ways. When we carved a seven pointed star into our foreheads and swore upon our lifesblood - victory or death. Not that it well pleased the First Men we fought."

It was the Stark's turn to laugh.

"Indeed not. But your clansmen do not fight as we do. It's true our tactics might have once been similar, with the shieldwall being the core of our army, but the press and push is one thing, one tool, not the whole of how we fight."

Oberyn, whom had been long silent, cut his eyes slightly, alerting the Quiet Wolf that their audience had arrived.

"My Lords, Sers, please, join us!"

Joining the King's circle were Lord Berric Dondarrion, Ser Jaimie Lannister, Ser Brynden Tully, Lord Manford Velaryon, and Lord Howland Reed.

Clad in his black satin cloak, Lord Dondarrion bowed slightly at the waist along with the Blackfish, eternally clad in his scaled armor, Lord Velaryon, bedecked in his purple and white silks, and Lord Reed, in a simple green tunic, but Robert waved them all off and bid them to sit, calling for more chairs, and more food, as he did so.

"It's a war council for our bloody pretend war! No need for this nonsense and the titles. To you, my friends, I am Robert. At least for tonight."

The king, despite being sober, was in a fine mood and he thumped Lord Reed on the back and bid him sit next Eddard and himself, heaping praise on him as he did so.

"And for you my lord, why, you saved my friend! Why, Ned couldn't praise you enough. You're always welcome at my table." Pausing for a moment, he turned to the smiling Lord of the North and sheepishly asked a question. "Though, uh, speaking of, why did you invite him, Ned? Isn't he your bannerman? A Northman too?"

"What's the harm in letting him join, Robert?" Oberyn Martell saluted the group with his wine cup and, with the king's leave, made sure they were all well placed to sit and drink and talk. "Surely it won't hurt to have a bit of a home field advantage, no?"

It was chit chat at best.

Just a group of veterans indulging in some stories and ideas they'd probably never employ as long as there was peace. Ned knew that Robert enjoyed war stories, and loved to daydream about great battles ever since they were young, so it was easy to see where the conversation would go as soon as his friend got the other men riled up.

"Horseshit!"

"Mind repeating that?!"

Of course, the Dornish prince took every opportunity to amuse himself poking at battle plans and proposed formations. The man was surprisingly insightful when he bothered thinking before opening his mouth.

"You can't expect us to believe you could actually take Harrenhal with that few men."

Their fellow lord colored. A healthy red from the wine they'd shared.

"It is possible! The numbers don't lie!"

The Dornish man snickered.

"Do you tell that to your brats before going to sleep? It's a mighty fanciful tale, complete with heroism and whimsy."

"Like you'd have a better idea!"

"I don't need ideas, m'lord. I have a Witch. If there was a Harrenhal to take, I'd just point her at it and call it a week of work done."

"So you're the sort of man to allow his daughters to do his work for him?" Ned spoke cooly, but not cruelly. "Besides, magic always has a price. Us Starks might not have had a greenseer in many generations, but we remember." Grimacing, he shook his head a little. "Magic's not worth the cost to get involved with it."

Frowning, Oberyn nodded a little.

"Perhaps you're right. For an old man, at least."

It was a small jape and Ned just chuckled in response.

"Old, aye, but not that old. Besides, I'd like to see grandchildren before I end up 'old', right?"

At this the prince actually gave an over dramatic sigh and seemed to throw his hands up.

"Speaking of grandchildren, would you believe my eldest has finally found someone she wishes to wed? And it's two men! Whom are both besotted with her!? And the two idiots won't even fight each other for her hand, rather, they've agreed she's far too much of a handful to bother trying to break! Where's the drama, the passion, that lustful urge that drives men insane and to their doom. Such a simple resolution is hardly fit for a song."

The younger men at the table simply stared at him in a mixture of shock and confusion. Even Robert, for all his indulgences, could do little else but laugh. Ned was actually a bit scandalized and unsure how to respond without possibly starting a feud.

In the end, it was Lord Reed who broke the silence.

"Bloody Southrons."

Grim, Lord Dondarrion raised his glass.

"Aye."

Robert's laughter turned into howls of hilarity, with the rest of the group slowly joining.

About ten minutes later, with scandal forgotten and differences once more set aside, each of the lords and knights continued to argue the strengths of each of their nations. The Kingslayer, in particular, stridently defending the utility of his father's training methods.

"My lords, I must reiterate - luck is for mummers and children. By training, through discipline, and with great rigor and effort, even a commoner can be brought up to be the equal of a knight. At great cost, my father's own men at arms are almost entirely brought up from the stock of Casterly Rock and Lannisport. Yet they have proven themselves and their valor against landed knights more than once. To ignore such a potential asset is to ignore a threat to the institution of knighthood itself."

"Nay Kingslayer, I say nay!" Lord Royce, now a bit into his cups, threw an arm over the shoulder of the kingsguard. "Your own existence and that of Ser Barristan disprove such claims, being equal to at least twenty or thirty commoners. And a Vale knight is worth ten normal men! How else would we have managed half of what we did?"

"Indeed." Lord Velaryon voiced his agreement too. "You can give them a pike or a crossbow and drill them, but a commoner simply lacks the elan of a true knight."

Robert shrugged when his bodyguard turned to him.

"While I won't say the lowborn can't be exceptional, it's the exception, not the rule. They aren't bred for war, but for the fields."

Ned couldn't help but smirk when Oberyn caught his eye and then glanced at some of the Northern men in the tavern.

"My friend, are you saying there's something unique in knights and only in them?"

Taking another sip of his drink, and feeling a bit of heat flush his cheeks, the Warden of the North couldn't help but chuckle when the king immediately seemed to smell a trap.

"No… not only in them."

"But your grace," Oberyn slid into the conversation. "Mostly in them?"

A cautious "aye" was the king's response.

"And yet the North has almost no knights. Are you saying that all of us lack a warrior's spirit?" Tipping his cup back, the Northman couldn't help but smile when his friend simply set his jaw and firmly refused to respond.

"Seven take you, Ned, this is why I want you as my hand! I'm no good at this shit!"

More laughter and the Lord Paramount was glad the conversation quickly moved on, turning once again to Lord Reed's arrival. No one else challenged his presence, but it was clear the group was interested. Prince Oberyn in particular looked thoughtful and spoke softly.

"So, they truly fight in a way so divergent you would count them as a unique asset? Not even in Dorne do the Orphans fight so differently than the rest of our people. Still, would that mean all the warriors of the Seven Kingdoms, save for those mountain clansmen and the Ironmen are represented. Does your Grace plan to open an academy of war?"

There was something to his words that stirred the others. A slight hint of mockery and of admiration and also of something else. Something almost dangerous. It was even more strange from a man such as he, as the Red Viper had never spoken so in Eddard's presence. Disconcerting when compared to his almost absurd lewdness and debauchery.

"You think they should be here?"

It was the Lord of Tides, Manfred Velaryon, who spoke. Hints of a Valyrian accent, matching his almost porcelain features, seeped through equally quiet words. But it was actually what he didn't say that spoke the loudest.

"Is Dorne truly that pressed for men?"

Robert, lacking somewhat in his vassal's tact, stepped in and spoke the unspoken.

"No, no. We have more than enough mercenaries to fill our ranks." The prince waved away the king and gestured with his cup. "Speaking of, Lord Stark, are you sure there's absolutely nothing I can do to win the rights to recruit some of your men? I promise adventure and gold!"

With this the conversation slowed, the older men and the younger sharing certain stories alike. It was also revealed that Oberyn had, in fact, won the rights for his brother to hire men and accept volunteers from all the kingdoms but the Vale and the North. Lady Arryn had refused to receive the prince, even going so far as to burn his letters without opening them, while Ned himself remained a bit stubborn. Partly to support his wife's sister, partly because he wasn't happy with the thought of his fighting men going south.

Most importantly, though, was the fact that all the lords there had promised their support for the coming tournament… with rumors that letters would be sent out.

A small delay, of course.

But one that hopefully promised something spectacular to come.

Garlan Tyrell

Parrying the pirate's axe strike, he darted forwards.

Aiming low, the knight let his opponent move his shield to block the thrust before, at the last moment, snapping his blade up and extending forwards. The attack was a parody of a Braavosi water dancer's high stroke, but the tip of his broadsword still bit deep into the neck of the poorly armored man. Still possessed of enough strength to lash out a final time, the pirate tried to throw his axe at his slayer's chest. Turning to the side, the fully armored Reachman let the iron blade skid off of his breast plate and withdrew his sword.

Dropping with a groan, the filthy raider clasped his neck and shoulder as best he could and tried to staunch the flow of blood. Garlan Tyrell simply slashed the man's face open and moved on, more concerned with how the rest of the ambush was developing than a freshly cooling corpse.

Keeping his sword up, the warrior saw that more longboats were landing - Ironborn and Essosi pirates leaping to shore alike. The camp itself was in good order, with Quentyn and Cletus urging the mercenaries forwards.

Daemon Sand was with them too, shadowing his master's son and slaying man after man. Yet even a knight of Ser Daemon's caliber had failed to notice that the battle had degenerated. No longer did the Westerosi forces hold a formation. No longer did they present a unified front to their attackers. No, they were open and engaging in violent single combat all across the beach.

Knowing what he needed to do, Garlan launched into action.

Striding swiftly across the rocky beach, he let his plate harness take odd, glancing shots from slings and a few bows. Nothing too impressive, more of a smattering of light projectiles from Ironborn youths safe by their boats, but the shots did annoy him. Enough that, upon coming across his next foe, he brought his sword down in a two handed blow that cut the man from collarbone to crotch. Kicking out at the dying man's knee, he shattered it with his steel clad foot and left the bastard to hold his entrails and die.

Practically snarling at the lack of discipline, he brought several Dornish archers into good order and led them across the battlespace to join a few Summer Men - their white teeth flashing brightly as the dark skinned men rained lethal showers of arrows into the battle below.

With their ranged contingent somewhat gathered, he ordered the ranged fighters to begin attacking the enemy's own missile troops.

And, as one might expect, grown men armed with longbows did far more damage than young boys and teenagers with shortbows and slings.

Quelling the urge to curse when he saw a young man drop to the ground, dead as the arrow buried in his skull, the warrior focused on his self appointed task. Cletus, Quentyn, and Ser Sand were still battling at the very front and the trio had halted the approach of as many as fifteen or twenty pirates. That being because of a mixture of their skill and the simple fact that lords and knights could afford better steel and more of it. However, as they skirmished and traded blows with this group of men they were pushed more and more away from where the rest of the battle was taking place.

Quite simply, they were being isolated.

Garlan yelled out more orders and moved into the double tent line that formed the rear of the camp. Cutting down a few idiots that had already started trying to loot the Dornish camp, he rallied the wounded and half ready soldiers that had held to the rear of the battle so far and took the best of them with him. The rest pulled back to support and protect their archers and gather up those that had yet to join the larger body.

Now backed up by half a dozen other armed and armored men, the Tyrell knight pushed past the double tent line and to the line of cooking pots and their supply tents. Here he found more dying and dead men and where the camp's sentries had made their stand.

At least half of them were dead and a quarter were too wounded to keep fighting. Even worse, they were outnumbered three to one. Yet surprise was a potent factor and the enemy was mostly concentrated on attacking the knot of soldiers defending their fallen comrades. Ser Garlan took the opportunity to stab a pirate in the back, at full charge, and knock his body into his fellows. Even better, his silent charge was joined by the other men with him and they set to work hacking at the backs and sides of the pirates and drove them back.

Now trapped in a semi-circle by warriors who didn't have to worry about tripping over their fallen brothers, the pirates and raiders found themselves hemmed in and pressed back against the small outcropping the Westerosi had built their camp near. Even worse, trapped as they were, they lacked the space and room to properly form up or bring their spears and axes and swords to bear.

In short, the few moments of hesitation and disorder they faced when Garlan attacked doomed them.

Trapped and now facing a strong line of mercenary and knightly arms, the attackers slipped in the mixture of blood and entrails that soaked into the rough ground under them. Still, they were experienced fighters and their leaders roared and screamed, barking threats and orders in equal measure, and their stumbling retreat became a counter charge. So fierce was their sudden response that the weary sentries faltered and two more fell to the ground, screaming as they were wounded or cut down.

Yet the archers, having dispersed or suppressed or slain the Ironborn archers and slingers, turned their fire to this obvious grouping of foes. Their arrows rose and fell from Goldenheart bows and the Summer Islanders wrought a terrible toll on their enemies. And when the missiles had struck true, Garlan roared out a battle cry and pushed ahead, driving his enemy backwards and leading the Westerosi to smash the attempted escape.

For the Ironborn, none came to their aid. And as they fought and bled and died, their desperate defense became a vicious massacre. Armor shattered, shield splintered, men screamed, men died. Garlan didn't linger.

His mission here was done and, sending a few of the most exhausted men to aid the wounded and calling some of the archers down to help too, he took the rest and pushed to the very front of the battle lines.

Past the supply tents, the part of the company that hadn't been trapped had charged down against the pirates. Some of them had been out hunting and had returned when they heard the violence, a few had simply been exploring the area beyond the picket line. Either way, it represented about half of the men who hadn't been archers.

So, taking his squadron of fighters with him, he moved from cluster to cluster. Each time he'd rush the largest pirate he could see, promptly stab them in the back, and start hacking. None of it was glorious. His armor was covered in gore and filth. His arms felt like lead. His head was pounding. Still, he kept moving, slashing, twisting, turning, killing with every stroke.

Because more boats were still landing!

By now about twenty longboats, each of which had been fully loaded, had slid up the beach and dropped off a force of armed men. Worse, most of the recent arrivals were armored in mail coats and gambesons too.

Nothing compared to his plate harness, but enough that one good hit was severely unlikely to kill them.

Licking his dry lips, he hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to take the group of men under his command. There were no clear openings, no sections of weak line, and enough archers under the enemy's command had formed up to take up all of the attention of their own missile troops.

That hesitation cost him.

A massive man with a grim set to his face stepped forwards. Raising his equally massive axe high, he brought it down against Quentyn. The young man raised his shield, but the blow simply shattered through the wood and both a violent snap and a loud grating was heard.

When the princeling cried out in pain, the warrior simply brought the axe around and slammed it into the boy's chest. Quentyn stumbled, arm limp by his side, but brought his blade up and thrust it at the seeming giant's unarmored head. Andrik the Unsmiling, for Ser Garlan had figured out who the Lord of Southshield was, simply turned his head, grabbed the blade with an armored fist, and jerked the wounded prince forwards.

Cletus roared and the Yronwood charged the giant, slashing out at him, Lord Andrik brought his weapon around and blocked the young knight's blow before kicking out and sending the boy sprawling backwards. Three more Ironborn were on him in a moment, wrestling with Ser Cletus and clearly trying to get his helmet off. Ser Daemon, however, slew the man he had been dueling by pulling a dagger from his belt and throwing it into his opponent's throat.

Twisting in a move that Garlan would have been loathe to replicate, the Bastard of Godsgrace moved his spear in a figure eight. Each point along the move was a thrust and each thrust drove past a sword or a shield and left a man's arm or hand sliced open. Darting forwards, Ser Daemon drove his spear through one of Ser Cletus's attackers before driving off the rest.

Ser Garlan knew this was when he must strike and dashed forwards with his men.

They struck the end of the battle line that had formed, wrapping around the edge of the pirates and killing a few. Mostly, though, they simply knocked them back and started pushing up the line.

Andrik the Unsmiling simply frowned even more deeply, grabbed Quentyn, and started walking back to the boats.

He dragged the wounded boy behind him.

Garlan snarled, cutting down a few of the last of the unarmored men before smashing his fist into the nose of some idiot Ironborn that went without a helmet.

That fool died to one of his followers and the Tyrell knight kept pushing forwards - almost as if he was aiming to intercept Andrik.

Responding to this perceived threat, many of the Ironborn's remaining warriors clustered together, forming a second reserve line, and positioned themselves to intercept his attempted charge. Turning aside at the last moment, Garlan drove his men into the gap between the second line and the first and pushed to relieve Sers Cletus and Daemon.

Linked up with these two men, and the front of the Ironborn's line now partly encircled, the three knights began hewing at those in their path.

However, their fury was seemingly for naught, as Andrik had reached the boats with his prize. Ordering his men to help him load up Prince Quentyn, the giant of a man leaned down to pick the captive up. Only for the Dornish lad to have one last surprise.

Once Andrik had bent over, the seemingly unconscious young man suddenly stabbed his misericorde into the Ironman's cheek.

Jerking back, the raider roared in pain and ripped it free.

One half of his face was now a bloody ruin, cheek widely cut open, and the leader of the pirates found himself injured. Even worse, some of his bodyguards rushed back to aid him.

A fatal mistake that weakened the second line of defenders and, thinking their kinsmen were fleeing, the rest of the Ironborn turned to flee… leaving the now confused and panicked pirates to their deaths. Surging forwards, the Westerosi lines snapped closed and the front of the attackers were swallowed up.

Again, battle became massacre and those that didn't immediately surrender were hacked to pieces by furious mercenaries. Even worse for the Ironborn, this bred more confusion and the sudden loss of the pressure at the front meant many of those attempting to flee were cut down. The doubling back had become a rout.

During all of this, using his good arm, Quentyn had been crawling away from an Andrik who was hastily trying to get his men back in order. A task he might have managed if the remaining Dornish archers hadn't taken the opportunity to pour fire into the Ironborn's archers, using the confusion to pick off enough of them that the rest couldn't retaliate. So, seeing that this battle had become a total loss, the Lord made to grab up his wounded prize… and was met with three weapons. Ser Daemon held his spear ready, taking the point of the formation, while Ser Garlan wrapped around the side - sword out and point leveled, and Ser Cletus picked up a fallen bow, nocked an arrow, and loosed it at the Andrik's head.

The Giant deflected the shot by raising the flat of his axe, snarling as he did so, and hauled himself over the edge of his personal longboat.

There was little fighting after that and the retreat, such as the Ironborn managed, was made good. Of about a hundred and twenty men, perhaps only twenty or thirty escaped, taking only three boats instead of the fifteen they'd arrived with.

Garlan counted less than forty of the hundred the Westerosi had started with still amongst the living.

It was victory.

Bloodied? Definitely.

Bruised? Certainly.

But it was still a victory.

He wondered though, if the little princeling saw things that way. A hair's breadth away from death, the young boy looked panicked, his chest rose and fell erratically as he wiped sweat and tears from his face, leaving a small stain of blood on his cheek as he watched the last of the enemy sail away, cradling his wounded arm and wheezing deeply.

"Cletus…." Garland sighed and sheathed his blade once his commander reached for his brother. The Yronwood boy scrambled too, almost frantic in looking over Quentyn's injuries. Daemon stopped the youths from removing the prince's armor, though, speaking quietly.

"Wait, wait. Hold until the Maester can see to him. The prince can breathe?" Turning to the princeling, the other men got a nod. "Good. We wait then, to make sure its not stopping up or holding a worse wound in check. Try not to move my lord."

A few quick nods and the boy clasped his friend's arm, face pale from pain but not crying out. Whetting his lips, the Martell called out.

"Brothers, see to the wounded. Cletus… see to them."

Frowning, the young man looked ready to argue with his friend before nodding. Garlan actually approved and jerked his head for the warriors following him to go too.

"Ser Daemon go get the Maester? Bring quills and ink too. I have letters to dictate."

Smirking, looking more than a smidge proud of his lord's son, the knight gave a jaunty salute and ran off - his urgency clear to Garlan from the stress visible in the bastard's movements.

"Ser Garlan, come here, please."

Kneeling down next to Quentyn, who was now lying in the sand, his cloak bunched up beneath his head by Cletus before the lad moved off, the grown man reached down and lightly gripped his commander's shoulder.

"Now you're one step closer to being a man. You've killed and almost died."

There was a pause and the Tyrell couldn't keep sadness completely from his face.

"Still, you lived. So you've done better than many. Yeah?"

"Aye, m'lord." Soft words and a small nod. "See to the defense of the camp?"

It was a question. A tentative one, asking whether a defense would be needed.

"I'll see to it."

An answer that was pragmatic but one that sent a small burst of resignation across the lordling's face. They both knew weakness was an invitation to disaster after all. And Garlan had to wonder if it was a kindness or a cruelty to leave the lad alone with his thoughts and the pain.

Elia Sand

Being scolded by her father was a novel experience for Elia Sand.

For a long time she'd always been the baby. The apple of her father's eyes. The one who could get away with everything because she just happened to be the first child of his longest running relationship. A position which she had relentlessly abused in the past if it meant getting the things she wanted.

Like learning to ride a horse.

Learning to hold a lance.

And charging at other people with said lance on top of said horse.

If Elia ever happened to get in trouble, it would sooner be her own mother or older sisters to lay down the law and punish her in whatever way they thought would make the lesson stick. Because she was Elia Sand, daughter of Oberyn Martell, brother of Elia Martell. The man looked at her… differently, sadly sometimes, others his eyes would burn with an intense reminder of what happened to the first Elia.

She wondered why he gave her that name?

Was it to give the first one a way to live on even after death?

Did he love her so much that it took until she was born for him to consider calling another girl with the same name?

Her father loved her.

Elia knew that.

But she hadn't known what was going through his head when she was born, and why she was the one he decided to name after the sister he adored more than anything in the world and still mourned to this day. Was it because she loved her as much as she did his aunt Elia? Did she look like her in some way?

She did learn the answer to another question, however.

Yes, Oberyn Martell was capable of punishing his children.

It wasn't a small punishment either. Both her and Arya had been given over to Septa Mordane for… remedial lessons as her sister liked to put it. Losing all of their privileges and being forced to stay inside the castle at all times. There would be no games or horseriding of any kind.

It was horrible.

Torture of the worst kind.

Elia would have sooner lowered herself to wiping tables or cleaning stables before she was forced to suffer through another lecture on House words and crests. She didn't even need to learn about the Northern ones and yet she was only allowed to finish her penance after memorizing and reciting enough for the Septa to be satisfied.

One month into her punishment.

A whole month… gone, reduced to dust.

"I hope you have learnt your lesson from this." Her father said as he looked her straight in the eye. He was being serious, Elia knew. Because it could have been so much worse hadn't it been the smith boy who got hurt. Someone who would have her actually punished for the accident.

She could have lost more than just her time.

But on the other hand, Elia knew this wasn't a normal situation.

Gendry wasn't just a blacksmith. Or, at least, the way her sister had brought him into the fold hinted at him being more than just someone she roped into making those Valyrian Steel swords.

"I'll be careful."

Oberyn smiled thinly.

He looked sad.

"Good. If you do the wrong thing, hurt the wrong person, next time there might not be an easy way out. Just… take care and pay attention to what is going on around you. Your mother would kill me if something happened to you on my watch."

Gods, her mother.

If she ever heard of this, Elia wouldn't be able to sit until she was an adult.

Most of all, she worried for Ophelia. Her sister hurt herself terribly trying to heal the smith's injured leg. Parts of Elia felt terrible, but it was just for the harm she caused to her older sister, not the blacksmith. That seemed so much worse than making a stranger crippled. And she felt even worse because she knew that was shameful. Even if someone was precious to you, that didn't mean you should only worry about them. And maybe Elia was only worried because that meant her big sister might be angry with her.

And that was wrong too!

Because she wasn't just a brat anymore. And all of her family, except for Tyene, had said that others shouldn't have to suffer for her mistakes. Tyene told her it was funny when that happened, so long as they weren't nice people, and it was okay to do anything so long as it helped the family. But she was also scary sometimes so Elia figured it probably wasn't best to listen to her.

But mostly it really was because she was afraid that Ophelia would be angry.

Or worse, disappointed.

Elia didn't know what scared her more.

So she accepted the punishment. She read and memorized as best she could and kept out of trouble with Arya until they were forgiven. She learnt her lesson!

"Sweet summer child." Oberyn reached over and mussed her hair….

"Ow!"

Then bapped her.

"What was that for?"

Smirking, her father simply shook his head.

"Because I know my children. You're going to get into trouble the second I take my eyes off you. Now, go. Nymeria is waiting for you. And here, have fun today. It's not every day a Great Tournament is held."

Eyes wide, the twelve-almost thirteen year old girl stared at the fat septim and clinking silver coins in the money pouch her father gave her. Leaping up, she hugged the man around his waist, clinging like a limpet for a moment before, worrying he might reconsider, Elia raced off.

"Bye Poppa! Love you!"

"I hope you realize how lucky you were."

Unfortunately her father wasn't the only one who wanted to give her a final-final warning. Which meant that the walk from the castle with Nymeria was a somewhat tense affair where the woman described what exactly could have happened to her in extremely graphic detail.

'Goodbye sweet dreams.'

She'd be having nightmares about it for months.

"Yes, Nym. Father already told me it was a horrible, terrible thing that I should be careful and to not get into any more trouble."

Her sister snorted, making sure to squeeze her hand. Elia had already tried to slip off twice and, unfortunately, she'd been caught both times. Though it had nothing to do with not wanting to see Arya and everything with not wanting to see Arya's minder.

"Like you'd have a choice."

She resembled that!

"Face it Elia, our family is full with people prone to causing massive disasters which could reshape the entire landscape of the Seven Kingdoms if left unchecked. Either Sarella will discover some ancient horror which will bring a thousand years of darkness upon us, Tyene will make a deal with it because she is bored, Ophelia will get kidnapped by it…"

She couldn't hold back.

"And what about you? I've never heard father scold you."

"That's because you were too young to remember. Why, I was a proper hellion back in the day. So many dodged scandals and possible wars, I was lucky I got my wits quickly or I could have become a much more subtle version of Tyene. Complete with poison."

Now that was a terrible image.

'Two Tyenes.' Elia shuddered. One was already more than what they could deal with.

"What am I supposed to do, then? If trouble's gonna find me anyway?"

Nymeria shrugged.

"You deal with it. Obara stabs her problems, Tyene poisons them, Sarella causes a bar brawl and runs away, Ophelia has some kind of divine intervention that keeps her from being actually killed by any other mysterious force."

"How do you deal with yours?"

"I take them to bed."

The youngest present Snake wrinkled her nose.

"Eww."

The older sister laughed and tugged her hand along.

"Come. The nice Septa is waiting for us. And I'm sure Arya's eager to get into trouble too."

Elia scrunched up her nose but complied, eventually managing to tug her hand free once the two sisters left the guest rooms of Winterfell. Smooth stone, with more than a few tapestries, and long carpets, lit by candles and hearths, and brightened with flowers and art - it was the exact opposite of the Starks. Others might have thought a bit more on it, but Lady Lance mostly found the sheer number of trophies the Starks had collected to be more than a smidge impressive.

From antler racks larger than a man was tall, to sharks teeth bigger than her fingers, to the stuffed head of a bear whose mouth was large enough to decapitate a horse in one bite. It was, to beggar a pun, a rather stark reminder of the power and beauty of the North.

Her favorite was the splintered lance once used to slay a wildling king.

"Hey Elia!"

Arya Stark, running as she so often did, nearly tripped and fell as she dashed over from the Lord's quarters… a metal helmet firmly locked atop her head. Frowning, Elia gave her a good wrapping.

"Now what did I tell you! Stop wearing men's armor. It covers your eyes and you'll break your neck. Come on, we can't go to the tournament with you trying to dress like a boy!"

Grabbing the younger girl's hand, the bastard girl began to drag the trueborn child along. Proper station and decorum be damned. They were also heading straight towards a certain armory that had become something of a meeting place for the two of them and, more rarely, Tommen and Bran too. More chiefly, the young man who worked in that particular forge was totally incapable of saying no.

"Heya Gendry!"

Having been somewhat subdued by the sheer energy of her companion, Arya had mostly been cowed by the sheer intensity of the scolding she was suffering under. Now, though, she found the courage to pipe up again.

"Ah. You two. Are you here to rob me again?"

Scowling, Elia made sure he wasn't working with anything dangerous, and then thumped the boy on the arm.

"We only stole your sweet roll once! Now, Arya needs something proper to wear."

Slightly confused, and a smidge offended, the child crossed her arms and set her lip.

"I look fun. You're the one that looks funny, wearing so many clothes!"

Glancing at her scarf, sweater, coat, tunic, trousers, wool socks, and thick boots, the Dornishman looked back up at her companion and responded with perfect eloquence.

"Huh? It's freezing up here! We're in a forge and I can still see my breath."

"Yeah," Arya pointed at said forge. "Because it isn't going."

"My ladies, as happy as I am to see you, is there anything I can do to help you today?" Gendry, putting down a quill and finishing a letter, picked up a blunt sword and set to checking it over.

Taking this as an invitation to hand out a laundry list of demands, Elia Sand did what her family did best.

"I can't believe you convinced me to do this."

"Well, you were the one who wanted to play dress up. And if I have to play at being a 'proper northern lady', then you get to be my loyal assistant and squire."

The Snake gave the Wolf a dry look, almost impressed at the young girl's audacity.

"Ladies don't get squires, Arya."

"Well then, just pretend I'm a Lady Knight."

Truly, Arya Stark's ability to get in trouble was only surpassed by how flippant she was about getting in trouble. Elia would have thought her one of her half sisters if not for the fact that the girl's mother would sooner cast her father into the cold than look at him. And if what she heard was anything to go by, Lord Stark was the one with the bastard.

Or not.

Her sisters were still investigating.

Not that she cared, the one thing claiming Elia's attention now was the ongoing tourney. The promise of glory and infamy just a couple dozen feet away as men wearing sigils of various Houses milled about, some already donning armor, others in lighter - for the North - clothes but carrying with them their knightly arms.

Swords, bows… lances.

Elia's heart yearned for her confiscated weapon.

Father had seen to it that she wouldn't have her trusty lance for the remaining duration of their visit. And having not been able to ride a horse for nearly as long made Elia unsure she'd even remember the feeling of a trusty steed galloping beneath her. The young Snake was more than sure that she could have taken to the tourney like a fish took to water and made her mark in plain view of the King.

Or so she told herself.

'Watching isn't that bad though.'

So many events, so many challenges. Though you'd be forgiven for thinking the joust was the only one that mattered, it was certainly the main event, as Ophelia liked to say. And Elia was just as much of a fan as anyone could be.

Tourneys were important.

"Nuh uh, the Melee sounds like much more fun."

Unfortunately her new friend was the sort of uncultured swine who couldn't understand the appeal of the sport.

"Listen, Arya, I know you're just a child-" Elia tactfully ignored the loud complaint that she was only a few years older. "But this isn't just a tournament. This is a Great Tournament. And it's also a celebration for Prince Joffrey's nameday… and also maybe his engagement." When Arya made a gagging noise, the youth gave a sage nod. Boys were stupid. Knights were cool. And the Prince definitely wasn't a knight. "Plus the king overheard my sister talking about all kinds of other events too, so it's a bit of a tryout."

"Tryout?" The younger girl scrunched up her face. "But I thought that was last week?"

"No, no, no, I mean the events are being tried out. All the people already tried out."

"But if the events have already been picked, how are they being tried out?"

"Because this is the first time they're being performed in a tournament!"

"But I thought every tournament had a melee, joust, and most had archery competitions?"

"I mean the other events!"

Septa Mordane

Unable to contain her amusement, the middle aged woman chuckled as her ward expertly wound up the bastard escorting her.

It was humanizing to see such a normal scene from such utterly abnormal people.

"It is nice to see my sister actually acting her age for once."

Mordane's laughter slowly died off as she turned to face her… companion for the evening. For once Nymeria Sand dressed down, a simple fur cloak and wool dress in subdued colors hiding the bastard's wealth though very little of her beauty. It was a much welcomed change from her rather scandalous displays from a month ago.

"Of course, ma'am."

The response was polite and perfectly safe.

Nymeria saw right through it.

"Come now, dear Septa, wasn't it my plan to watch them from afar?"

Choosing her words carefully, Mordane matched the other woman's slight grin with a polite smile.

"It was. But it will only be so until something goes wrong. Then it is my responsibility to see to little Arya."

"Oh? Something's going to go wrong?"

A lifetime of service told the Septa exactly how to respond.

"It always can. Especially when one tempts the gods."

That earned her a laugh.

"Aye. Isn't that the truth. Still, with all these wonderful knights and so many warriors about the place, any such trouble ought to be seen to quickly enough." Here the bastard paused, taking a breath of the chill afternoon air - ignoring the smell of men and sweat and horse. "Lord Stark suffers no villains on his land."

"Only those invited by the King."

There, she said it.

Perhaps not the most… proper choice of words, but Septa Mordane was a woman who was proud of her pious dedication to what she felt was righteous. And while her respect for King Robert was… earned by his actions against the Mad King, that only meant she wouldn't voice certain opinions around the man himself or his close friends.

Alone with one of the Dornish girls, however, that was different.

In a world of carefully constructed order, a tower painstakingly built brick by brick through the wisdom of the Seven, Oberyn Martell and his… spawn stood proud against thousands of years of tradition and dogma. And had they been anything other than who they were, maybe they wouldn't have been allowed to live as they had.

But they did.

Because they were of Dorne, and the people of the sands had always been, if nothing else, stubborn and unyielding.

Had it been their bastardry alone, she would not have faulted them. Many exemplars of the Faith had been bastards and commoners.

Had it been their licentiousness alone, she would not have voiced her concerns. Such men and women were unfortunately common, even in Wintertown itself.

Had it been their lack of worshipfulness, she would have bit her tongue. Godliness was rare in all of Westeros and the Old Gods at least enforced Guest Right and the Right Order of things.

But their father flaunted a pregnant woman whom was his lover, his daughters flaunted their lewd behavior, their whole family threw around gold without care, and the openly practiced sorcery and witchcraft! It was as if the perfect humanist and hedonist was encapsulated in the immorality of their ways, a parody of what it meant to be Dornish, and, even worse, they spread such sins about them. After all, Theon Greyjoy and Jon Snow and Ser Gerold of House Dayne had been arrested for brawling! Never mind their… parties, loose and lewd meeting in the Godswood where the women drank and gossiped and acted as if they were wildlings!

Frankly, she was afraid. And not just because of the injury of the King's own bastard, but because of the sheer influence these "Sand Snakes" wielded. After all, did Dorne not test Baelor the Blessed with vipers? Was Oberyn's epithet not the Red Viper? Did Ophelia, the Witch Girl, not have a heathen, a chirurgeon, and a mad maester as her teachers?

From then on they walked in silence. First in one of the castle's galleries, itself far more filled than normal. She, as a Septa, had been well trained in the signs and houses of various lords and knights. Usually, there might be twenty or third such flags. The Umbers, Karstarks, Mormants, Umbers, Foresters, Ironhills, Boltons, Ryswell, Manderlys, and more were the usual sorts when Lord Stark held his councils. Now though? A hundred houses had come from across the North, with a hundred knightly banners flying too. Every man who had claim to a sign and words were proudly displaying theirs.

So too did other banners fly.

Nymeros-Martell, Tully, Royce, Lannister, and highest of them all - the Crowned Stag of House Baratheon of King's Landing.

It had only been at Good King Robert's loud acclaim that the Stark's direwolf should fly as high as his own. A refusal to put himself above his host and his childhood friend and ally. A simple act that had, no doubt, won him much love amongst the Northmen.

Of course, most of those who dwelt in Winterfell were not Northern.

She had heard tell that the castle could host a hundred thousand men under arms and, right now, there was a fifth of that number. Many were hedge knights and mercenaries, brought inside the castle's walls to segregate them from the civilians in Wintertown, but most were the highborn and their retinues.

As they walked under the portcullis, held open so that traffic could freely move about, they kept shadowing the two girls.

"The little wolf seems very… enthused by the tourney. You'd think she was the one brandishing a sword, daring to go poke the knights until they surrendered."

Mordane sighed.

"Arya is… taken by the old takes of warrior queens and dragon riders. I'm afraid she's grown quite enamored with the idea of digging out a sword from who knows where and going out to become some Knight errant."

The snake tittered.

"Yes, I know the type. We should count our blessings then, that she agreed to wear a dress and handed that too-big helmet she foisted onto my sister."

Yes, the Septa would count her blessings.

She could only hope the Royal Family would depart soon. The less time these… influences spent in the North, the sooner she could begin weeding out whatever bad habits the Stark children had learnt from them.

Especially that witch.

"Tell me, Septa, you are highborn?"

Carefully keeping to the inside of the track, nearer the buildings and away from the muddy ruts formed by horses and carts and men marching along the main street, the woman of the cloth tried to figure out if this was a trap.

"I am." Mordane answered, carefully inclining her head to Lord Reed as he passed by. Her walking companion flashed the man a grin from within her hood and the Crannogman blinked for a moment before blushing slightly and hurrying off. "But that means little. I have little doubt you know that we give up our names when we join the Faith."

"Ah. But it means everything."

The bastard girl spoke no further, merely continuing to walk along besides the Septa. She spoke freely when others called out to them, clasping hands with men and women and children, looking them in the eye and smiling at them. A few coins, silvers and coppers, slipped from her palm to the palms of the children and a few beggars too. All of this she did hidden away in the depths of her cloak. And even more, Nymeria caught the eye of every man they passed.

Her curves were concealed and her dress as proper and shapeless as the Septa's own. So too was their hair equally covered.

Yet when their eyes met and their hands touched, she would give them a small smile or a big one. A closed one or an open one. Some she seemed to almost challenge, others she submitted to with grace, and even more she seemed to greet as friends. Except for one.

When they passed by the Flayer Lord, clad in his pink and grey and blue, she stepped aside.

Like a hound that sensed danger, she tucked her ears in and let the crowd separate them and she even took the Septa's arm. It prompted Mordane to check after their quarry - the two girls whom had run off ahead. Yet even with a crowd such as this, hundreds and thousands of men and women, two highborn children received all the space they needed. Especially when Arya's wolf, Nymeria, had loped up alongside the girls.

That, without a doubt, won the girls all the space in Westeros.

"Tell me, dear septa, what is it about my sisters and I that most offends you?"

Asked gently, without accusal or reproach, the two women parted slightly as they came to the recently built racetrack. Men and hounds alike were charging across beaten earth and horses would be brought out later. Set out past the walls of Winterfell, it was put to the side of Wintertown, running the length of the town, the space was segregated off by wooden posts and had been cleared of snow. Stands had been raised too and the space was further divided by more posts, though of a smaller scale, and it was designed to be easily prepared for each event.

Today, on the first day of events, were the contests of speed.

Ironic, considering they allowed Mordane time to put her thoughts in order and decide how to respond.

"The Faith teaches us to abhor sins and love the sinner."

"Ah." Nymeria replied. "But the very act which made me was a sin."

It wasn't a threat. The young woman didn't sound insulted, though the septa couldn't say whether that was something good. No, the bastard girl looked at her like one would a peculiar puzzle, or perhaps a riddle they were eager to piece together.

Eyes piercing her through the cool breeze. Of a woman much too smart for the good of others.

"You were, I am sure, made out of love. At least at the time." She continued as was due. Life was sacred to the Seven, even if it wasn't properly reared.

"A polite answer, but hardly the truth. The Seven condemn bastardy."

"The Seven Who Are One condemns lust and drowning in it."

As if reading her thoughts the Snake's brow quirked askance.

"My father's proclivities are explicitly considered unnatural."

"And yet he is a prince and I am a septa." All those who lived under the light of the seven had their place, from the lowest beggar to the highest of kings and lords. It wasn't her place to preach the Faith to one naturally expected to uphold it. A lord should be above such… banal questionings.

Even if someone ought to have confronted the man long ago, in her private opinion.

"If you were not?"

"I would still be wise to hold my tongue."

Kings judged Lords. Lords judged the common folk. But the Gods judged all.

"Then be foolish. Tell me, why are we so monstrous? Why are we little devils, come to steal souls and hearts?"

"You admit it yourself."

"Jealousy? I had thought more of you, dear Mordane."

"Hardly. I gladly took my vows. But you go out of your way to play games and spin webs and drip venom into the hearts of men. It is women such as you which bring low whole kingdoms."

"Women such as us? We are but bastards, born without even the name you gave up gladly - as you yourself said. Our fate would be to whore ourselves and beg, should our father not care to keep us. Obara's mother even gladly gave her up, too, considering her too ugly a child to make a whore of."

Turning her lips down, the Septa silently displayed her disapproval for such vulgarity.

"Be that as it may, we do not aspire to be as beasts and we should not inspire such feelings in others." She raised her hand slightly, stilling the coming response. "I do not scorn love, nor do I find love a sin. But it is not for Lords and Ladies to abdicate their duty. Love is a luxury, a nicety, a part of being human. Those who rule must be better, for it is also human to sin, to war, to rape, to pillage, to abuse, to defile. The Seven bless us and grant us strength to rise above. How you and yours act would see us wallow."

"Would you say my charity is wallowing? My kindness is wallowing? The happiness I bring others? Is that not equally human, is it not equally as good as holding to some grand ideal?"

"You do it because you wish to be looked upon with desire, to be seen as kind and virtuous. Each act of charity and healing gains you cover, that your sins might go unnoticed in the shadows. Even that happiness you bring the lords who abandon their wives for you is a tool with which you gain greater advantage."

"I am no whore." Nymeria's words were clipped. "I sell neither my heart nor my body. And I need to sell neither. And your duty more often leaves starving orphans and widowed wives than the purity you cling too. At least I can fill a few bowls."

"For that I am glad and I shall pray that you never do either. As to charity and kindness, why do you think I do not? That Lady Stark does not have both? She sees food and clothing and medicine given to the poor. I, myself, knit clothes for them and tend to a few scrapes and those wounds I know how to bind. My hands are as often bloodied as the Maester's."

Taking several deep breaths, the base born girl visibly calmed herself and finally let her hood down. Perhaps an act of intimacy, perhaps an attempt at calming herself, it still drove the differences between the two of them into even starker difference.

The sun was starting to crest to high noon, its feeble rays pushing away the last of the mist that clung to the ground, and taking away most of the bite in the air. On the grounds a dozen horses dashed along, their hooves churning the ground and mouths heaving as their riders dashed and turned, dashed and turned, and raced around the edges of a great oval set into the earth.

"You have never doubted, septa, your place in life." Nymeria walked forwards, gesturing for Mordane to follow her, and the woman did so. Feeling a strange urge to continue their conversation… so long as they could keep their charges in view. "Even when you serve as a midwife, even when you hold the hands of the sick and dying, even when you first took your vows, you were protected." Each word was spoken normally, in tune with the words around them, yet gently. Regretfully, even. "You have never once woken up in the morning and wondered where your next meal might come from, or if you'd be tossed out."

There was a pregnant pause. The Septa felt no need to point out the bastard's privilege and the wealth her father poured out upon her and her sisters. So, it was after they had bought a great many meat skewers, that the Dornish girl continued speaking.

"Growing up, I was lucky. But it took me years to understand exactly how lucky I was. My father did not know of me and I am a twice bastard - my mother, of the Noblest Blood of Volantis, was a married woman. My mother and her husband sold me to a merchant of Lys. I was about eight or nine. He was accepting bids on my maidenhead." Turning to look at Mordane without shame, though the septa's face had given way to horror and confusion, the girl finished with a wan smile. "Prince Oberyn found his daughter naked, with about twenty or thirty men making offers for her in a small room in the bowels of a ship. He and his brother mercenaries killed every man there, with Oberyn offering them the wealth of the men and the ship as payment, and he took me with him from Essos. That is the truth of why he returned from exile in fullness."

"Dear child, I can not… what men would do such things?"

"Wealthy men, dear septa. Nobles and great merchant princes. Men of the sheets and pillows. As for my mother? She did not care."

Torn between wanting to reject the very idea that such evil could be perpetrated on a child and the knowledge that Essos was far, far less enlightened than Westeros… and that such evil still occurred in Westeros, the Septa was unsure what to say or do. In the end, she took the other woman's hands in hers and bowed her head. Humility was the correct choice. And so too was charity.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to insult you so. Though I can not sanction your behavior, I am glad you were spared the wickedness and indignities that so many are not."

"Apology accepted." Smiling, the bastard cheered immediately, becoming a young woman who only had a little hate, a little bitterness, a little evil in her eyes. She also squeezed the Septa's hands, letting her know that there was truth in her forgiveness, if not her cheer. "And I am glad that you do good, too, and not only pray for it."

Mordane took a skewer of chicken and bit into it, fat and grease popping in her mouth and wild herbs. Chewing on the meat, savoring the flavor, she reflected on the fact that she had never worried about where her next meal would come from. And she equally reflected on the number of broken hearts, and broken marriages, that the base born girl had supposedly left in her wake. It was something of a quandary that her faith simply would not allow her to excuse, nor did she want to simply admit that pure self interest was the path to bringing universal happiness.

"We shall never be alike, you and I, Nymeria. But I can respect that you have your own ways. I shall still pray that you accept the Seven and their light."

"Hah!" Laughing, the young woman threw her head back, exposing once again her pale skin and the perfect beauty she was blessed and cursed with. "Then I shall pray, in my own ways, that you have some fun."

After that their conversation was of little importance. Mostly details of the North's houses and the court of Lord Stark. There had been a few pointed remarks from Nymeria that the Lady Stark might not always grasp the totality of Northern culture, and that it might be wise to introduce the Stark's children to a few of their more orthodox peers. In particular the budding friendship between Bran and the Reeds was brought up and elaborated on. And it was odd enough that Mordane vowed to mention the bastard's interest to her mistress.

Even if it was purely well intentioned, such interest could often help nobles avoid unpleasant surprises and keep ahead of their opponent's maneuvers. Plus, if Nymeria was asking, she was undoubtedly gathering information for her father and uncle too. It was simply how such games were played.

Once more chatting about everything and nothing, the duo joined Arya and Elia and the… greater of the two Nymerias, handing each their own skewer of chicken, and both septa and sister enjoyed how their charges started in surprise.

And it was good indeed.

Strangely enough the Snake held out her hand for a small bird, of a type whose name escaped Mordane. But it didn't matter, the bird chirped once… twice… and then flew over their head as the bastard sighed fondly.

"What a worrywart of a little sister."

The septa paled.

Robert I Baratheon, King Smash Hammer

Nothing got the blood boiling quite like a tourney.

Robert was something of an expert on the matter, and not just because he'd ordered more than a few over the course of his reign. Ironically, this one would be the first he felt any form of actual excitement from in years. The blasted thing had proven to be more than just an excuse for drinking and feasting while watching men younger than him put their lives on the line for a chance of glory and fame across the land.

Gods, how he wished he could be down there!

Unfortunately, his attending physician had declared she would never brew another of her potions for him ever again if he saw fit to ignore her… expert opinion on the matter. Even if Robert felt like he could have gone out there and showed some of those so-called knights how real men did it. After all, almost none of them were like his Kingsguard, none of them were like Ser Barristan, and he, well, Robert remembered well the feeling of Rhaegar's chest caving in under his hammer.

But for now, he'd enjoy the festivities.

Heart beating against his chest like a drum, Robert wondered if it was the fact he hadn't touched a single cup of wine since waking up.

Because he wanted to feel it.

Wanted to feel the excitement and the anxiety.

How long had it been since he'd pried himself away from the haze to properly look at a show like this? A year ago he'd have been halfway through his second pitcher before the events even started. Yet here he was, King Robert of House Baratheon, about to watch the opening fight that would mark the beginning of his son's name day celebrations.

His son's nameday!

When was the last time he actually commemorated it? Not just used it as an excuse for a monthly feast?

'Far too long.'

His hand moved softly through short blond tresses. He felt awkward, as if he'd forgotten what it was like to touch something and not bend or break it.

"Father?" Joffrey, the little lad, looked up confused.

"Just thinking boy." The blonde mop of hair was like his son's mother. Or his uncle, maybe. And in some ways that disappointed the king. Robert wished he had a child that looked like him that he could bring to something like this. Still, he squeezed his lad's shoulder.

"What are you thinking about Father?"

Tommen, speaking softly, looked up from where he was seated.

"About how much I wish I could be down there. But you two'll be fighting soon enough. So maybe I'll just sit back and cheer you on!"

Robert snorted and ruffled Joff's hair again when the boy practically lit up like the sun. Tommen was less enthusiastic, or so it seemed, but the old warhammer knew his second son was just a bit softer.

'Aye. He's meant for the Citadel or the Faith. Bloody right, considering he reads more than I ever did.'

Or maybe he'd get the witch girl to teach him some tricks.

Wouldn't that rattle those old sacks of bones back at the Citadel?

Leaning over, the king scooped his younger son up, the child laughing as he was picked up, and then stood up. Joffrey came too, trapped in a light headlock, and the king decided he'd make a speech. Never mind what the rest of his retinue might think.

"Lads, cover your ears." Once his boys were ready, Robert Baratheon patted his belly, took a small gulp of wine, and then used a voice that had led armies "Alright! Listen up!" His roar rippled out across the crowd, both of his sons laughing when he smiled at them. "You lot are going to get to see a real treat today. Prince versus Kingslayer! Fighting on foot for you lot, no armor, and to the first blood! After that, we'll hand out rewards to the winners of the races!"

Plopping back down on his throne, and letting his boys return to their seats, he kicked up his boots, gestured for his herald to announce the duelists, and got comfortable.

"Now you two, make sure you watch your uncle. The prince is too fancy for my tastes. Bit prideful in battle too. So I don't want you learning any bad habits. Save the flourishes and perfume for impressing the ladies, not when you're trying to make someone's insides, their outsides."

Good, fatherly words of wisdom.

A bit awkward but he was getting there.

He did pride himself on his predictions, however. As good a fighter as the Red Viper was, the man was legendary for playing with his food, enough that Robert was confident that he'd go for some showmanship. The daughters took after the father, and from what he'd seen, only the actually dangerous one didn't.

The reach of a spear was better than a sword.

Not that he'd ever used one for much. His proud warhammer remained the favorite till this day. But he could see how someone as… nimble as the Dornishman could make it work for anything other than as a joke about his 'godly cock'.

Down below the Herald announced the arriving fighters, with Ser Jaimie clad in a simple, sleeveless tunic of white linen and Oberyn strolling bare chested. Both men wore similar trousers, necessary this far North, and hobnailed boots. Jaimie, with his castle-forged longsword, was also given a small buckler to protect himself with. The spearman had declined anything but his primary weapon, which he even now twirled about. Its long red haft and shining steel head flashing in the low morning light.

Patting his boys on the shoulders, he sent them further down, out of the royal box, so they could stand near the railing of the dirt arena and get a better look.

And, after fixing himself another small glass of wine, by ordering his less useful squire to do it, the king watched as the two men on the field bantered and taunted one another in perfect courtly language. More importantly, he turned to his other brother in law and elbowed the man in the ribs.

"Hey, Imp. How about a bet?"

"Ah, your grace, I'm not so sure that would be… appropriate." His brother in law tried to deflect, the Halfman doing his best not to grimace.

"Psshaw. You're doing the finances now, more or less, and you're my brother in law too. Even if you lose, you win."

"Yes." The dwarf deadpanned. "I'm sure my father would be thrilled to hear his son is gambling with his money."

"I thought Lannisters shit gold?"

Both men turned to look at their host, Ned Stark, who simply looked right back at him. His face didn't so much as crack, his eyebrow didn't lift, there was almost no sign at all he'd even spoken.

"My word, Lord Stark, did you actually just make a joke? Are you human after all?"

The ugly dwarf, enjoying his own glass of honeyed mead, simply smirked and riposted while Robert was left incredulous.

"No. My children seem to think we're wolves."

Struggling not to break out in a fit of mad giggles, the king was actually knocked from his chair when his best friend's son did something he'd have never expected any of the flea and ice bitten Northmen to do in a thousand lifetimes.

"Bark, bark, Father. Your grace."

Robb, seated right next to Eddard, even inclined his head to both of them!

Sitting further away, his wife, Lady Stark, his daughter, Ned's eldest daughter, and a few of Oberyn's girls were off in a private box. Robert could see the Dornish prince's brood huddled together and being rather expressive in their support for their father, even the Witch, someone he had once thought wasn't quite given to socializing.

Gods knew he wasn't much for it these days.

But he found it… good that the young woman saw fit to make her presence known. Without the magic and scandal and massive magical swords. He'd heard some strange tales from Ned's boys about her being down at a tavern. And that there was a brawl between some of them and that Dayne boy that seemed to follow the witch's heels like a hunting dog.

Not that he believed it, but it was good.

Some brawling would do those boys well. Put some hair on their chests before they had to go out into the world and start fighting for real. Maybe he'd get to see them today, though if Ned didn't let his oldest participate then the chance was low.

Good sign at least.

Meant he wasn't as old as he felt.

When his bones ached and his breath rasped, when he felt like he couldn't even lift his hammer. That weakness that settled on him after there were no more battles to fight or wars to be won. He had a fire lit under him, and watching those two men, two of the finest men to ever touch a weapon in this side of the world, trying to tag each other with their pointy stick made the King wish he and Ned were down there.

Just like the old times.

'Maybe next year.'

If he kept at it, he should be well enough to go and put a show of his own. Maybe Ned would be there as his Hand and they'd do a heroic display for the people.

Oberyn, mid flourish, snapped his spear out and dashed forwards. They were only a few yards away and the Kingslayer barely brought his shield around in time. The Kingsguard had been playing to the crowd a bit and the Red Viper, darting in and slashing at the man, was almost playing up the underhanded villain.

"Imp, bet, now. I've got a hundred dragons on your brother."

"Your grace, I, uh, well, I can't bet against family?"

"If you win, buy him something nice. Double or nothing. Take it or leave it!"

"Well, I-"

"I'll take it Robert. Two hundred dragons and a promise, betting on the Prince."

Looking over at his friend, the king was actually a little worried but Ned just gave him a look. The same kind of look he gave him back during their rebellion, when he went North to raise an army. So, unable to do anything but agree, Robert gave a nod.

"Aye. Two hundred and a promise. Now come on you lot. I couldn't see them shit from up here."

Getting up out of his throne, the old man heartily abused the power he had to drag his friends along and took them down into the lower levels. Finding his boys, he made them both jump by clapping them on the shoulders, teasing them a little for being engrossed in the fight. Privately he was glad to see that Joffrey had actually been helping hold his younger brother steady while Tommen stood on top of a box to better see over the railing.

"Watch closely you two. They're killers."

Jaimie clearly knew how to fight a spear. Pressing forwards, the man brought his sword around and batted the haft away. Oberyn took this as a challenge and actively spun away, twisting and flourishing with the move. This let the swordsman close and, perhaps a bit miffed at being ambushed earlier, the kingsguard came in close and hard.

His slashes were tight, controlled, and flowed from one to the next. Yet the prince clearly saw this as a game, bending over backwards to dodge one slash, then executing a series of backflips to dodge several more. Popping up, he winked at Jaimie and beckoned him forwards with his spear. Obviously not dumb enough to just charge in, the blonde knight snorted in amusement, his derisive laughter audible from the sidelines, and advanced in a controlled, focused manner.

The prince, who had so far alternated between sudden, explosive bursts of energy, and near passivity, fell back into a period of slowness.

Each sword stroke was deflected with the minimum amount of effort, he never moved, his feet only stepping to the side and never forwards or backwards. Indeed, the prince was more likely to step into the knight's thrusts. Using the haft of his spear to knock the blade of the sword away, taking great care to strike it on the flat, he pushed the tip of his spear forwards.

The move was up and along the shield, aimed squarely at the outside of his opponents arm.

It would have won him the bout.

Yet Jaimie, seeing this coming, chose to push into the path of the blow.

Insteads of grazing along his arm, Oberyn's stroke would have buried the point of his spear in the meat of the other man's bicep. Instead, the prince jerked the strike off target and once more spun away - seemingly taking the measure of his opponent once again.

"Father, why didn't the prince strike Uncle?"

Joffrey, visibly confused, looked a bit constipated. Instead of teasing his boy, Robert just reached down and mussed his hair again, turning the young man's look of confusion to one of mild annoyance.

"Your uncle just gambled with his body. A wound like that might cost him his arm. The prince wasn't willing to go that far to win." Going unsaid was the fact that such a thing was a bit of a surprise.

"Father's growing rusty then."

One of Oberyn's girls, the second oldest, walked over. Accompanied by the Stark's septa as well as two others. The littlest snake and wolf not even acknowledging the powerful men before them, eyes fixated on the combat. As they properly should, Robert was never one for pleasantries.

And it was a hell of a bout.

"Come here all this way just to say hello? Tyrek, stop daydreaming about ti- time. Free time! Go bring some chairs for the ladies! As for you lot, sit! I got money riding on this one."

Septa Mordane, Robert remembered Cat telling him about her, sighed, disappointed. Then again, those types were always disappointed around him for whatever godly reason they could come up with. And the older Snake seemed very confident her father would win. Not that he'd blame her. For children, their parents always appeared unbeatable. And in a real fight to the death, Robert wasn't entirely sure she was wrong. Oberyn had been killing for as long as Jaimie had and without the benefit of the support of his brother-knights. Put simply, the Martell had been forced to struggle to survive more than his opponent had. And for the king, well, he figured that might just make all the difference when it came down to the wire.

It was still adorable when the littlest Snake, dressed more like a squire-to-be than anything else, bounced on her feet as she took a seat and Ned's girl wasn't any better. It was almost impressive at how quickly Tyrek Lannister, puffing as he carried several large wooden stools, managed to screw up too. Robert just glared at him when the boy stopped for a break and sent him scrambling back for more when he thought just seating the children would be enough.

"Raising Lady Knights now, Ned?"

His friend rolled his eyes, or at least very much looked like he wanted to.

"Don't humor her, Robert. Last thing I need is to get her wolf's blood up. Never mind her hopes. I'm half worried she's going to sneak off with-"

"Wait, watch Oberyn, he's about to strike!"

Interrupting his friend, Robert pointed out when the prince shifted his weight.

"Joff, Tomm, watch his back foot and his grip, he's about to go on the attack!"

Perhaps recovered from his earlier displays of acrobatic prowess, the bare chested warrior physically leapt forwards with a two handed strike. Almost sloppy, the move surprised Jaimie with its brute ferocity and caused the knight to fumble his block. This in turn created an opening for the prince to unleash a punishing series of blows.

Coming up from below chest height, he drove the point straight at his opponent's throat and, unwilling to gamble once again, Jaimie brought his buckler up. However, Oberyn's gamble paid off. With the line of sight broken between the knight and his enemy's weapon, the blonde was forced to back off as the Dornish prince snapped his weapon down and struck out a number of low blows.

These short, sharp attacks aimed at the kingsgaurd's forward thigh and foot and the prince did his best to drive the other man back.

With the momentum of the battle completely in his opponent's favor, Robert's bodyguard did what the king expected. Which is to say, something stupid. Jumping up, just like Oberyn had earlier, Jaimie landed on top of the spear shaft. Trapping the blade, he then lashed out with his buckler and punched Oberyn in the face.

Both men seemed a little shocked and, after a second's pause, the prince reached over, grabbed the kingsguard's wrist, and lifted the other man's hand high.

The crowd exploded into a wall of sound, cheering their hearts out, stomping, and hollering! Robert and his boys along with them, too. Even little Arya seemed to be cheering. Though it was a tad amusing how little Elia was pouting even as she clapped. The king took the chance to pat her shoulder and give her a wink, between those two there would definitely be a rematch.

All as a long line of red dripped from the prince's split lip.

"And that's how you win a bet, boys."

Elia Sand's booing echoed with a lot more coming from a select few northmen. Her sister merely clapped politely.

"Guess I win this time, Ned."

The Lord of Winterfell sighed.

"Fourteen for you, fifteen for me. I believe the count was."

"Oh no, I ain't counting that time we visited Old Town. That fight was rigged and you know it!"

His too-clever friend gave him a grin.

"It wasn't a fight at all, Your Grace. It was a play, you were just too deep in your cups to realize they were wooden swords. You even went and gave the poor lad some pointers after the whole thing was done. He was terrified."

And that was another strike against handing the Smug Wolf a seat of power.

"Maybe you should go console your champion then. I'm sure he could use some pointers in handling his spear."

Septa Mordane and Nymeria Sand fortunately had their hands covering the ears of the two confused young ladies, one looking mortified while the other looked rather amused at seeing the King bicker with his oldest friend as if they were two squires seeing a Tourney for the first time.

Robert certainly felt like it.

"How about another one? Triple or nothing?"

"Careful, Your Grace. I'd hate having to ask the Queen to settle your debts."

"Oh we'll see who'll be asking for coppers after this is done. By the end of it you'll have to work it off cleaning the shitters of my shitty city. Who knows, maybe you'll find some Valyrian Steel the witch girl missed."

Venyr4434 · Aug 5, 2022

Wow. Long ass chap, gonna need to reread this whole fic again.

Thanks for the update! Hope you're all doing well!

PurgeTheXeno · Aug 5, 2022

It's aliiiiiiiive!!!

Psyraptor · Aug 5, 2022

Welcome back, great chapter, though im curious what event Ophelia proposed? Unless it was previously mentioned earlier in the story?

John Grandt Markvard Høeg · Aug 5, 2022

Welcome back. One of my more favorite stories out there.

Jubjub3000 · Aug 5, 2022

Thank you very much for this chapter!

Luftritter · Aug 5, 2022

And it's alive!
Thank you for the chapter deliciously long.
And poor Taylor she can't get a break no matter what universe she is in. No wonder she tried to drink herself stupid.

JohnSmithMIB · Aug 6, 2022

awesome! binged this earlier in the week and has some of the most unique potential of the ASOIAF/GOT FF out there, will always be glad to see more of this story.

Zachers Zachary · Aug 6, 2022

Yeees it's back and I can finally upload my fanart, hope y'all like it! Anyways gonna go read the chapter now, since I uploaded the image first

mayorGoliat · Aug 6, 2022

Huh, Big Bobby B is acting... not like a drunken lout?

Also our dear Tay is a bit melancholy.

Edit: Also Tay talking about her old friends and world, imagine a pantheon based on the Undersiders, she firmly has her first believer, he's terrified but also compassionate.

SinSinNombre · Aug 6, 2022

Glad to see this posting again! Also glad to see Oberyn didn't do something stupid in that duel. I had a bad feeling going into that one : x

DJMEGAMOUTH · Aug 6, 2022

God I can't remember anything about this but I loved it. What we're they doing before this?

Yupthisisforporn · Aug 6, 2022

This is a totally unrelated statement, but I just watched a piss take of season 8 and it occurred to me that canon taylor would have basically zero issue with hereditary monarchy.

i mean, as Ophelia herself her father and uncle - are - the system. But feudalism itself creates an inborn system of powerful individuals she can point to and judge for their successes or failures. The blame guy is literally bred into existence. Even something like the citadel can deflect through multiple layers of administration.

but a bad king is a bad king is a bad king.

she could literally kill or replace any lords she objects to if she thinks it's needed

Thank god her dad is a literal prince. I shudder to think what would have happened if she hadn't essentially grown up with almost the best possible pro Feudalism propaganda out there.

ATP · Aug 6, 2022

Good to see it again.
Sarella finding ancient horror - made it true,she need good husband.
And dire wolves as therapists - excellent idea.

Scrimshaw_NSFW · Aug 6, 2022

Yupthisisforporn said:
This is a totally unrelated statement, but I just watched a piss take of season 8 and it occurred to me that canon taylor would have basically zero issue with hereditary monarchy.

i mean, as Ophelia herself her father and uncle - are - the system. But feudalism itself creates an inborn system of powerful individuals she can point to and judge for their successes or failures. The blame guy is literally bred into existence. Even something like the citadel can deflect through multiple layers of administration.

but a bad king is a bad king is a bad king.

She can basically act as a sword of damocles at that point.

Heavy is the crown and whatnot. But like, that would be if she wasn't given a reason to chill out and not try to interfere with the world. She was effectively a NEET for the best part of her new life. Living with her new family and sometimes putting out a new product she managed to crack.

If she wanted to take part and try to take over Westeros, she could just become the power behind the throne and judge the actions of the King and those who follow them from afar.

Though she'd probably not be all knowing.

Prognostic Hannya · Aug 6, 2022

mayorGoliat said:
Huh, Big Bobby B is acting... not like a drunken lout?

It's nice to see Robert actually loving and bonding with Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella.

EchoDragon · Aug 7, 2022

Scrimshaw_NSFW said:
Though she'd probably not be all knowing.

She is good enough champion she can probably throw her weight with the old gods or the gods of valyria and they would be like, sure, here some blessings.

With the old gods she can use her command over insect and other animals to spread weirwood forest over all the continent in a few years (giving her warging continental scale), the gods of valyria are probably more into the making her individually powerful rather than increasing her reach (stronger magic, access to dragons, their steel and magical fortesses), those guys are probably the strongest sponsors there are, but I expect their price in sacrifices will be worse than Rhllor.

One Who is Many - [Worm / Game of Thrones]

Experienced.

I trust you know where the happy button is?

Versed in the lewd.

Experienced.

I trust you know where the happy button is?

Not too sore, are you?

Writer of Words

Know what you're doing yet?

I work too much

Medusa is Love

Well worn.

Making the rounds.

Medusa is Love

Making the rounds.

Well worn.

Medusa is Love

Know what you're doing yet?

Making the rounds.

Versed in the lewd.

Not too sore, are you?

I trust you know where the happy button is?

Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?

Nothing to Say

Please take your time

Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?

Making the rounds.

Experienced.

Making the rounds.

Knight of the Yuri Crusade

Experienced.

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