4,227This may be my longest chapter to date? At least that I can recall. A lot of conversations needed to happen, and I had a bit of fun with it. I hope you enjoy it!
Chapter Sixty-Five
The Encounters
Sansa
Her first feast in the capital had filled her with a joy she had not quite touched since. Feasts at home had been one thing - smelly, drunken affairs lacking even the most basic of charms - but King's Landing had been a myriad of color and sound, music that echoed in her bones and food so numerous, she could never hope to taste it all. Little had she known that of the two, the revelry of her father's bannermen had been the innocent.
Sansa wondered what she might have seen then, knowing what she did now. Would she see their smiles for the cruel facades they were? Would their words ring hollow and their true meaning be known to her? Or was she still a naïve little girl, grasping to understand the destruction left in their wake?
The gathering at the Eyrie was not the complicated song and dance of the capital - the lines in the sand were obvious to all in attendance - but it was no less dangerous. The question of the matter was who was in danger. Littlefinger was the clear answer, but Sansa knew that would change before the night was through. She only hoped she could play her pieces before the board was overturned entirely.
At first, she had quietly watched the goings-on. There had been a fine feast in the High Hall with twenty-one courses, the last of the Eyrie's summer supplies. The onset of fall and cold winds that warned of winter would bring House Arryn down to the Gates of the Moon sooner rather than later. No doubt it was Littlefinger's deadline to keep the malcontent armies at bay.
He made a flowery speech midway through the courses, when the wine had begun to ebb away at the harsher personalities. The words were lost to her as they had not mattered as much as the faces of those who listened.
Had she not already known Nestor Royce was in Littlefinger's pocket, his rapt attention to the speech would have spelled it out for her. But his cousin, Yohn, looked unmoved. She recalled seeing him and his sons at the Tourney of the Hand, a lifetime ago when the world had been an unrecognizable place. Her father had thought highly of him. He would never be Littlefinger's, thus his reliance on the cousin.
Lady Anya Waynwood was unmoved, still as stone with her mouth pressed into a firm line. She was not so easy to read, but her ward was the heir to the Eyrie after Robert. She perhaps had her own plans.
Lord Gerold Grafton, Lord Benedar Belmore, knights and captains and lady wives, she watched them all, saw every turn of the head, every frown, every time they looked somewhere other than the high table, where she sat to Littlefinger's left and had command of the room. She could confidently guess at what side they would land on, and it was in reluctant favor of the man they all clearly hated.
Following dinner, it was Harrold Hardyng that had her attention.
As heir to House Arryn should her son die, Lysa harbored a conspicuous loathing toward him. Every word was ice, every look a glare. Robert had gone out of his way to scream at him earlier and threaten him with the Moon Door, and Sansa had actually witnessed Littlefinger pale. He was, after all, the one that truly held his fate in his hands. Should he claim the weirwood throne within the next year or two, as many suspected, Harrold would undoubtedly take no issue in tossing the Lord of Harrenhal out of his keep, along with his boisterous wife.
He was young, of age with Robb she guessed, with fine blonde hair and eyes like the sky. Though still a squire, he carried the air of those knights she had seen at her father's tourney, with their clean, untested armor, billowing capes, and feathers abound. Pride had been their downfall in the lists, and it would be his when the time came. It meant he would be a pain to speak with, as most men who knew they were handsome tended to be.
She'd watched him quietly as Nestor Royce spoke with her, both showering her father with compliments and burying Littlefinger with insults. She danced around his words as best she could with a calming word here and a small admittance there. It was enough to keep him sated, and his sword sheathed. Lysa had wanted to insist their weapons not be brought up, but Littlefinger had talked her out of it. With all the deaths at celebratory gatherings as of late, no man would dare attend one without a weapon. Somehow, they were less dangerous while armed.
In the midst of the frivolities, Sansa was struck by a curious anger and quickly excused herself before the emotion took hold. Not many ventured outside when the sun had set and its warmth was no longer able to chase away the cold of the mountain air. Now the Eyrie was a bitter place with winds that howled and a sense of forlorning that could not be placed.
Sansa turned about and listened to the revelry inside, caught the passing glimpses of the posturing lords and ladies, and wondered what might have been had the Vale not hidden away. They spoke of war and risk, but were content to hide in the mountains while her family was slaughtered. Nestor Royce spoke of honor, but was silent as her father had his head taken. Her aunt refused to lift a finger to help her siblings, and scarcely acknowledged that her sister was dead. What sort of peace did they deserve in the wake of their cowardice?
She sighed, watching as Littlefinger gave her a subtle nod through the threshold.
"Can't we just kill him?" Ayra had asked, stubbornly ignoring the dress that had been laid beside her. Sansa had done her best to find something her sister could tolerate, not that it had done her any good.
"We've been over this, Arya," she'd replied, brushing through her sister's matted hair. She hadn't been on the run in months and still succeeded in looking feral.
"He's more dangerous alive than dead. It doesn't make sense."
"If Petyr Baelish ends up murdered in the Vale, the capital will focus its attention here. Aunt Lysa was neutral through the war and hasn't acknowledged King Tommen, or Joffrey before him. They'll forcefully bring the Vale into the fold, and that puts us in danger. Whether we like it or not, he's the only reason we're free right now."
"Speak for yourself. Aunt Lysa was already protecting me."
"She was ready to throw you out the Moon Door."
"I was ready to jump."
Sansa smiled, finding her sister's contempt charming. She wondered how the Hound had tolerated it. The man she had come to know would have gagged her and thrown her over his shoulder, direwolf be damned. Maybe Arya had found a chink in that armor of his.
"How far does this go?" Arya asked suddenly.
"What do you mean?"
Her sister turned to her, and Sansa was confronted not with the face of the young, stubborn girl who'd grown up in the safety of Winterfell, but the older, wary, and tired young woman who had seen the worst war had to offer and survived.
"I get why we need him right now, but people like Littlefinger never stop. They get what they want and then they want something else. They take and they take and they don't care what happens to those in their way. He's going to get more people killed, people like Father and Mother and Robb, and we can't pretend that we weren't able to stop him. So how many more people have to die for us?"
Sansa hadn't had an answer. She still did not, only a growing sense of urgency that pressed against her chest, refusing to allow her a breath.
"Have I passed your test?"
The voice came so suddenly, Sansa jumped. She turned to find her questioner leaning against a tree, taking a sip from his goblet. Harrold had a lazy sort of smile, the kind meant to make one feel at ease and to trick young maidens, though it had the opposite effect on her just then.
"What test?" she asked dumbly.
He chuckled. "Have you not been taking my measure all evening? The quiet glances, the subtle looks, the occasional obvious stare. Had I not known better, I'd say you were another tongue-tied little lady too frightened to speak with me."
"But you do know better."
Harrold bounced off the tree, strutting toward her. She was certainly correct about his pride. "Of course. What can a lowly squire offer the Lady Sansa Stark, after all? I imagine very little."
"Does the lowly squire forget he is heir to the Vale?"
"Mm, yes, there is that."
He moved to lean against the marble balustrade, blue eyes gazing into the depths of the night. The wind whipped about his hair, and he looked to her then a figure from the songs. She was reminded of her younger self, who would have become one of those ladies he spoke of, too charmed by his presence to have any good sense.
"As for your measure," Sansa started, turning back to the party within, "I am yet undecided."
"Then what must I do to turn the odds in my favor?" he asked with a sly grin, his dimples deepening in the darkness. She could not help but afford him a smile at that. The unseriousness of his flirtation put her at ease. It reminded her of Oberyn in a way.
"Honest conversation."
"A simple enough task," he replied, turning about so that the balance of his weight was on his arm.
"Were it so simple, I doubt either of us would be here now."
She wondered if he knew how to lie. Did Anya Waynwood teach him of courtly intrigue, or had life granted him all he wanted from a smile and a flick of a sword? Perhaps he was as poorly off as their cousin. As she had been.
"In a word, Petyr Baelish wants you on his side, and he would like for me to secure it."
She'd laughed when he proposed the idea, if only to cover up the fear she felt inside. After all, he had told her honestly that she was to be of use to him, and what other way could a woman possibly serve but to be some other lord's wife?
"You needn't go through with the marriage," he'd spoken in that whisper-like tone of his, keeping close, with his hand hovering over the small of her back. "Betrothals can last years, and often break due to…unfortunate circumstances. But you and I need security first."
Yes, he wouldn't much like it if her marriage did go through.
Sansa looked Harrold up and down for a moment. "As it turns out, a squire can offer Lady Stark quite a bit."
Harrold snorted, standing fully. "Seems I needn't have put in so much effort then."
"Oh don't lose your charming personality now. I was just starting to enjoy it," Sansa countered, a wicked grin of her own appearing. He smiled back, but there was a wariness in his eyes. "The reality is this: I refuse to marry anyone because someone else thought it was a good idea. I did not escape King's Landing to be shoved into the arms of another pompous heir."
His eyes widened comically. "Oh please, do tell me what you truly think. I did promise an honest conversation after all."
Admittedly, she was a little impressed. He was not immediately brought to rage. Offended and defiant, yes, but not to the point of lashing out as some of his like were so inclined to. Perhaps she had underestimated him, and now she was curious how far she could push him.
"You're a squire stuck on the fringes of war, a spectator. While those of age with you became kings, you fetched swords and cleaned unused armor. There were no councils for you to attend, no opinions asked of you, because you are the unwanted heir, and better to hide you from Lysa than risk her wroth. So, instead you play at your games and tumble with your maidens, father a bastard or two because that is all that is expected of you, and it's all you've become good for."
There was nothing but the howl of the mountain wind and the quiet murmur of the conversations inside. Harrold had paled, a deep frown setting in upon his features that aged him. He had the dour countenance of a Northman, and thus she knew she had the right of it.
Harrold downed the last of his wine, tossing the goblet down the courtyard. It skittered across the near frozen surface with a soft clatter, before rolling between balusters and drifting off into the darkness. He faced away from the party, and from her, his jaw and fists tightening. Most might find the silence uncomfortable and dangerous, but Sansa took a strange sort of comfort in his restraint.
"Have you finished then," he spat, staring out into the dark of the night. "Or have you more japes to test upon me? If that be the case, I may ask Lady Arryn for a dance. I might find her repugnant presence to be a relief."
Sansa smiled softly. No, it was not Oberyn she saw, but a memory a lifetime away, another ward, another heir. It was Theon speaking to her, clad in armor so brittle it shattered upon a breeze.
"No more japes," she said, placing her hands on the bannister. The cold of the stone put her at ease. "I would like your help."
Harrold sputtered. "First you reject me, then you insult me, and now you have the good sense to ask something me?"
"Yes, because we can be honest with one another," Sansa replied, looking down at him. He looked like a miserable, sullen boy at that moment. She could handle that. "Littlefinger is dangerous. You know it. I know it. Everyone within this castle knows it. That's why you came, to try to turn my aunt against him, or murder him if that didn't work, I suppose. Either way, he represents the crown, and if he dies, its might will descend upon the Vale. And I don't believe Tywin Lannister incapable of toppling a mountain."
Their crops would burn and their ships would sink. Their roads would be blocked and their people put to the sword. Perhaps even the hill tribes would be convinced to put away their barbaric ways in favor of attacking their long standing rival. And there in the Vale, where the mountains had kept them safe for years, they would come to find the isolation would be their doom.
"So what would you have me do?" he asked derisively. She may have had his attention, but he wasn't listening yet.
"Convince the others that you need him. The ones smiling to his face now, but are plotting behind his back. Tell them to stand down."
"You just harangued me on my uselessness. Perhaps you ought to find someone better suited to serve your whims."
"Perhaps you ought to prove me wrong."
"Why should I?"
"Because you want to," she answered simply, watching in amusement as he fought with himself. "Ask the Lady Waynwood for permission, if you like. I'm patient."
Harrold huffed, pointing a finger in her face before stalking away. "Women are such insufferable creatures."
"That we are," she jokingly agreed, watching him pace and pout.
"What do you offer in exchange for my cooperation, since marriage is clearly off the table."
She shrugged. "I free you of your enemy when the time is right."
"So I would give you the Vale for one man?"
"I would give you peace for one man," Sansa countered, walking up to him. They stood face to face, so close she could have kissed him if she felt the inclination. Perhaps she would have if she thought it would help. "You needn't agree now. I'll let your actions speak for you. Or your inaction."
Harrold huffed, eyes dancing as he still thought it over, but she could see that she was winning him over. A man's pride was such an easy thing to play with.
"No! No! No!"
Their standoff was interrupted by little Robert as he ran out into the cold and began throwing his tiny fists into Harrold. He looked as if he was putting all his strength into the hits, but they made the barest patting noise against his clothes, leaving the heir more shocked and annoyed than anything else.
"She's mine!" Robert huffed between hits. "You can't have her! I'll make you fly for this! You'll fly!"
Sansa dropped to her knees, grabbing Robert and easily pulling him into her lap. She was aware of the silence within the castle, all eyes trained on the chaos unfolding outside.
"My lord, what is wrong?" she asked sweetly, even as his little fists swung in her direction, pulling at her hair. "What has Harrold done?"
"He took you!" the boy shouted, shaking in his finery. He wasn't dressed for the cold and could not remain outside long. "And he's going to take my throne! Mother said so!"
"Harrold isn't going to take your throne. That would be treason, isn't that right?" She looked up at the heir, who hadn't bothered hiding the disgust on his face. "Isn't that right, Lord Hardyng?"
"Of course," he nodded quickly, lying about as well as Arya ever had. "I would never dare do such a thing."
"As for myself," Sansa continued, "I don't belong to anyone."
Robert shook his head. "You belong to me!"
"People shouldn't belong to other people."
"Well…I want you with me."
She smiled as the boy began to calm down. "I am right here, aren't I?"
He sniffed. "Yes."
"Then there you have it. There is nothing to fret over." She stood up and helped Robert to his feet, dusting him off. "Come inside. Your lords and ladies are waiting for you."
Sansa did not care about the eyes that watched them as they returned to the High Hall. Their opinions on this mattered little to her, but there was no escaping the furious gaze of her aunt. She'd have throttled her before the bulk of her son's bannermen had Littlefinger not had an arm around her, whispering words in her ear that would soothe her rage.
Before long, that particular problem would come to a head, but that was a battle for a different day. She'd waged enough war tonight.
Myra
"You're not drawing a map over there, are you?"
Myra paused in her efforts, taking in the crumpled paper to her left and right, and the golden inkwell that looked suspiciously in need of a second refill. Her grand view of the Sunset Sea, from a window thrice as tall as a man and filled with actual glass, had grown dark as pitch, where once the sun had rested, neither low in the sky nor obscured from view. A candelabra had been placed beside her, its base made of golden lion claws. She hadn't noticed.
To say Casterly Rock was large was insulting to both the castle and the word. Most words in her vocabulary had felt inadequate in her observation of her new home. Behemoth? Gargantuan? Those had specific definitions in her mind that failed to cover the enormity that the Lannisters dared to call home.
The last two weeks had been a series of shuffling from one place to another, a corridor here, another there, twenty rooms of various uses to her left, another thirty on her right. She supposed only the uppermost portion of the mountain was truly her concern as the lower half housed a significant portion of the army as well as storage, prisons, stables, and even docks far below in a sea cave. Which was just as well. Myra preferred to keep off the lift as much as possible. Jaime was still regretting the laughter he'd let out as she'd clung to him during that journey, and she was not about to allow him to stop.
The servants she'd been introduced to had the cool demeanor she had come to expect from one who'd worked under Tywin Lannister. Efficient, diligent, and utterly bereft of any problematic emotions, which would be all in this case. The older members were likely not to be swayed from this mindset, but Myra was determined to get through to the others. If this was to be her home, she would make it a proper one. She would know all their names, their families, and there would be no punishment for a slight lack of decorum. She was altogether tired of glum surroundings.
"And if I was, could you blame me?" she asked, looking at her work. They were the rambling words of a desperate and unsure young woman. She crumpled up the latest masterpiece and threw it behind her, burying her face in her hands as leaned over the desk.
"No, I don't suppose I could," he replied. There was a smile in his voice. She supposed it was meant to be encouraging, but she simply felt mocked. "If that was truly what you were doing."
Jaime's hand grasped her shoulder, fingers kneading into muscle she hadn't realized was tense. With a sigh, Myra leaned back, tilting her head upward. Her husband smiled down at her, emerald eyes crinkled at the edges, warmer to look upon than any hearth. Returning to Casterly Rock had done him some good. Away from King's Landing and all its courtly intrigue, and away from the remnants of the war that had battered them, he could truly begin to heal. She only wished she had the same opportunity.
Myra could distract herself with her lady's duties and her husband's embrace, but the North, and the threats within, were never far from her mind. Brienne would leave within the week to travel north with a small host of men to bring the Brotherhood to justice…and her mother. Not that Jaime had shared that particular detail with Kevan or his father. Tywin was all too eager to agree to the hunt. He'd have sent the whole Lannister army to deal with it had the two begged him to abstain; he still might anyway.
There was also the matter of the prisoners. Some three hundred feet were between her and the cells that housed her brother's men. Her men. Jaime had them moved there on the promise that they would be safe, so he could take her away to Dorne, but that was all the more he could do. She knew he was in a difficult position, and had no wish to force his hand, but something had to be done. When either Margaery's plan or Tywin's would came into play - or neither as she assumed would be the case - she would need to make sure the men were willing to bend the knee, or at the very least not prepare to immediately go to war again. It was up to her and her alone to curb their anger, and the thought of it carved a pit into her stomach, deeper and deeper as the days passed by.
The temptation to ignore it all, to walk away and play out being Myra Lannister was overwhelming at times, but she was still a Stark, the blood of the First Men flowed through her veins, and she would perform her duty, even if that duty meant treason, her honor betrayal.
That was why she had tirelessly worked at her writing desk all day, and gotten precisely nowhere. She'd addressed every house in the North, Jon, and even Sansa, but could not find the proper words to convey her message. Everything she put to paper felt juvenile, a child's verse against instead of the word of Lady Stark, or the Queen in the North.
How could she hope to speak to the men when she could not even write to them?
"I don't know what I am doing anymore," Myra admitted, closing her eyes again. "I know what I wanted to do, and that is certainly not the outcome I achieved."
"Judging by the mess, it seems you've achieved frighteningly little."
She reached up to gently smack the hand holding her. "Some husband you are. You're supposed to lie and make me feel better."
"Name one time when lying actually did so, and I'll declare you a scholar."
Myra hummed, grabbing his hand. He had a point, as he so often had as of late. She wondered when he stopped being the brash and impatient one.
Jaime moved from her grasp, grabbing the arm of the chair and easily spinning her to face him, the legs scraping across the polished floor. He knelt before her, gently holding her knee while the golden hand rested in her lap. "Tell me. If it is the business with Brienne, we can always-"
"It's not," Myra spoke, cutting him off, though she changed her tone when he gave her a look. "It is and it isn't. It just reminded me that there are other Northern matters I need to see to."
His brow furrowed, eyes widening in realization. "The prisoners."
She nodded. "Mainly the Greatjon, I think. His voice is the loudest, in more ways than one, and I'll need it if I'm to have the others on my side."
"Your side for what?"
"One day, they will be released, whether it's because the war is truly behind us or the Boltons had Winterfell wrested from their grasp, but I need to ensure that will be the end of it. My people cannot afford more death. I need them to surrender to whatever happens."
Jaime would not understand the impossibility of the task. It took the threat of dragonfire to make Torrhen Stark kneel, and a wedding massacre to best her brother. There was a pride in her people that went deeper than words, passed from father to son, mother to daughter. They were a hard people. Their knees would not bend, they would break.
"Myra, surely that can wait. This could…it could take years."
"And every day that goes by is another reminder, Jaime. For both my sake and theirs, it needs to happen soon."
Jaime sighed, but did not disagree. He glanced at the crumpled paper. "Messages to those still in the North, then?"
"A foolish notion at best. They'll have no respect for the Queen Who Knelt. Stannis would no doubt attempt to bury me with the words should he get his hands on them."
"Then forget them," Jaime said, brushing the letters aside, clearing the desk. "Take this one day at a time. The king and his council cannot solve the kingdom's woes in one day. Neither will you."
She smiled softly at her husband, utterly grateful at his presence in her life, despite all the woe it had caused her. "Alright then. Until tomorrow, I am yours, Jaime."
There was no mistaking the sly grin on his face. The words had barely escaped her lips before he was on his feet, picking her up from the chair with ease. Perhaps his new sword hand would not hold up to the former, but her husband had certainly perfected handling her with one arm.
She found Brienne in the armory the next day, cleaning the sword that Jaime had gifted to her. The motions were slow, reverent, and briefly she was reminded of her father's personal ceremony beneath the weirwood. It was a small act of worship that she was ill at ease to disturb.
Podrick Payne, however, did not seem to hold the same sentiment as he announced her presence the moment he caught her lurking by the door. The normally timid squire produced a booming voice that nearly caused Brienne to drop her sword. She shot the boy with a glare that withered him on the spot before standing with a nod. "My lady."
"Good morning, Brienne. Podrick. Please, don't stop on account of me."
"It is no bother, my lady. I probably should have finished a long time ago. I just found it to be…"
"Calming?"
"Insightful."
Myra nodded once, stepping further into the room. There were a handful of slits in the rock that allowed daylight to stream in. She could hear gulls calling even from there. Despite being essentially a hole carved into rock, the room was well lit and smoke scarcely choked the space. She had found that true of most rooms she had explored. Those who had built the castle knew well what they were doing, though a younger Tyrion had been convinced magic was involved.
She did not find that so impossible a thing now.
"I hear you will be leaving on the morrow," Myra said, delaying the inevitable just a little while longer. "How many ride with you?"
"Twenty good men, all eager to avenge their liege lord," Brienne answered, sheathing her sword. Myra wondered if any in the castle questioned her appearance. She certainly appeared at ease, more so than in King's Landing at any rate. "Lord Tyrion has also given Podrick leave to join us. Pouring wine cups all day can only get him so far. His words, not mine."
"Will Bronn be going as well?"
"Ser Bronn is in Lannisport, my lady," Podrick chimed in, looking rapidly between the two of them. "He-he wished to find a manse."
"He's looking for an unattached lady with a manse," Brienne clarified. "Although I don't believe a lack of marriage is a necessary prerequisite."
"Well, surely it's not all strangers traveling with you two."
"Ser Daven was the first to volunteer my…my ser, lady…um…" Podrick fell silent as Brienne turned to him, eyes cutting like daggers. The squire quickly whisked off, knocking over weapon racks in the process.
"He means well, Brienne."
"Perhaps, but I wish he'd do well."
Myra smiled. "Ser Daven will make for marvelous company."
"I'm not deeming that worthy of an answer," Brienne grumbled, cheeks reddening in betrayal. "You're as bad as your husband."
"I will take that as a compliment."
"I wish you wouldn't."
A heavy moment passed and Myra knew her efforts at putting off her mission were at an end. Brienne looked her over, blue eyes worried.
"Why have you come, Myra?"
"I have need of your strength."
Deep in the bowls of Casterly Rock were large, echoing prisons that never saw the light of day. Endless rows of cells could be seen fading into the darkness, the cavern so expansive that even the light of fire faded away. Prisoners of all variety were kept within: rapers and robbers, court rivals and a member or two of the extinct House Reyne, or so the guards liked to gossip. In truth, much of the space was empty, an echoing chasm of old memories and little more.
Her men were kept in the upper levels, where the air was dusty and dry, and their meals plentiful, as Jaime assured her. They wanted for nothing, save for a bit of privacy and space. The Greatjon, however, did not reside with them. He was given a cell fit for a man of his status, with furniture and a view of the world beyond. She wondered if that wasn't the more cruel act.
He watched her with the wary air of one who had seen too much and lived through more than one man should. They'd stripped him of his finery, his armor of boiled leather and hard steel, the massive cloak that weighed more than a man. Though he was still a great, hulking thing, he was dwarfed somehow. It helped that he was sat on a chair, hunched over. If he stood, she'd likely have eaten her words.
She could feel Brienne at her back, the wall she'd brought to keep her from backing away. But more than her, she felt the eyes of the castle watching her. There was only a guard and the gaoler present, yet all of Casterly Rock looked down upon her at that moment. Every man, woman, and child within knew she was here, and what her purpose was. They watched her in silent judgment, waiting to see what their supposed lady was capable of. Jaime had offered to escort her a dozen different times, and then half more when she finally left that morning, but his offer of sanctuary was too tempting. If the Greatjon's words grew too harsh - as they were bound to or he was no Umber - Myra was not certain she could resist returning to Jaime and fleeing this place. And she would never win him then.
"Open the cell," Myra spoke eventually, keeping her gaze locked on his.
"My lady?" the gaoler asked, confused. "I cannot do that. He is a prisoner of the crown."
"I am not releasing him. I'm going inside."
Her words would hold no weight from beyond the confines of his cell. She would speak to him as an equal or not at all.
"Is that wise? What if he escapes?" the man squeaked. She wondered what the Greatjon had done to make his keepers so frightened of him. Their jailers at the Twins had laughed and spat in their faces. Here, they believed his reach to be beyond the iron bars they'd settled him behind. She might have laughed at that once.
"It is a large castle. Surely Lord Umber would become lost before finding a way out."
Myra made no mention of how many he would take down if he truly attempted to flee. It would not be a small number.
"I don't know if-"
"My lady has given you a command," Brienne interjected, though she doubted the woman agreed with the plan. She was grateful for the respect she had shown her not objecting. "She will not again."
She could hear the man gulping as he fetched the key, the soft clinking of metal the only sound in the large space. Myra had yet to move her gaze, as had the Greatjon. He did not look prepared to bolt from the cell, but she knew he could if he felt so inclined. Men his size moved faster than anyone expected. She'd seen proof enough with Gregor Clegane.
When the door finally swung open, Myra moved to the far side of the cell with Brienne just beside her. She was not fool enough to get within reach of the Greatjon, though she supposed everything in the cell was considered to be. He'd stiffened now at her presence, bracing.
"Leave us," she commanded, her voice echoing. The gaoler did not hesitate this time, retreating with the guard to other parts of the prison, their footsteps quickly disappearing.
For the first time, Jon Umber looked away from her, turning in one direction, then the other, before nodding once.
"That's quite the authority a Northerner has over these lions," he spoke softly, voice hoarse and dry. "I suppose that means the rumors are true."
"I've married Jaime Lannister, yes," she replied, wishing to leave no room for misinterpretation.
"Of your own free will?"
"Aye."
The Greatjon sniffed, looking away, his hands slowly flexing and cracking. She could see the missing fingers on his left hand, courtesy of Grey Wind. Her brother had shared that story with a laugh that still held a twinge of the fear he'd felt in that moment. Would she be as strong as he was?
"There was a time I'd have wrung your neck for that. No hesitation, no regret. Seems now I can't even muster the anger for it."
Myra slowly released a breath, taking in the Lord of Last Hearth in a new light. He was well cared for but utterly alone, his men levels below them. For months he'd been left with naught but his thoughts, much as Edmure had. That would come to break any man, even one so strong as he.
Did he remember that night, she wondered. He'd been uproariously drunk - a Frey plan no doubt - and utterly unable to fight when the end came. Was his memory an empty nothingness followed by overwhelming loss, or did he relieve every bleary moment when he closed his eyes?
"The last I saw you, you were in the cells beside me, cursing the Kingslayer for daring to breathe. Care to tell me how that changed?"
"Jaime wasn't responsible for the wedding. Lord Tywin was, that I will not deny, but his son was not involved. He came to the Twins to rescue me as soon as it happened, forsaking the Kingsguard."
"An oathbreaker to his dying day."
"He is no oathbreaker," Brienne spoke, stepping up. "Lord Tywin would only allow him to save Lady Myra if he removed the white cloak. It was the easiest decision anyone could have made."
"I'll not believe the word of one kingslayer defending another," the Greatjon growled, his lost anger quickly finding itself again. "What did the Old Lion give you for his son's release? Or Stannis for Renly's head?"
Myra reached out to Brienne, holding her back. "It was not Brienne who freed Jaime. I did."
The silence that followed was thick and deafening, so loud was its lack of words. She watched a red tinge bloom in the Greatjon's neck and begin to climb, his old, blustering personality returning.
"Karstark died for want of his capture," the Greatjon spoke, rising from his seat. Brienne moved her hand to the hilt of her sword, but Myra grabbed it, urging her to keep it sheathed. If steel was drawn, their conversation would be at an end.
"Lord Karstark died for his pride…and his despair," she added, for who could fault a man mourning his son? She'd met the boy once, during a feast. He'd drunkenly attempted to ask for a dance, and fled her sight when the words would not come to him. "I do not deny my actions, and I will not regret them. It is because he lives now that the North has a chance."
"And what chance is that? Kneel to a bastard king and serve a bastard lord?" The Greatjon spit on the ground. "Others take them all. I'd rather greet my death."
"For what purpose? Pride? Spite? What shall I tell your people when their lord does not return? Hold your heads high. You may be subject to the king, but your lord is free of him?"
"That he would not accept surrender to these traitors and-"
"The war is over!" Myra shouted, her emotions getting the better of her. "Your king is dead. You're in a cell. What's left of your men are in a cell. Only Stannis Baratheon fights on, and none will pay him any heed. The rest of the realm is at peace and winter is coming."
"You think it's that simple, do you? You married your southern lord, what do you care of your people now? Of honor, sacrifice, vengeance? You forget what his whelp did your father? To the rest of your family?"
"Was I not there, Lord Umber? Did I not hold my dying brother in my arms? Watch your son defend my life before the Freys took his head? Or do you not recall because you were too drunk to defend your king and kin?"
He paled in an instant, the fight leaving his eyes as he collapsed back into the chair. Only then did Brienne relax and take a step back.
Myra gingerly sat upon the small bed the Greatjon had been provided, his frame likely too large for it. She leaned forward on her knees and simply watched her brother's man. To see someone like the Greatjon so utterly broken was terrifying in its own way. He, like her father, had been a constant in her life, two unshakeable men who could weather any storm. War had broken them all.
"There is nothing simple about standing down, Lord Umber," she admitted softly. Even now, Myra could feel the marbled floor of the Red Keep upon her knees, as if she knelt before the Iron Throne still, awaiting Joffrey's decision. The realm's eyes were upon her, the taste of the vile words she had spoken soaking her tongue. A betrayal of the past to protect the future, as bleak as it may be. "Violence is easy. It makes corpses of us all, and what care do the dead have for the living? My brother is gone, his army is spent, but his people remain. I need to ensure they don't join him in whatever way I can."
She took a breath, looking over the cell. It had seemed larger before, but inside, she could feel the world growing smaller.
"One day, you will be released from here, a month from now, a year, I cannot say, but Lord Umber, I need you to swear fealty and keep the peace. For when I remove Ramsay Snow from my ancestral home, I will need you at my side. I just need time."
"You mean to commit treason then?"
"I aim to make it so we have the blessing of the crown to overthrow their puppet. We cannot survive another war, and I don't intend to start one."
The Greatjon took a deep breath, chewing on her words. He was a man of great, loud opinions, but now he was silent, thoughtful. He needed to be.
He sighed loudly, saying more than his words could. "Aye, I'll agree to the terms. I mislike it, but honor has cost us nothing, but lives. I'll not see the rest of my house burn for pride."
It felt as though she could finally breathe again. So long had the weight been pressed upon her chest that she had thought it normal, yet now she was light as the air, free of the greatest regret in her possession.
"Thank you, Lord Umber," she replied with a relieved smile.
"Don't thank me. If that whelp provokes us, I guarantee nothing," the Greatjon mumbled, backing down. He looked to the world beyond his cell, the dark halls and endless rows, the echo of sounds whose origin he could never hope to pinpoint. In that moment, he truly seemed his age. "Do me a favor. Put me back with my men. I've never been fond of silence."
Myra and Brienne departed the cells quietly, navigating their way back through the castle with the assistance of one of the guards. Soon barebones halls with naught but torches gave way to towering rooms covered in tapestries and paintings, and Myra knew they were free to speak again.
"What happens now, my lady?"
"We wait, and we hope. That is all that can be done."
Oberyn
He had come to Meereen with the intent of being found. As impatient as he was to finally witness his brother's plans come to fruition, Oberyn knew this was the way of it. He wanted to see the extent of the Dragon Queen's reach.
Admittedly, he did not expect the assassins.
Holed up in a pleasure house for the better part of a week, Oberyn had spent his time - and coin - making certain the locals knew his name. No blood was spilled, only good drink and patrons who were more wineskin than man. He played the part of the rich, spoiled prince well, though in the back of his mind he could hear Doran chiding that he had always been this way.
It was while he was in the midst of showing a bronze beauty named Lazza that there was more to lovemaking than simply fucking that the assailants chose to make their appearance.
With golden horned masks, armed with daggers and silent as death, they flooded into his private chambers, intending to put him to slaughter while he was distracted. But it had been many years since the ignorance of his youth, and he bore the scars of lessons hard learned. The moment the first ugly mask drifted through the threshold, he'd had his dagger in hand.
Lazza yelped as he rolled her across the pillows they'd been reclining on. His dagger flew across the room, finding the neck of the first would-be killer. The four remaining hesitated briefly before continuing forward, only now they shouted, as if that would increase their chances.
With both hands, he launched a small table at them, sending figs, olives, and wine spiraling through the air. Two caught the airborne furniture and crashed to the ground while he'd already moved on to the others.
Grabbing whatever was within reach - pillows, candles, his boot - Oberyn continued to throw objects to slow the masked men down until he got close enough to one of them. They were not trained killers, simply scared little men behind masks, stabbing and swinging in panic now that the element of surprise was gone. The closest man swung downward, intending to catch Oberyn in the chest. Instead, his arm was caught, twisted and broken, the blade slipping into his own rib cage with a satisfying crunch.
A fire ignited in his blood. His last fight had been with Gregor Clegane, a battle that nearly cost him his life, but dispatching such unworthy adversaries brought him a childish sort of pleasure. The power he possessed to dispose of such men who should have had the better of him was exhilarating, and he cried out with a joy that only such wanton death could bring.
He shoved the dead man forward, driving him into the one behind. They crashed into the wall, bringing down furniture and tapestries that clung to the stonework. Oberyn plucked the dagger from the dead man's chest as easily as he would from water, driving it into the neck of the other as he struggled for purchase.
Oberyn grabbed the dagger that the second man dropped, ducking and swinging outward with his off hand as one of the recovered attackers drove toward him. For a cut on the shoulder, he was given access to the man's soft underbelly, and he sliced it open with ease, spilling his entrails across the woven rugs.
Lazza screamed, the last of the masked attackers moving toward her instead. Naked and defenseless, she clung to the corner of the room and cried out mercies in bastard Valyrian.
His spear having toppled to the floor during the fight, Oberyn quickly kicked it up with his foot, grabbing the pole and launching into the back of the last man. He staggered forward and died choking in a pool of his own blood.
Heaving, Oberyn took in the grisly scene about him. He'd heard of the so-called Sons of the Harpy upon his arrival in Meereen. It was all many of the freedmen could talk about, but he had thought it simply talk. A city of this size had many incidents, and many claimants to the chaos. He had not expected something so organized, or so bold as to attack in broad daylight.
Ripping his spear from the body, Oberyn wiped the blood off on the man's clothes. It was the very same that had brought Clegane to his end, and doubtless more blood would cover it before his time in the city was through.
He looked to Lazza, whose sobs had quieted as she curled up on the pillows. "I suggest we find some clothes."
Oberyn had not been surprised to find other bodies in the brothel. No one in the upper rooms had been left alive, though the patrons on the main floor had been spared. They'd also fled at the outbreak of the fighting. What came as a shock to him was that there had been other Sons, and they had not reinforced their comrades in his room. They may have been united by a cause, but they were still prideful individuals, ready to abandon one another the instant things grew too heated.
Lazza clung to him as they awaited the arrival of the guard, which consisted of a mixture of Unsullied foot soldiers and men in animal masks. The latter bullied their way through the place, demanding answers of those who remained and taking them away into the street. When they attempted the same with him, Oberyn thought there would be more bloodshed, until an old, yet familiar face strode through the threshold.
"Leave him," Ser Barristan Selmy commanded. It had been an age since he had seen the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He'd traded his white cloak for whiter hair. "Prince Oberyn will make corpses of you all if he feels so inclined."
He grinned at the one in the jackal mask, hoping he would oblige his need for violence nonetheless, but the Meereenese man simply grumbled before complying. No doubt he would have spit were it not for the mask.
"Strange company you keep these days," Oberyn commented as the rabble moved away. He thought that the sight of the man might have moved him back to anger - after all, it was he who had valiantly defended Rhaegar Targaryen - but it seemed much of that fire had diminished following the Mountain's death. Barristan was an old man now, strong but tired, and he'd had many years to think on what horrors his vow had unleashed.
Besides, he'd always liked him. Hiding behind that stuffy honor of his was a sense of humor that would make maidens blush.
"And you yourself," Barristan replied, stepping closer. His fine kingsguard armor was gone, replaced by some boiled leather and lighter underclothes to keep the heat at bay. "I'd taken you for a wanderer, but to stray this far must be more than coincidence."
"That it is. I seek an audience with your queen."
Barristan looked around, an eyebrow raised. "Surely you did not expect Her Grace to be here?"
"I meant for her to find me here, but that can wait. Tell me about these Sons of the Harpy," Oberyn replied as they stepped out of the building. Lazza stuck by his side; Oberyn did not have the heart to send her back. No doubt she would be put to the question by the other masked group, and she did not deserve such humiliation. If Barristan took issue with her presence, he did not show it.
The old knight looked him over, taking measure, then sighed loudly and long. "We don't know much, only that they are Meereenese who take issue with the queen's liberation of the slaves. Until today, we'd never seen them, only their victims. Your survival is fortunate. We may yet identify more with the bodies you've provided."
Oberyn chuckled. "It is always a pleasure to be of service to the crown."
"Whose crown, I wonder," Barristan mused as they carried on through the streets, Unsullied guards to their left and right.
Meereen was a loud and hot city, with ramshackle vendors setting up in every open corner they could find, shouting in a dozen languages with a hundred dialects as they hocked rusted weapons from the ruins of Old Valyria, rugs and vases they claimed to be of the highest quality, and roasted octopus and dog that still sizzled over open flames. Children ran and screamed as they wound through endless looping alleyways while suspicious highborns glowered at them from atop pyramids, their hairstyles as obscene as the buildings they called home, colored and twisted in ways that made one more decoration than man.
What he noticed above all was how they were noticed. There wasn't a single gaze not focused on them when they passed through. Some were innocent in nature: curiosity, acceptance, confusion. But many more were of something else: anger, derision, betrayal. There were many in Meereen who did not care for their presence. They may not fight against the queen's rule, but they did not aid it either.
"Do you not trust me then?" he asked.
Barristan snorted. "I barely trusted you when I knew us to be on the same side. You were determined to be an embarrassment to the princess, but she would defend your actions regardless. Her love for you ran that deep.
Oberyn did not speak for a time, allowing himself to be guided to the great pyramid at the center of the city. More Unsullied lined the halls and patrolled the corridors, silent and straight as the spears they carried. He had the misfortune of fighting against a small company once. They were fearless and unrelenting, but they lacked creativity and spontaneity. In the open field, there were none who could best their numbers, but in the isolated maze of a city, they were no better than an ordinary sellsword. That was how he had defeated them before, and it was how the enemy would now.
"Tell me of these other masked men."
Barristan made another disapproving noise. "The Brazen Beasts, a project of one of the queen's advisors, Skahaz mo Kandaq. Local men meant to enforce the law."
"You do not care for them?"
"They lack discipline."
"This entire city lacks it. It would be better to blend in, except for their silly masks."
"They fear retribution from the Sons."
Oberyn snorted. There was much fear within the city. Fear of each other, fear of returning to the chain, fear of starvation and death. And on top of it all, the fear of the forces without who sought to return Slaver's Bay to the old ways. Within or without, one would need to be dealt with soon, or the city would be crushed beneath both.
The audience chamber was full of petitioners, two groups standing on opposite sides of the room, the new and the old power of Meereen. All knelt before a dais that rose twenty feet off the ground, with great stone steps that carried them to the base of power: a small, black bench that sat an equally small, young woman with silver-gold hair and a jeweled crown that bore three dragon heads.
Daenerys Targaryen did not look to him as he entered the chamber. Her gaze remained fixated upon the current petitioner: a woman with two children clinging to her skirts. They would peer around at the queen from behind their mother and giggle as she offered them a warm smile. She spoke calmly to her subjects in the lilting accent of proper High Valyrian, her words never mocking, her face honest and caring.
Something stirred in Oberyn then. Though his loyalty had been pledged to the exiled prince and princess for years, it had been little more than a means to his vengeance. Doran could fret over who would sit upon the Iron Throne, his interest lay solely in the blood of those who had wronged him. But in that moment, Oberyn knew that he would fight for her in earnest, and gladly call her his queen.
"Mhysa," Lazza whispered in awe. She looked upon Daenerys as one might a god, eyes wide and childlike as she stood in the grip of both fear and ecstasy.
When the woman had been dismissed, the queen's violet gaze turned to him, and Oberyn was struck with the image of Prince Rhaegar. She had her brother's solemn nature and his uncanny ability to pierce a man's soul.
"Reznak, Skahaz, have the others seen out. I would have words with the prince of Dorne."
She had barely raised her voice, yet the stone of the pyramid would have it echo, each word stronger than the last, reverberating within him.
How Elaria would laugh at him for being struck so easily.
Two men who had stood at the base of the dais, both bald Meereenese who clearly favored one faction over the other, began to shout quickly to the people, ushering them out as one might a herd of sheep. The uglier of the two barked orders at Lazza, reaching out to grab her away. He backed off quickly when Oberyn drew his dagger.
"She will remain," he said calmly, even as spears lowered on all sides as the Unsullied prepared to deal with his belligerence. He'd whittle the man's nose to a proper size before they could touch him.
"Leave her, Skahaz," Daenerys instructed from her seat. "She is clearly a guest of the prince."
"Your Radiance," the man called Skahaz replied. He bowed in her direction and stepped away, though not before leveling a glare on Oberyn. He'd made a fast enemy of that one. A splendid first impression.
The Unsullied stepped away once Oberyn relinquished his dagger, and all other weaponry, to Barristan Selmy, allowing to walk toward the dais. Daenerys watched his every step, sparing not an ounce of emotion from her neutral gaze. To her right, a young, dark-skinned woman stepped forward, her golden eyes filled with the judgment her queen had withheld.
"You will kneel for Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of Meereen and of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons."
Oberyn took to a knee, bowing his head while Lazza prostrated herself, forehead to stone, her tongue dancing over words so fast it came across to him as a buzz rather than language.
"This one's name is Lazza," the other woman translated. "She is honored to stand in the presence of your magnificence, and begs to serve. The Sons of the Harpy will not let her live long after surviving their attack. She will gladly sell herself to the service of the prince, as her life is in debt to him."
"That will be unnecessary. Irri, Jhiqui." Two young Dothraki women appeared at the queen's side. "Please take Lazza and have her cleaned and dressed. She will be in my service from now on."
"Yes, Khaleesi," the two said in unison, descending the steps to pick Lazza up from the ground. There were tears in the woman's eyes, and a smile of relief that lit up the room. Oberyn could not help but grin.
"Magnificence," called the other Meereenese man, who must have been Reznak. "Your kindness and mercy are beyond reproach, but if we are to take in every woman who weeps, the city will be drained of them."
"Then perhaps we ought to. The Sons of the Harpy will be hard pressed to find supporters when the men cannot have their simple pleasures," Daenerys replied in a slightly mocking tone. Oberyn laughed quietly, bringing her attention back to him. "You may rise, Prince…"
"Oberyn, Your Grace," he replied, rising tall and proud. "Younger brother of Prince Doran, Lord of Sunspear, and of Elia, once Princess of the Seven Kingdoms."
His sister's name brought recognition to Daenerys's face, but little else. It worried him. Quentyn was to have been at her side already, working on securing an alliance through their marriage, if not having already succeeded. To see that he was not amongst her council or that she did not make mention of him might have been a ploy, but likely it was because he had not arrived yet.
"You have my thanks for the rescue of Lazza. It pains me to see any of my children harmed by these Sons of the Harpy, but you have drawn steel within my halls, against my advisor no less. Why should your words have meaning to me when my rule clearly has so little to you?"
"I humbly beg your forgiveness, Your Grace," Oberyn said with a bow of his head. "Many would tell you that the Dornish are known for their hot-bloodedness, and I am perhaps their greatest example. Ever have I been this way. Ask Ser Barristan as he knows my exploits well, or Daario Naharis, whom I see has found his way into your service."
The sellsword had been lingering to the queen's left, glowering in his direction whenever afforded the opportunity. The years had changed much in him, from the styling of his hair to the extensiveness of his armor, but Daario still carried his famed womanly weapons, and his immense dislike of him.
Daenerys turned to Daario first, as he was closer. "You know the prince?"
"Oberyn rode with the Second Sons for a time, and when he grew bored, he took some of our best men and formed his own company. The Sun's Sons was it? Not exactly original."
"You are just upset that I did not take you with me," Oberyn replied with a wink. He'd preferred when the sellsword dyed his hair blue. It made him stand out from all the other rogue bastards who thought themselves charming.
"Hardly. I'm not a fan of doomed causes."
"Save your squabbles for when you're not in my presence," Daenerys warned, quieting them both. "Ser Barristan, tell me of Prince Oberyn."
The former commander ascended the steps to stand by his queen's side. "You'll never find a more aggravating individual. Some would consider him more trouble than he is worth, but his loyalty is unshakable and his fighting talents renowned. If word from the sailors is true, he defeated Ser Gregor Clegane in single combat. He who was responsible for the deaths of Princess Elia and her children with Rhaegar."
"Rhaenys and Aegon," Daenerys said quietly. She had not known them, but she carried the burden of their deaths nonetheless. "You avenged them."
"Hardly," Oberyn admitted, his fists curling. "The Mountain was no more than a tool for the man who truly wields power: Tywin Lannister. It is he that we both owe the course of our lives to, and whom my brother and I would strip that power from in your name, should you allow us to join your cause."
Daenerys considered him for a moment, watching with Rhaegar's haunting gaze. Elia had confessed once that when her husband grew forlorn, his eyes would alarm her. She could see things in them that she was not meant to see. He'd teased her for it, but now he saw the truth of her words.
"We do not receive much word from the Seven Kingdoms here, and when we do, it is often old and useless information. So surely, as you have come to offer your allegiance, that means your nephew is no longer betrothed to Myrcella Baratheon, daughter of the Usurper, or more accurately daughter of the Kingslayer, who slew my father who was his charge and allowed his father to kill my niece and nephew?"
The kindness she had displayed earlier was gone, snuffed out by the fire that now burned in her eyes. Daenerys Targaren still possessed the blood of the dragon, and he would receive the brunt of that fury should he not tread carefully.
"The betrothal has not been broken, Your Grace," Oberyn replied. This was not a time for dancing about the truth. It was honesty the queen demanded, and it was honesty that she would receive. "My brother, Doran, has been quietly plotting our revenge for years, as he cannot risk anyone knowing the truth. When war broke out in the kingdoms, it put Dorne at greater risk of discovery. By accepting Myrcella into the fold, we put our enemy at ease, and convinced them that we are not a threat."
Daenerys hummed. "It seems to me that Dorne's vows are freely given to whomever they please when it suits them. How am I to be convinced that yours to me are not equally flimsy?"
He would not beg for her to believe him, nor would he shower her with flowery words meant to appease her vanity. These were the words that prideful lords longed to hear, and were satisfied with because that was how the world was run. Daenerys Targaryen would be swayed by none of these things, and so he would offer the only thing that he had.
"Kill me then," Oberyn said, dropping to both of his knees. He watched her mask break, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "I came here for the love of my brother and my belief in his cause, which was an unshakeable belief in yours. I would die for that cause, and if it will not be death in your service, then it will be death now. I already failed Elia. I will not live in my failure to Doran."
Silence enveloped the pyramid as he watched and waited. He had never feared death. For years, he had flirted with its presence and had grown used to its cold touch, but failure was something he dreaded. It coiled in the pit of his stomach, lashing out in the dead of night in his darkest dreams. What use were all the skills the gods had granted him if he could not succeed? Why should he be renowned for anything if his family would die all the same?
Daenerys surprised him by standing. She stepped down from her bench, her silken garment trailing behind her, and did not stop until they were level with one another. And there they remained for an age.
"Clear the room," she commanded, her eyes still locked on his. "All of you."
"Your Radiance, we cannot possibly leave you with this Western dog," one of the Meereenese complained.
"Allow one of us to stay," complained another.
"Leave now or be removed from my service," she said, firmer. There were mumbled words of compliance and the sound of shuffling feet as the chamber emptied. "Stand, Prince Oberyn."
He did as she bade, watching with curiosity. That she trusted him enough to be left alone with him spoke volumes, yet there was something holding her back. She would reveal it soon enough, of that he had no doubt, but Daenerys Targaryen was biding her time. What did she fear, he wondered.
She walked away from him, and then back, again and again, pacing as she fought with herself. He said nothing to her. For once, this prince of Dorne would be patient.
"Ser Barristan often asks me to abandon my campaign here and sail home to Westeros," Daenerys admitted quietly, words so soft they would have been lost in a breeze. "He says that the people will flock to my banner, lords and noble knights who dream of my return. Tell me true: does he have the right of it?"
Oberyn took a deep breath, mulling over his words. "Your Grace, there are few who would embrace your return. You represent a new war in a realm that is still ravaged by it, more suffering for those who have already lost everything. If you wish to retake the Seven Kingdoms, it will be bloody and it will be long and it will destroy everything that hasn't already been taken from your people."
Daenerys nodded once, frowning and turning away. It was hard to mask the disappointment on her face. Was this the first time she'd heard the whole truth about her home?
When she turned back to him, her queenly demeanor had returned, the crown upon her head shimmering in the light.
"Kneel, Prince Oberyn, and I will accept your oath of fealty. Help me retake my kingdom as bloodlessly as possible, and I will give you your vengeance."
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Welcome to A Vow Without Honor, Daenerys Targaryen!
Also, a chapter like this is where I love using elements from both the show and the books. In the show, Daario is from the Second Sons (he is not in the books), so I get the opportunity to have him and Oberyn know each other, and I mean to have endless fun with their interactions.
Also, Harrold Hardyng is basically an OC of mine at this point. He has very little presence so far in ASOIAF, so don't take everything I do with him to heart. (Honestly, he didn't have a large role in the story until about a week ago - really shows you how cemented my plotlines are lol)
Thank you so much for continuing on this journey with me. Until next time!