Valerica II

"While different plants have excellent and often life-saving medicinal properties, it is important to ensure that the different treatments you are using do not have effects that clash with each other," Valerica lectured, pacing back and forth in front of the table she'd set up for her 'schooling' within Dragonstone's infirmary "Similarly when administering a treatment to a patient, one must watch to ensure they do not have a bad reaction to it. Similar to how some fruits, berries, or mushrooms can cause lethal symptoms if ingested."

"Um, Lady Valerica? I have a question." One of her new students, a slender, dark-haired slip of a girl named Julienne, spoke up hesitantly. She nearly froze when Valerica paused her pacing to acknowledge that she had spoken up. Still, Julienne swallowed hard and drew herself up in her seat. "Do we always have to keep watch after giving the treatment? I can understand for the first time you give it to a patient, as you can't know how their body will react. But what about repeated administrations?"

Valerica's other student, Katherin, let out a muffled squeak as if alarmed that Julienne would dare interrupt the lecture.

'I really do need to break the girl of that habit. I will not have meek students,' Valerica thought. "... Ideally, you —or an assistant of your own— should always observe a patient after administering each treatment. This is because the body can spontaneously develop a rejection for a substance it has previously been exposed to."

"Why?" Julienne asked.

"I'm afraid I do not know. Much of the human body and its functions are still a mystery," Valerica admitted. However, I grant this is a rare enough event. So I will say that if you have the manpower, you should have someone observe your patients post-treatment. If not, and the individual has previously responded well to the treatment, then it is fairly safe to leave them alone to rest—with the occasional check-in, that is."

Then, after a moment, Valerica added, "Excellent question, Julienne."

The girl's dark brown eyes went wide at the praise before Julienne ducked her head, scribbling something down in her notes as she tried to hide flushed cheeks and a broad grin. Katherin, for her part, also wrote in her notes, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrated. If anything, she wrote with even more fervor than her fellow student. Valerica hoped hearing Julienne receiving praise for asking a question would motivate Katherin to speak up more. Katherin would need to get comfortable expressing her thoughts and ideas if she wanted to be an effective healer.

That wasn't to say Julienne wasn't shy or too quiet for Valerica's liking; she was simply the more curious of the two. In fact, both girls were rather skittish; it took days for her to get them to look Valerica in the eye, and still tended to keep their voices low while speaking. At first, Valerica thought they were simply intimidated by her —Valerica knew and took pride in her ability to make others meek with her mere presence— yet after observing Katherin and Julienne with others, she was certain this was the norm for the pair. The vampiress still couldn't be sure if it was due to their place as servants or if that was just what was expected of women in this land. Either way, it was quite annoying.

She'd have to break the two of their foolishness. Starting now.

"I think it is time for a test," Valerica announced. She amended her statement at the alarmed looks on Julienne and Katherin's faces. "We will have a test at the end of the week. One I've found quite efficient for past students I've taught. For now, you will be doing a final round of study."

Going over to one of the shelves that had been set up for her, Valerica pulled out a thick, leather-bound tome, tucking it under her arm and a small chest. Opening the chest, she set twelve small jars containing a leaf clipping, flower, or other small specimen sample in front of the girls.

'Blue mountain flowers, blisterwart, chaurus eggs, fly amanita, ice wraith teeth, imp stool, pine thrush egg, swamp fungal pod, corkbulb root, slaughterfish eggs, blue dartwing, and spriggan sap,' she mentally named before clearing her throat.

"For now, you two will be identifying these alchemic ingredients using this—" Valerica slid the book across the table toward her students "—text. I also want you to list their uses, what potions it can be used for, what other ingredients it shouldn't be used with, and their side effects. Tomorrow, you will identify twelve more plants and other ingredients from my homeland and your own. And so on until the end of the week. You may work together. But only do so if you trust the other's work because these notes, along with the others you've taken, can be for your upcoming test."

Katherin swallowed hard. "And... that is?"

"I've demonstrated several times now how to brew a simple healing potion, yes?" Valerica asked, receiving a pair of mute nods in answer. "The time has come for you two to attempt to make one yourself. At the week's end, you will brew your healing potions. I will oversee the process but not interfere. When you are done, you will both present the potions to me. After that, I will cut the back of both of your hands. Not deep, the purpose isn't to cause you serious injury, after all."

Now, it was Julienne's turn to speak. "What is the purpose?"

Valerica smiled, purposefully nasty-looking. "To see if the potion is effective, of course. Or rather, for you to see if the other's potion is effective. Julienne, Katherin will be drinking your potion. Katherin, Julienne will be drinking yours. I hope that will make you understand how careful you both must be."

The two girls paled, but Valerica wasn't done with them yet. "If one of you succeeds, I plan to plant some seeds from Skyrim plants in the Dragonstone gardens so that you can access these medicinal plants for your own use. If both of you succeed, I will also leave behind an alchemy table that can be used to brew powerful potions. But, if you fail..."

She let her words linger in the air for a moment. It was more effective that way.

"...then you will no longer be my students."

Julienne and Katherin both gasped, eyes going wide at the idea. They stumbled over their words, each trying to argue or plead against this horrid-sounding test.

Valerica refused to allow such a thing. "I give you one final piece of advice: I am excellent at what I do, and, despite my own... issues, I am a highly effective teacher. Trust what I have taught you, trust in the notes you have taken, and trust in what you have learned. Caution keeps you smart, but fear and timidness will not serve you well here."

Settling at the desk Valerica claimed as her own, she pulled out her journal and gave the two a knowing look. "Better study hard, girls."

Then, she started to write; content to let Julienne and Katherin earn strength through knowledge.

The identification exercise was completed two hours later, and Valerica returned to lecturing.

"The best way to gauge if someone has a fever and how high that fever is is by using your own lips. The skin of the lips is very sensitive; the same thing that allows us to realize our soup is too hot before we drink it and burn the inside of our throats allows us to sense fevers in our patients. However, you need longer than a quick kiss to measure how feverish they have become. Nor does it even need to be a kiss, truly. Simply place your lips on their forehead, count to twenty in your mind, and then you can pull back," Valerica explained.

After breaking for the midday meal, Valerica decided Julienne and Katherin had worked on their herbal identifications long enough. Not wanting them to get complacent, she decided it was time for some more lectures.

'I do not know how long I will have with them, so I must make sure these girls know all they can,' the vampiress thought as she watched her two students hang onto her every word, scribbling dutifully in their notebooks.

"If, for whatever reason, you cannot use your lips, perhaps for fear of contamination while they are ill, then the hand is acceptable. However, you should only use the back of your hand. While the front—"

Creek!

The sound of the infirmary door opening interrupted Valerica's words, bringing her lecture to an abrupt end as she turned to glare at the intruder. To her side, Katherin and Julienne also looked around, though with far less animosity. When they mastered a solid glare, Valerica would be proud.

It was the old human man in the gray robe. Cressen. Valerica's new nemesis.

'Even if he must come into my domain, why must he do it while I'm giving instruction,' she thought with rising annoyance. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Cressen limped his way over to the bed where Renly Baratheon lay. 'Ah yes... Well, I suppose if he is just here to check on the young man, then I'll allow it.'

Valerica cleared her throat to continue her lecture. "While the front of the hand is more sensitive to temperature and texture, it also generates a large amount of body heat on its own, which can interfere with your attempt to gauge fevers in your patients. Personally, I find that... Julienne, do you have more pressing matters that require your attention?"

The dark-haired girl's head snapped back towards Valerica, looking very much like a child who'd been caught stealing sweets from the kitchens at night. She shifted in her seat before speaking up nervously, "Maester Cressen is here, Lady Valerica."

"Is Maester Cressen your instructor, Julienne?" Valerica asked, voice sharper than it strictly needed to be. At his place by Renly's side, Cressen perked up at the mention of his name.

"N-no, milady, but—"

"Is that little Julienne?" Cressen called out, a smile pulling on the wrinkles of his old face. "Katherin, too! Both of you are hard at work, I see."

Deepening her frown, Valerica said nothing as she watched Julienne bolt to her seat and scamper to the old man's side. With her notebook in hand, she eagerly thrust it out so Cressen could see her work.

"Lady Valerica?"

A quiet voice turned Valerica's head. "What is it, Katherin?"

The tall blonde bit her lip yet, impressively, didn't back down or avert her eyes. "Please don't be angry with Julienne. Maester Cressen is very important to her."

Valerica raised her eyebrow, giving the girl silent approval to continue.

"You must understand, Julienne wasn't born on Dragonstone like I was. Ser Davos found her at sea when she was little, the only survivor of an awful shipwreck. She was nearly dead from exposure when he brought her back here to Dragonstone, and it was Maester Cressen who saved her. After that, he and Ser Davos convinced the late Lord Stannis to give Julienne a place on the castle staff. And ever since then, Julienne has wanted to be a healer like the man who saved her. And... Maester Cressen is a good man. We've both learned much from him."

'That old story then: a child wanting to impress a father, or father-figure, by claiming his skills for their own.'

Valerica's father, Verro, had been a shrewd man. One prone to casual cruelty and willing to do anything to further his own position in life, including whoring out his own wife and selling the hands of his daughters to anyone useful, regardless of their character. Growing up, Valerica had admired him. She was always there, always watching, learning, and waiting for the opportunity to prove herself to him. Then Valerica's youngest sister, sweet little Celine, died at her own husband's hand, and rather than mourn, Verro immediately set to work finding a man to sell Celine's ten-year-old daughter to.

Ironically, Valerica was certain that she only won her father's respect the night he awoke to find her standing above his bed and slitting his throat. She did it in such a way to ensure that he would not die quickly. Celine hadn't, after all.

Celine had been dead for well over 1000 years at this point. Valerica hoped that time had been peaceful for her.

"...Good healers are not distracted by personal wants or emotions, Katherin," she said. When the blonde wilted, Valerica sighed and glanced toward the widow at the sun. Even through the drawn blinds, she could tell it was dipping down westward. "It's late enough that I suppose a brief break isn't unwarranted. Go, join Julienne. However, when I call you back over, you will both come without question or complaint. Understood?"

Katherin nodded eagerly and went to turn when Valerica added one final statement before settling into her chair. "You're a good friend, Katherin."

The girl's eyes lit up at the compliment. She went to say something, only for Valerica to wave her off. She had no tolerance for sappiness.

Returning to her own Rockjoint-related notes, Valerica could feel the eyes of the old man on her, even as he spoke with Julienne and Katherin. Perhaps that wasn't a surprise; she and Cressen had bumped heads ever since Valerica had decided that the infirmary —and, to a lesser extent, the gardens— would be her domain for the time being. He always watched her warily, as if he was certain Valerica would start poisoning everyone at any moment. Though he hadn't tried to deny Valerica's skill as a healer —certainly because there was far too much evidence in her favor— it was clear that Cressen found her unfamiliar methods suspicious. Whether that was due to Valerica being a woman or an outsider, she still did not know.

After she felt a generous amount had passed, Valerica closed her personal journal, stood, and cleared her throat. The conversation between her students and their former teacher died as all turned to face her.

"Julienne, Katherin, return to your seats. We still have one more topic I want to cover today, and you need to finish your identifications," she said.

Katherin moved immediately at Valerica's word, tugging along a slightly reluctant Julienne. The dark-haired girl snuck quick glances at Cressen over her shoulder as she was dragged along. Still, soon she too was settled on her stool, journal out and ready to write.

"Wilderness Bullseye Illness, or as I'm told it's called here, Tick Target Sickness. We—"

"A terrible thing," Cressen said. "Often treated far too late."

Valerica shot the old man with a cold look that made him squirm. Not only was Cressen not doing her the decency of leaving, but he had also claimed an armchair to listen in on her lesson.

"Indeed," she said, drawing the word out harshly before turning back to Julienne and Katherin. "The key to treating this illness is early identification. Thankfully, this can be done through the large, red target-shaped rash surrounding the bite area. On people with darker skin, check for a small area of paler discoloration and raised center bump in conjunction with symptoms like headaches, fatigue, fever, etc. Early detection of the illness is vital in properly treating it, which can be done..."

Valerica let her voice trail off, waiting for one of her students to pick it up. After a moment, Katherin scrambled for her notes.

"...Uhhhh, through a strongly brewed tea of olive leaves, ginger, turmeric, and cat's glove," the girl said. Then quickly added, "Drunken twice a day for two weeks, mornings and night."

It was a good answer, if somewhat incomplete.

"And?"

"And a poultice made from ground garlic cloves mixed with honey applied to the bite," Julienne finished with a grin.

The vampiress nodded, satisfied. "Using only components found in this kingdom? Yes, that is an acceptable treatment. Using alchemic means will allow for a faster, more effective treatment, but one should always remember the power of natural remedies."

"If I might intercede, it is also imperative to remove the tick if it is still attached, including the head, which can be easily missed if the tick is recklessly ripped out," Cressen said.

Valerica felt her eye twitch. "I was getting to that." She cleared her throat, continuing. "If you suspect or even consider the possibility that someone might have this illness, it is imperative that you check your patient's entire body for the identifying rash. This includes the hairline and scalp, between the fingers and toes, and the genital region."

Julienne let out a sound that reminded Valerica of a trodden-on mouse. Her face flushed bright red. She squeaked out, "The gen— genitals, milady? W—why?"

The vampiress raised an eyebrow. "Well, I've personally heard many men suffer from an unfortunate bite after finding a bush to... relieve themselves."

The girl turned darker, matched by Katherin's red face. The mouths of both of Valerica's students moved silently. They likely both wanted to say something but either couldn't form the proper words or couldn't think of them at all.

"Is there something you want to say, Julienne? What about you, Katherin?" she asked. Valerica was being cruel; she knew very well what their issue was. Except she needed them to say it, as that was the only way Julienne and Katherin could overcome this foolishness.

Cressen cleared his throat, clearly taking an annoying pity for the girls. "If I may—"

'You may not!'

"—Julienne and Katherin are merely uncomfortable with the idea of examining a man's... most personal area. I'm sure you understand that such a thing is inappropriate if the man is not her husband or very young son. Perhaps what you meant to say is to have the man himself examine such area or to have another man do it?"

The look Valerica gave him was even icier than before. "If I had meant that, I would have said that."

She turned back to Julienne and Katherin. "Get this into your heads now: your patients are not sexual beings; they are puzzles to be solved. A healer has no use for foolish things like societal modesty, not when their health is potentially on the line. You are responsible for everyone who comes before you. No exceptions."

Turning back to Cressen, her cold stare intensifying. "Unless you are suggesting one's own comfort is more important than the lives of patients?"

The man had nothing to say, his face carefully blank, allowing Valerica to return to her lecturing as the day continued. Cressen remained perched on his seat, though he stayed quiet, and Valerica was content to ignore him. It was only when she could audibly hear Katherin's stomach rumbling that she decided to call an end to the day's lessons. Her own thirst was beginning to nag at her throat as well.

"And that is where we will end things today," she said. "Make sure you go over your notes tonight and create a list of any questions you have. We will use those to open tomorrow's lessons. We will also be continuing with your identification assignment."

The sound of shutting books and scraping chairs filled the room. Julienne stood up first, stretching her body and smoothing down the skirt of her dress.

"You're so knowledgeable, Lady Valerica," she said cheerily. "If I may ask, how long have you been a healer?"

"I, too, would like to know that," Cressen added.

Had it only been the man who asked the question, Valerica would have ignored it. Julienne, however, was her student, and Valerica was always prone to be more indulgent of her students.

"I was a healer before I was anything else, I suppose," she said. "My earliest memory is as a young girl helping the family's personal healer cultivate alchemic ingredients in the gardens of my family's estate. Sometimes, my sisters would join us, which would always be wonderful days."

The family gardens were one of the few places of peace Valerica had as a girl. Her father had been a man who was highly conscious of his own health and, therefore, spent a significant amount of time and effort ensuring his personal healer and alchemist had access to the best ingredients possible. Aid in the gardens and alchemy tower made Valerica feel useful. More than that, it had been leverage that her teacher, Nevar Astrotos, had used to keep Verro from marrying Valerica off for as long as possible, claiming he couldn't possibly work without his assistant.

The lie only worked for three years, yet Valerica still appreciates the attempt to keep her safe all these centuries later.

Most importantly, the gardens were where Valerica developed her own curiosity about the world.

"As I grew older, my interests strayed from the healing arts to... other areas of herbalism and alchemy, as well as a scattering of other subjects," Valerica continued. "Nonetheless, I ensured I never lost my healing skills; they were too important."

"I suppose even strange lands need healers, too," Cressen mused.

Valerica pursed her lips, considering if she should explain. Another glance at the man was all it took for her to decide.

"It was more than that," she said. "When I was young, my teacher's wife told me a story about her own homeland. I don't remember its name, yet I will never forget that it was a land with a proud history of female healers. Midwives, moss women, magical healers... all kinds. It was believed that, as women are the ones who give life, they are the ones best equipped to care for it. It was like this for centuries, and all was well; in fact, the kingdom was renowned for the health of its people. Eventually, there came a king who grew jealous and suspicious of the healers after his sickly son tried to marry the woman who was caring for him. Within twenty-five years, the narrative that healers were bedding daedra, causing sickness they could profit by treating, and all number of foolishness had taken over the land. Within fifty, the plentiful female healers had dwindled to almost zero, and the knowledge they possessed was all but lost."

That had been the thing that stuck with Valerica's younger self the most. Not the death, nor the cruelty; no, Valerica was more than familiar with such things in her father's court. It was the loss of knowledge that affected her. Lives were one thing. More people could always be born. But lost knowledge could never be regained. The very thought was so tragic that, even now, it made her want to weep. As a child, it made Valerica swear to herself that she would spend her life learning as much as possible and then passing on that knowledge.

Thankfully, being a vampire, Valerica had a great deal of time to learn and teach.

And here she was now, an old, old woman trying to hammer knowledge into the heads of another round of stupid young girls in the hopes that they'd use it to survive where so many others had failed, falling into the traps of the world around them.

Julienne's eyes were wide. "That's—"

Valerica cut her off to level another sharp look at Cressen. "You, maester, tell me about what this land has to offer regarding healers."

The man looked surprised by the order. His mouth fluttered open and closed for a few moments, lips starting to form words a dozen or so times before finally settling on, "Well, there are maesters such as myself. We receive extension education at the Citadel, after which many of us are sent out to serve the lords of Westeros in all things, including their health and their families."

"Hmm." Valerica pressed her lips into a thin, tight line. "The maesters serve the noble houses, you say?"

"...Yes."

"So their services are restricted for the majority of the population?"

Cressen blinked, seemingly stumped by Valerica's line of questioning. "That is... not how I'd phrase it but I suppose that—"

"And I don't suppose that there are any female maesters?" Valerica pressed, enjoying the tension building in the air.

"N—no, Lady Valerica. The Citadel does not permit women," the man said. He didn't look happy about it, although Valerica suspected that was more because he knew Valerica would find the answer disagreeable. Then he added quickly, "But there are female healers in Westeros."

"Oh?" Valerica was doubtful.

Cressen nodded

"Yes. There are the traditionally trained midwives used by the smallfolk, obviously, and woods witches," the man explained. "Oh, yes, you are unfamiliar with that concept. Let's see... They are women who either travel around or serve small communities with all manner of herbal healing. Many also claim to use spells and charms that assist in such matters, though I am dubious of such claims."

Oh, now that was interesting! Valerica knew that magic was not an unfamiliar concept to the people of Westeros. Yet it was far more uncommon, on the verge of being relegated to myths and tales, and among those who did believe in it, it was treated with more fear and suspicion than in even Skyrim. Indeed, the only source of it she had confirmed herself were those dragons. The idea that there was an entire group of women who used it opening gave her hope that—

"There aren't many woods witches left in Westeros, of course. Likely less than a hundred, at least south of the Wall. From what I have read, they are still plentiful among the wildlings." Cressen nodded to himself. "I suppose that does make sense. Woods witches are part of the old ways of the world. Septons do most of the healing among the common people these days as part of their faith, although I'm unfamiliar with the specifics, with the assistance of their attending septas—" that part was added with a quick look at Valerica "—and the wildings have none of that."

.

.

.

"Oh." Valerica's interest dropped away. "The 'old ways,' you say? So dismissively, too, I might add. Tell me, Maester Cressen, how did you gain most of your knowledge?"

Once more, her question caught the man off-guard. "Well... Many years of experience has been the best teacher, of course, but before that, I trained at the Citadel."

"Where you learned from books, I'm sure." When Cressen gave a hesitant nod, Valerica continued. "Books written by people, knowledgeable people, from long ago. Do you consider the information within those books to be of the 'old ways' too?"

"It... can be." Despite it not being a question, it was phrased with confusion and nervousness that made it come across as one. After a moment, Cressen cleared his throat and, with more command in his voice, added, "Certain volumes contain information that we now know to be incorrect or incomplete."

Valerica gave a rueful smile. "Despite my appearances, I am not a young woman, Cressen. I've seen many times how something that is held up as fact one day can become a fallacy the next. Still, I hold a firm belief that the past and the beliefs of the past are more than worth studying. Do you and your... Citadel disagree?"

The man offered her no true answer. Whether that was due to being unable to defend his beliefs or having never asked himself this question was unclear, yet ultimately unimportant. After another period of uncomfortable yet preferable silences broken by unwanted comments, Cressen bid farewell and vanished through the infirmary doors with a swish of his long gray robes.

When the door audibly shut behind him, Katherin turned to Valerica with wide eyes.

"Lady Valerica, you were so—" The girl cut herself off, swallowed hard, and started again in a calmer voice. "Lady Valerica, you shouldn't disrespect the order of Maesters. They do much good in the world and are the keepers of knowledge. Even if they differ from what you're used to, they are worthy of respect."

Valerica fought the urge to scoff. 'Respect,' a word thrown around so much it had long since lost much meaning to her. However, rather than say that, she asked, "Do you want to be a healer, girl?"

Katherin fumbled over her words. "Y—Yes, of course. That is why I'm here, milady."

"And would this Citadel allow you to become a maester and heal others?"

"No..." the girl said at the same time Julienne piped up with, "As Maester Cressen just said, the Citadel doesn't accept women."

"Then there are things about that system to be questioned." Valerica gave Katherin and Julienne a sharp, knowing look. "Start questioning if you want to get anywhere in life. Saying silent and accepting everything told to you as 'simply the way things are' or some unchangeable certainty will keep you stuck where you are. Question anything and everything you think you know, even if it is told to you by something or someone that you respect; that is how you expand your mind. That is how you move forward in life"

The girls look at each other briefly before turning back to Valerica. Julienne raised her chin in a show of grit that the vampiress had yet to see from either. "Including you, Lady Valerica?"

The woman held back a grin. "At least I can be sure you're paying attention to my words, Julienne. Now, it should be time for supper. Pack up your things, wash up, and rest well tonight. Go over your notes, of course, but I expect your minds to be sharp tomorrow."

With a flutter of pleased goodbyes, a particularly glowing smile from Julienne, thanks, and promises not to stay up late, Valerica was soon left alone in the infirmary once more.

'Centuries pass by, and little girls are still little girls. Foolish, but capable of learning. So long as I can raise their confidence, that is.' Valerica let out a sigh as came to Renly's side to check him over herself. For all Cressen was said to be a skilled healer, Valerica would not trust the health of her patients to anyone else.

Staring down at the young man, Valerica's dead old heart felt a pang of sympathy. Renly's color was good, his breathing and his pulse were steady, the wound on his head was healing well, and when she pulled the man's eyelid to check, his pupils were responsive. All in all, he was as healthy as he could be, given the circumstances. Except...

'It has been three weeks since he was injured, and Renly has still not woken up,' Valerica thought. More than a dozen different strategies, magical and not, had been tried for rousing the man, and none had resulted in more than a twitch.

At this point, prospects for the young man were grim.

They were getting to the point that, even if Renly did awaken, there would undoubtedly be long-term consequences. From what Valerica had read about similar incidents, Renly could be looking at a future of vision issues, speech problems, poor memory, explosive anger, inability to control impulses, headaches, insomnia, and even impotence. Valerica wasn't sure how much that last one would impact the young man or his relationship, but she doubted he'd enjoy it. To say nothing of how he was one of the potential heirs to the crown of this realm.

'At this point, would it even be good for him to awaken?' the Vampiress wondered. 'Considering the potential lasting effect, survival might be crueler. This appears to be a martial society; in all likelihood, Renly would be judged harshly if he couldn't fight, especially with a brewing civil war.'

Turning Renly's head to the side, Valerica's fingers trailed down his neck, pausing to hover over his pulse point. Would that work? Whatever damage had been done to his brain, could being turned into a vampire save him?

Before the thoughts could even take their final shape in her mind, Valerica pulled her hand back and shook her head. No. That was not the answer here. Not only was there no guarantee that Renly's body was strong enough to survive the transformation, but Valerica had also promised herself —and Serana— that she would never turn someone without their express permission, permission that Renly could not give in his current state. Not when it would be such a permanent part of his life.

It had been a whim when she offered the bite to the Baratheon girl's mother. After all, the woman had little chance of surviving the transformation given her state, yet her injuries marked her for death either way. So what was the harm in offering? A chance, however small, was still a chance.

Sitting in one of the armchairs, Valerica rubbed her chin and considered her options. She was never one to give up on a challenge, and Renly was certainly proving to be just that. Between her, Cressen, and Recilia, they had tried a dozen different treatments to rouse the young man. None had resulted in anything more than a twitch of the facial muscles.

'All right, old girl, Think. What else do you know about browsing someone from this state of unconsciousness?'

No one knew much about what was going on in the mind and body when one was in such a state. While healers, mages, and scholars had all theorized, and some had even experimented, it remained a mystery. Still, if Valerica could remember correctly, several sources had written about stimulating the senses having positive results. It was one of the reasons that healers tended to recommend loved ones speak to comatose patients.

Hmmmm… Stimulate the senses… Now, there was a thought.

Had Valerica brought that crushed crimson nirnroot Jon harvested for her?

Creek!

"If you're going to come in, then come in. There's no need to hover at a doorway in your own castle."

The door opened wider as Shireen Baratheon stepped through it, a small, sheepish grin on her young face.

"I didn't want to bother you if you were treating Uncle Renly," Shireen lied. The fluttering sound of her heart gave away her nervousness. "How is he doing?"

"Not good," Valerica admitted, frowning down at her patient. "Nothing we've tried so far has brought him around, and each day that passes worsens the potential long-term effects of such an injury. It also decreases the chances of him ever waking up."

The small smile dropped from Shireen's face. "Oh… Is there anything I can do?:

The vampiress tapped her chin in thought. "I'm considering going somewhat experimental in my next attempted treatment. You see, sometimes, if you can provide some sort of extreme stimulation of the senses, it can bring someone in a deep state of unconsciousness back to the surface. I was considering brewing a concoction that would stimulate an extreme sensation of pain in your uncle. Nothing will be truly harmful about it, of course. But the idea is that his body will be in such agony it will make his mind react as if it were in danger."

"...Will it work?" Shireen asked, giving her uncle a somber glance.

Valerica shrugged. "As I said, it would be an experiment. I can't say one way or another if it will be successful; we'll just have to try it. If Renly wakes up, then good. If he dies, then at least he'll be at a final peace. That being said, at this point, we are running out of better options. Still, he is your family. I will not perform this procedure without your agreement."

The grim ache of inevitability filled the air, yet Valerica was content to wait for Shireen to decide. Perhaps it wasn't fair to put the weight on such a young girl's shoulders, but the world was rarely fair. Shireen would have to get used to it if she wanted to rule —and rule well.

Shireen let out a long, pained sigh; eyes still stuck on Renly's prone form. "You know, my uncle and I have never been close. I rarely left Dragonstone due to my father's worries and my mother's shame. The last time I did and met my uncle in King's Landing, I overheard him call me a gargoyle."

"Gargoyles are wonderful creatures. While I doubt the comment was made out of kindness, there are worse things to be compared to."

The girl's lips twitched, but she shook her head and continued. "Perhaps he and I were never meant to have a close bond, yet he's some of the only family I have left. So I need to do whatever I can to help him."

She looked up, meeting Valerica's eyes for the first time. "Do what you have to."

Now, it was Valerica's turn to smile—as much as she ever smiled, that is. "You're starting to show spine. Show more. There's hope for you yet."

Before Shireen could respond, Valerica stepped closer and took the girl's chin in her hand. turning her face to the side so she could more clearly see the rough expanse of strange scar tissue that stretched over Shireen's cheek, the vampires continued. "I find your condition quite fascinating. If you'd permit me, I'd like to study it as well."

Shireen flinched back, hand coming up to cover the affected area. "My face? Why do you want to study my greyscale scar?"

"Because study is how we understand something. and when it comes to illnesses, understanding is the first step to treating." Valerica returned to her books, picking one up and flipping through the pages until she found the appropriate section. Glancing back at the girl, she shrugged and continued. "I am also simply curious. Your condition shares similar traits to a common illness in my homeland called rock joint, which has become easy to treat so long as it is caught in its earliest days. If the similarities are more than surface deep, I might be able to use the treatment for rock joint to heal you and any others with a similar issue."

"Could… you heal me?" Shireen stuttered. "Could you heal my scar?"

"Hmmm, anything is possible," Valerica said, eyeing the strange skin patch. But I must admit that it is not my primary concern. Your scar is ugly, but from what I can tell, it does not hinder your health."

Shireen gave her a wounded look before, strangely, she chuckled. "I feel like I should thank you for being honest. My father tried for years to find someone to heal my scar. He offered quite a bit of gold for it, and as I'm sure you can imagine, it attracted a lot of charlatans. Many came to Dragonstone with vials full of smelly frog guts and strange ointments. Most did nothing; some gave me awful blisters and rashes. I always hated it. One nearly killed me. Father had him executed."

"Your father must have been a fool."

"My father loved me!" Shireen shot back. For the first time, Valerica heard anger in her voice.

"Precisely. Love makes fools of us all." The vampiress cocked her eyebrow. "If you hated these so-called treatments so much, why did you go along with them?"

The girl shifted uncomfortably. "I thought it would make me beautiful. And if I were beautiful, then things would be easier. People wouldn't openly stare at me or snicker behind my back if I was beautiful."

Valerica snorted. "Is that what you think? Very well, I suppose I'll have to be the one to tell you this: life would be no easier for you if you were beautiful. People would just have something different to ridicule you about."

"You're beautiful," Shireen pointed out.

"I am," Valerica agreed. And that made it all the easier for my father to sell me to my husband. That's the harsh truth, I suppose. People would ridicule you for being beautiful by calling you vain, sneer at you for being ugly, and pity you for being plain. Listen up, girl. There is no easy path in life. You've just got to find the strengths you have and figure out how to use them."

Letting out a disheartened hum, Shireen reached up to brush her fingers against the craggily surface of her cheek. "...What do you need to study it?"

"A piece of flesh," Valerica said easily, picking up one of the slim, slender blades used for slicing medical herbs.

"What?!" Shireen's striking blue eyes went wide, and she stumbled back, away from Valerica.

Valerica fought the urge to roll her eyes. "It will just be a small piece, I promise. There won't be much blood and only a little pain. You have nothing to worry about, especially considering the potential benefits."

"Wha—what— No, I—" the little noblewoman babbled as she tried to back away. Her eyes flicked toward the doorway before making the mistake of meeting Valerica's eyes.

"Hushhhhh," the vampiress whispered, closing the distance between them with a smooth, easy stride. "This won't take me long."

The thing about vampiric seduction, specifically hypnotic gaze, is that mortals tend to fear it more than it probably deserves. True, vampires typically use it for nefarious purposes, except the effect itself was apparently quite pleasant—at least, according to the human familiars Valerica had spoken to. It took away fear, anxiety, and nervousness and left one with a relaxed, albeit unfocused mental state.

Shireen's lips moved silently as her body quaked. Gently, Valerica took the child's chin in her hand and turned her face to the side. Using the blade, she sliced off a small sliver of hard, gray flesh from the outer rim of Shireen's scar. Transferring the sample into a glass jar which she sealed up tight, the vampiress then splashed some healing potion onto a clean rag and dabbed at her cheek.

"Hush now, girl. It's just a bit of pain and blood. Nothing worth making a fuss over," Valerica comforted, patting Shireen on her unscarred cheek. Once the small wound had completely healed and Valerica had wiped away the remaining trickle of blood, she released her mental hold on the girl. "Lady Baratheon? Lady Baratheon, can you hear me?"

At the sound of her name, Shireen blinked rapidly and shook her head out. "Huh?"

"We were speaking of your uncle's treatment," Valerica lied sweetly. It appears your mind wandered off. That's understandable, given everything that's happened this past month. Tell me, have you been sleeping properly? If demons trouble your dreams, then I have several elixirs I could give you."

It was kinder for the girl not to remember. After all, what good would it do her? Valerica had no patience for explaining the intricacies or convincing Shireen to give up a bit of flesh. That was time that could be better spent trying to solve the mystery of this disease. Hypnotism was a much easier solution. And even if Shireen were to notice that the scar's shape had changed ever so slightly, there was still no proof Valerica had done anything. Shireen would likely think she was simply going mad.

"Oh… Yes… Yes, I recall that," Shireen slowly nodded, still looking as if she had just been woken from a deep sleep. "What had we decided on?"

Valerica smothered a grin. "I intend to brew a potion from something called crimson nirnroot, Along with a few other ingredients. Then I'll create several shallow cuts at different sensitive areas on your uncle's body —nothing that'll do any lasting damage, of course— and add a few drops of the potion into each cut. After that… we wait to see if it works."

"An interesting idea."

That ancient vampiress did not flinch; she had too much dignity for that. So, while Shireen squeaked in shock at the sudden voice, Valerica's gaze simply slid over to the doorway. Shireen had never closed the door. Perhaps she had been too afraid to be alone with Valerica? But the action had allowed the red-clad to slide into the infirmary unnoticed.

'Even by me?' Valerica frowned, eyes narrowing. 'How odd.'

"Lady Melisandre, what are you doing here?" Shireen asked, face going pale.

When the woman—Melisandre—took a step toward the girl, Shireen backed up toward Valerica, which surprised the vampiress. 'She's terrified of me.'

That said something about how Shireen felt about this Melisandre.

"I'm here to get you, Lady Baratheon. There is much to get done today," the woman said, her serene voice matching her lovely face. She held out a hand. "Come along, please."

Ever so slightly, Shireen shook her head. "No, no, I no—"

'This is why I said you needed to show more spine, girl.' Valerica cleared her throat. " I do not remember permitting you to enter my infirmary. Please leave. Immediately."

The 'please' nearly stuck in Valerica's throat, but she spat it out nonetheless. Pairing it with a severe smile, Valerica hoped it would make Melisandre as uncomfortable as she felt.

Perhaps she didn't achieve that, yet the twitch of the Red Woman's mouth told Valerica that she certainly wasn't happy with the response.

"I was unaware this was your infirmary, my lady," she replied with velvety smoothness. "I thought it was the Baratheons', mostly used by Maester Pycelle. Since it is your property, you should also be sending Lady Baratheon away as well. If that is the case, I'd happily escort her."

"These are Lady Baratheon's lands. And she is assisting me in devising a treatment to pull her uncle from the brink of death. She has all the right in the world to be here. You, however, have no place here."

Then, to emphasize her point, Valerica strolled over to Shireen and put her hand on the girl's shoulder, squeezing ever so slightly. Shireen shuddered at the sudden contact, blinking up at Valerica. Then she smiled. While Valerica couldn't read minds, she imagined the girl was mentally thanking her.

Melisandre paused, her lips pursing, before ignoring Valerica's comment for now and turning her attention to where Renly lay prone on his cot.

"It's a terrible fate to be both alive and dead at the same time, don't you think?" she asked in a way that made Melisandre think she wasn't really expecting an answer. "Not able to reach the peace of death, yet unable to interact with the living world. Why, I can't think of anything worse… It makes me wonder if allowing Lord Renly the escape his body clearly wishes for might be kinder."

Valerica had wondered that too, quite often, in fact. That didn't mean she was going to say it now.

"I don't think anyone or anything wishes for death, not truly," Shireen said. "Otherwise, the body wouldn't fight so hard to stay alive."

That was also true enough. The will of any living creature to survive was one of the strongest urges there was. Dogs could gnaw off their own paw to escape a hunter's trap, and humans could be driven to do the truly awful to preserve their own lives. It was a rather pretty thing, but Valerica could not deny it was powerful.

Melisandre gave the girl an indulgent smile. "The urge to survive is powerful, that is true, except it is not always one's fate. Death is the enemy of Life and the enemy of my Lord. However, even R'hollor understands that it can be necessary."

"Enemy? I can't say I agree with that," Valerica replied. When the red-clad woman looked her way, Valerica continued, "Death and life cannot exist without one another. They are not enemies, merely each other's equals and opposites. That is why I do not see the need to be afraid of death. If anything, I think men should find comfort in its inevitability. There is so little to be sure of in this world, yet we all die eventually."

There was another tight smile. "There are few that would agree things are as simple as you make them out to be, my lady." Melisandre nodded toward Renly. " I'm sure Lord Renly —if he is still in there— fears that he may die. Not that I wish that either, of course. Even if I must admit that there could be some benefit to it, should it need to happen."

The phrasing had Valerica tensioning up, unintentionally causing her to squeeze down on Shireen more tightly. When she felt the girl wince beneath her, the vampiress softened her grip and rubbed the girl's shoulder with the pad of her thumb.

'Now, what could she mean by that? What good could a half-dead man be? Except as a meal that couldn't run away.'

To say Valerica hadn't been tempted to take a nibble would be a lie, even if she had deemed it more trouble than it was potentially worth.

Shireen cleared her throat and jutted out her chin, a habit Valerica had noticed she'd picked up for when she wanted to say something important. "Lady Melisandre, you are correct that much needs to be done today. It so happens that one of the reasons I came to the infirmary was to ask Lady Valerica to join Ser Davos and me in today's council meeting. As an honored guest and someone I owe my life to personally, it feels only natural that she be allowed to sit in and give her thoughts."

They had spoken of nothing of the sort. Valerica only vaguely recalled that Shireen was meeting with different Lords and other important folk today. Since Serana and Jon had left, Valerica's main focus had been teaching her students and caring for her patients, although she was certainly keeping her ear to the ground and making plans of her own.

'Smart girl,' Valerica mentally praised. "It would be more than my pleasure to attend. I consider it my duty, both to show my support to Lady Baratheon here and to keep my word to my daughter that I would stay informed as to the goings-on."

At the mention of Serana, Melisandre flinched. Valerica didn't even bother to disguise her smirk. Oh yes, Serana had told her about the run-in with the red-clad woman. It made Valerica wonder what Melisandre thought of them. Surely, she had theories.

'Perhaps I can get her to share those theories. They're surely amusing.'

"Shall we head out then?" Valerica asked, all false cheer and pleasantry. "I will start Lord Renly's new treatment tomorrow. For now, we will have our… discussions."

Not waiting for a response, Valerica stepped forward, gently pushing Shireen along as she went until they were nearly nose-to-nose with Melisandre. Her eyes trailed down to the jeweled amulet hanging at the hollow of the woman's neck, its rich red coloring barely containing the deep pulses of magic.

'Glamor spells, useful little thing,' the vampiress thought, thinking back to her conversation with her daughter. If she had to guess, whatever enchantment was on Melisandre's amulet wasn't too different from the one on the necklace she'd given to little 'Mira', though that one was a touch more focused than most glamor.

Gemstones were commonly used to anchor enchantments. Much like the metal or stone of weapons or household objects, gemstones were solid and often strong. Their structure and composition meant they conducted the magic needed to sustain enchantments well. Beyond that, some enchanters preferred them simply for aesthetic appeal. Not to mention, disguising an enchanted piece as jewelry made it easier to wear and use in everyday life.

It appeared the enchanters of Tamriel were not the only ones who used such a practice.

'Shame I couldn't get my hands on such a pretty piece; I'm sure it'd be interesting to study a foreign land's magic,' Valerica thought, still eying it.

As her gaze shifted up to the woman's entire profile, Valerica couldn't help but consider the similarities between the two of them. Both were tall and pleasantly shaped —Valerica could confidently say that childbirth and centuries in the Soul Cairn had not ruined her figure— with no small amount of facial beauty. There was also the magic, which was hardly the most observable attribute. No, the beauty was where most similarities ended.

Valerica liked to think of herself as a woman who dressed smartly and always suited to the circumstances. Her ankle-length black velvet day dress, with its silver embroidered spiderweb design that was dotted with small, red spiders, was worn under a butter-smooth, dark brown leather overcoat, cinched around the waist with a fashionable belt that also matched her boots, looked appealing to the eye, and stood out against the common dress of those she had found in Westeros. Yet its length and durability allowed Valerica to move easily, which was the most important thing. Additionally, it was, in theory, a warm enough outfit that no one would ever question why Valerica did not seem to be bothered by the cold. Even Valerica's accessories —a braided chain dotted with small rubies, pearls, and onyx's, and some matching, decorative hair pins— adhered to this mindset.

Melisandre, however, served as an interesting contrast. Perhaps the bright red silk robes she wore were not particularly ornate, yet they were certainly eye-catching. The golden jewelry that dangled from her wrists, earlobes, and, of course, neck, or even more so, made a statement; no matter how big of a crowd the woman was ever in, everyone would always turn to look at her. Yes, Melisandre would stand out like a candle's flames flickering in the darkness.

Valerica fought the urge to grin. 'What a pair we'd make. Light and Dark. Fire and Death.'

"O—of course," Shireen said, trying to put on a strong voice. And, with an amusing display of bravado, led the two women out of the room.

Valerica followed, shutting the infirmary door behind her with an audible thud! and promised herself she'd gained something out of this meeting to help her daughter. That, as always, was the most important thing to Valerica. After all, if she could prove herself useful, then Serana might one day forgive her.

Eyes, familiar and new, turned to Valerica as she shadowed Shireen into the council chamber. While Melisandre got her fair share of looks, it was clear that she was a long-standing fixture on Dragonstone, and her association with the Baratheons was common enough knowledge. She might not have been liked, but she was known.

Valerica was neither of these things.

'That just makes the game more interesting.'

The sound of her boots was audible against the stone floors, creating a soft echo that filled the room as the gathered group of men watched on from where they were huddled. When they first walked in, the group spoke quietly among themselves. The talking, however, ceased immediately upon their entry. Cressen, at least, gave her a small smile once he got over his surprise at her presence. The others just looked at her with the blank stares of dead fish.

Eventually, one of them, a comely man with silver hair, a pointed beard, and a slashed velvet doublet, stood up. "My lady, this gathering is for—"

"My council," Shireen piped up. "Everyone is here to advise me on the best course of action, and Lady Volkihar's advice is something I value."

'How sweet.' Valerica peered at the man over Shireen's shoulder. Meeting his eye, she cocked an eyebrow. "I trust that is a significant explanation for my presence. Unless you mean to suggest Lady Baratheon was mistaken in her actions?"

The very suggestion had everyone mumbling apologies and excuses for anything that could be seen as dissension.

Clearing his throat, the silver-haired man spoke again. "Of course not. I will always support my grand niece. I apologize for any perceived rudeness, Lady Volkihar. I know you and your family were instrumental in getting her to safety, I just didn't have a face to put to your name until now. I will personally see to it that a chair is brought for you."

"Oh, that is quite alright," Valerica said. Walking past Shireen and the man, she pulled out the empty chair to the left of the head of the table and took a seat. "This one will do quite nicely."

The men watched on incredulously. The room once again lapsed into a tense silence, broken by small, nervous giggles that escaped Shireen's lips. It only came to a true end when the door opened again, the wood creaking noisily to reveal the form of Ser Davos Seaworth.

"Ah, excellent. Everyone is here. We can begin," the man said, hanging up his rain-slicked cloak on a nearby hook. "Shall we all take our seats."

After another choir of mumbles and streaks of chairs being pulled out, everyone was seated: Shireen at the head of the table, Davos to her right, Valerica to her left, Melisandre straight across from her, and the various men filling the empty seats. While the council was not as impressive as it had been when the rest of the King's Landing escapes had filled the chamber, it was what they had to work with.

"Lady Valerica, I would like to introduce you to the rest of the men who will serve her as my Council for now," Shireen said. First, she nodded at the silver-haired man and said, "You've already become… acquainted with my great-uncle, Alester Florent. He is the Lord of Brightwater Keep and the head of House Florent."

"And though my house is technically sworn to the Tyrells, the late Lady Baratheon was my beloved niece, and I intend to stand with my family above all else," Florent said with a grandiose nod.

Something about the man reminded Valerica of a poorly made sweet roll. Overly sugary and syrupy enough that it made her teeth stick together.

She was then introduced to a stout, sturdy man who was that common mixture of fat belly and strong limbs that Valerica recognized from older men who had spent their entire lives working or fighting. And though she vaguely recognized the man's face, there was nothing remarkable about his features, except there was something she found appealing about that plainness, too. This was a common man who cared a little about the great questions of the world, or the mysteries of life, or even what much went on beyond his household and duty. Certainly useful to have around.

"Lady Valerica, this is Jate Blackberry, our gate captain here at Dragonstone." Shireen smiled at the man. "He has served my family since well before I was born."

"And I have every intention of continuing to do so," Blackberry said with a proud nod. "Dragonstone is my home, and serving the Baratheons has been my sworn duty since I was but a boy. So long as I live and am captain, no trouble will be getting through our gates."

It wasn't bragging, Valerica realized. Blackberry truly believed in his ability to do the duty that had been assigned to him. The man had a job, one he was proud of doing. And when he looked at Shireen, there was a nearly fatherly pride and protectiveness in his eyes.

'Yes,' Valerica thought. 'He will do well.'

Shireen then gestured to an older, portly man with a ruddy face and more hair in his eyebrows and ears than was growing on his head. "And this is Septon Barre, the keeper of the sept here at Dragonstone."

Barre stood, revealing a set of clean, white robes and a woven seven-color belt, both of which, while showing signs of age, remained extremely well cared for and of fine quality. Finishing it was a —b tear-shaped blue crystal hanging from a leather thong around his thick neck.

"How nice it is to be invited to council with the leaders of Dragonstone once more, Lady Baratheon," the man said. There wasn't much pleasantness in his voice. Politeness, sure, but Valerica sensed a deep-held resentment, if not outright grudge, barely hiding behind the man's words—if not for Shireen directly, then for her family.

The tightness in Shireen's mouth suggested that this distaste was not entirely one-sided. "I'm sure your words of wisdom will be well chosen, Septon."

Davos and the other men made noises of agreement, yet when Barre turned to Valerica, looking expectantly at her, she merely nodded and gave a cool, "Charmed."

Septon... Sept... Didn't that have something to do with the religion of this world? Yes, that old Maester had mentioned them as being involved with healing.

'White robes never go along well with healing,' she thought idly, glancing over the man's clothing again. 'Wait, was he expecting me to say something to recognize his position?'

If that were the case, then the man would be waiting for the rest of his natural life. Valerica cared little for religion, especially a foreign religion of a foreign people that was likely created long after she herself had been born.

The next man to be addressed was a tall, well-built fellow with well-groomed salt and pepper hair and goatee that paired well with his hazel blue eyes. His features were strong, yet not harsh, giving the man an aura of composure and sternness while still appearing to be fair and approachable.

"Lord Lytus Chyttering, of House Chyttering," Shireen said. "A man my father always spoke highly of, and one I am pleased to have at my table today."

"And the late Lord Baratheon was not one to speak highly of many," Chyttering said, a small yet genuine smile on his face. "And the feeling was mutual. While Stannis Baratheon was a hard man to get along with, I can admit that he always did well by me and my kin. Now that he is gone, I feel it is only appropriate to do the same for his daughter. Even if the circumstances are what Westeros would consider unusual, it is what your father wished for, and I rarely found his judgment to be lacking."

Unlike Lord Florent, Chyttering spoke with little added sweetness or flattery. His words were blunt, almost bordering on cold. Nonetheless, their honesty was plain to see. The man had nothing to hide, nor did he seem to be trying to get into Shireen's good graces. For that alone, Valerica found she liked him.

Next up was introduced as Lester Morrigen, Lord of Crow's Nest. He was a comely young man with pale green eyes and sleek black hair that hung longer than seemed to be the normal fashion of men in this country. He gave off an aura of vanity and self-assuredness, though there was nothing truly benevolent Valerica could detect within him.

"Morrigen? Of Crow's Nest?" she asked. "That tickles something amusing in my memory."

The man grinned back, looking like a cat with a particularly delicious bowl of cream. "Perhaps you'll elaborate that further at another point, my lady. I am… quite fascinated about your land."

It took a not-insignificant amount of willpower to keep Valerica from laughing out loud. Young men amused her, always so cocksure and assertive of their own charm and good looks. It reminded her of roosters, strutting about the yard and showing off for the hens. On the rare occasion she indulged, they left her bed chamber far wiser than they had been and limping for several days afterward.

Still, it would serve her well to actually learn more about the lands and territories these people were naming. How strong they were, and their geographical locations in this war, and other little details. If only to know how likely they were to betray Shireen.

Then there was the last man, and he was the one Valerica had been the most curious about ever since she stepped foot in the room.

"And I am very pleased to introduce Monford Valeryon, the Lord of the Tides, and Master of Driftmark," Shireen said, rising to her feet to reach out and grasp a man's hand in hers once more. Giving it a tight squeeze before reclaiming her seat.

Monford is an almost startlingly handsome man with long, fair hair that was pulled back from his face with a leather tie. He was wearing a luxurious-looking sea-green silk tunic, fit to his lean yet muscular frame spectacularly, something Valerica felt no shame in noticing, with a white gold seahorse brooch pin to the front of it, its ruby eyes glistening in the light. However, the thing that had drawn her attention the most was the man's skin. It was noticeably darker than just about any power she had seen since arriving in this land. While he didn't look like a redguard, not completely, there were certainly some shared features. Even his lovely mane of hair took on a slightly different texture than that of his comrades.

"Pleasure to meet you," she said with a nod that the man returned.

"Though not pleased by the circumstances, I'm sure," he replied before turning to Shireen. "Lady Baratheon, at risk of sounding too forward, we have gone on with pleasantries long enough. I'm sure that we can all agree time is of the essence, and we have much to discuss."

Shireen bit her lip but nodded slowly. "Indeed, everyone take a seat. I'll have refreshments brought out shortly, but does anyone want to open the discussion in the meantime?"

At times like this, the girl's youth and inexperience showed the clearest. For all she was putting on a brave face and confident front, Shireen had little idea what she was doing. Valerica hoped she and Davos could cover for her.

Once more, Monford spoke up, his voice deep and commanding. "As soon as news of conflict broke out in King's Landing, I started the process of ensuring my fleet was in good order. House Velaryon has always taken pride in our naval might and now is no different. As soon as the word is given, we'll have ships ready to sail into combat, as well as to deliver necessary supplies anywhere needed. Currently, we have four warships in working order and six smaller, quicker shipping vessels. With my departure to Dragonstone, I have left my brother, Aurane, in charge of working on the rest of our fleet, in addition to aiding my son in all other matters of maintaining order in my absence."

Florent let out a fake cough. "Ah yes, I'm sure the Bastard of Driftmark will do a fine job overseeing that project."

Monford shot the man a sharp glare. "I trust my brother more than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. And don't you forget, illegitimate he may be, my mother cuddled Aurane at her own breast when he was a babe. More than that, there are a few finer ship captains to be found in any port."

"That is true," Davos said evenly. "I've seen the man sailing myself; he can work the tides better than I can."

With Florent significantly silenced for the moment, it was Chyttering's turn to speak up.

"Much like Lord Velaryon here, as soon as I got word of the horridness that occurred in King's Landing, I started getting my affairs in order, knowing that I would be called for soon. Either by you or…" His voice trailed off as hazel blue eyes flickered southeast towards King's Landing, where Cersei Lannister waited and plotted all of their deaths—at least in the man's mind.

Chyttering cleared his throat and continued on. "If I may, given what I've since learned, I will say I'm grateful you called for me first, Lady Baratheon. While my family does not have any ships to contribute, I thought I could contribute by contacting some of the other local lords in hopes of gaining more vocalized support for you and our allies."

"And who did that go?" Lester Morrigen asked, resting his chin on his hand.

"Not well, sadly," Chyttering sighed. "The few replies I got were… not encouraging. While she has not made any announcements since her letter a few days ago, there are enough whispers spreading to paint a grim picture. Even if other Lords of the Crownlands might want to stand with us, I fear they will side with Cersei Lannister and her family out of fear for the reprisal that could fall upon their families. We have reason to believe she's already begun putting knives at the throats of those who would oppose her or will shortly, my ladies. Then there is outright greed. Lannister gold is always attractive, and much is to be gained for siding with the victors of a war. Even with Tywin dead, his army's reputation continues, and they assume the Westerlands will side with her.

"Regardless, I'm sure she'll issue further proclamations to the realm in addition to her initial claims about what happened within the capital. As much as she may wish to wait for the various reactions, she won't, cannot, remain passive for much longer."

"While I certainly appreciate the gravity of the situation, Lord Chyttering, let us not get ahead of ourselves," Florent interrupted. "As it stands now, Cersei Lannister and her family have the high ground in some regards, I won't deny that. But we should not pretend that her hold on things is as tight as her father's would have been. Even if I don't care to speak ill of the dead, we should all be thankful Tywin Lannister is now in his grave."

'Yes, supposedly killed by his own son with help from my daughter's beloved. Or something like that. This might not be the best time to bring that little lie up.'

"True enough. Still, Cersei will be in a position not dissimilar to our own. Right now, everything is still in chaos. People will be gathering what allies and assets they have, preparing for the worst. And we need to take this time to press the advantage we do have over Cersei and the crown," Davos said.

"Which is?" Valerica asked.

"Ships," the man replied. "During my time serving the late Lord Stannis, one of the things he would complain about most often was his brother's lack of urgency in building up the royal fleet. If we were to combine the ships we have here on Dragonstone, Lord Velaryon's forces, and everything our other allies can muster, I suspect we will have more than the Crown in terms of a navy. Yet, despite that assertion, I am not a betting man. We must take advantage and turn it into even more of a boon."

"We also need to learn what we can about the goings-on of King's Landing," Shireen added. "As we all know, the city is closed off for now. Certain merchants can go into the city, along with food deliveries and other goods, but no one's allowed to leave. I can't imagine things will stay peaceful there for long under those conditions. The city does rely on food deliveries to sustain itself, after all."

'The little lady wants a spy. That sounds like a job for Jon's large friend. I wonder if my daughter and her monthly crew have informed others of Enzo's love of learning other people's secrets?'

Cressen squinted at Davos with old eyes. "Old as I may be, I am not incapable of discerning half-hidden meanings behind words, Ser Davos. You want to buy more ships for Dragonstone. While I see the logic in such an action, I must remind you that all finances are stretched thin. Lord Stannis was saving up for winter funds, as well as…"

He glanced at Shireen, who turned her face, hiding the stoney scar with the palm of her hand.

'He was still paying for treatments, wasn't he?' Valerica asked herself, even though she already knew the answer. 'Even after all this time and many failures, he loved you enough to keep trying to help you.'

Though she didn't say it —the idea of magic was still new to this world, and there was no need to overwhelm these men's simple minds— Valerica had ways of making gold should it be needed. The transume spell was a useful bit of magic, though there was a good reason its use was considered taboo in some areas, if not outright illegal, for reasons other than academic study in many others. Still, that was back home, not in some foreign land.

"I have some old pieces of wedding jewelry in my possession. They are quite exquisite and, of course, exotic in origin. I'm sure they'd sell for a high price," Valerica said flatly. "Feel free to do so, and then put that money towards ships."

Shireen looked at her with surprised eyes. "Lady Valerica, I cannot possibly ask you to sell something so personal as wedding jewelry!"

Valerica shook her head. "I travel with them for this very situation, more or less. It's always good to have something tangible you can sell if need be, especially as a woman. Rest assured, those pieces mean as little to me as my marriage did in the end."

The silence that fell over the room was thick with palpable discomfort, complete with shifting in seats and fake coughs to clear the throat. Valerica assumed that it wasn't common for women to speak openly of unhappy marriages in this land. And how unfair that was; not only could you not be free of your husband —not unless you killed him, which was always an option— but you also couldn't complain about it.

"That offer is… Extremely generous, Lady Volkihar. and I'm sure Lady Baratheon and the rest of us will keep it in mind. Hopefully, things will not come to that, though," Davos said slowly. Then, even more cautiously, he spoke up again. "I have another idea of how we can acquire the usage of more ships. However, I am an honest enough man to admit up front that the idea will be strange and unpleasant to some of you."

.

.

.

"Well, get on with it, my good man," Morrigen snapped, waving his hand.

Davos sighed, smiling only when Shireen gave him an encouraging smile. "I would like to contact an old… business associate of mine. A man named Salladhor Saan, in hopes that we can use ships and connections for the foreseeable future."

Monford cocked an eyebrow at the older man. "And by business, I assume you mean…"

"Aye, I knew him from my time as a smuggler," Davos said flatly.

"And you two were friends?"

Davos shrugged. " As much of a friend as a smuggler and pirate can be."

"What exactly is the difference between the two?" Morrigen asked.

"Pomp," Valerica said. At the same time that Davos said, "Volume."

The two glanced at each other before Davos cleared his throat and tried again. "Smugglers are silent and are most comfortable in the shadows, while pirates are loud and flashy. If you're a famous smuggler, you're doing it wrong. Being good at it means the only people who know your name are those who know not to speak it. But if you're a famous pirate, people will sing songs about you in every port there is. And Salladhor Saan is a very famous pirate indeed. One in command of a fleet of two dozen striped galleys last I heard."

Florent sputtered, his words having several false starts before finally finding purchase. "Lady Baratheon, you cannot seriously entertain the idea of working with such a— a— disgraceful criminal? Why, it would tarnish your reputation! Your mother and father would never hear of it!"

"My mother and father cannot hear of anything, Lord Florent, as they are dead," Shireen said, voice terse. "And while my mother may have agreed with you, my father was an intensely practical man."

Morrigen shifted in his seat. "I have to agree with Florent on this one, my lady. While we may need ships, associating with someone like Ser Davos is describing would make it easier for Cersei to slander us to the general masses. More specifically, to slander you."

"People have spoken ill of me my entire life. What are a few more words?"

Barre, Cressen, and Blackberry added their disapproval and uncertainties. Barre spoke of the man potentially staining all their souls with his actions. Blackberry thought that the man could betray them after getting into Dragonstone. Cressen merely mentioned the history of pirates being untrustworthy.

Yet even with all those voices, there was one notable exception—well, two—but only one Valerica was genuinely interested in.

"What are your thoughts on the matter, Lord Velaryon?" she asked the pale-haired man.

Monford took a moment to answer. "...When you've sailed as long as I have, my lady, you learned that men of the seas rarely fall into simple categories of good or evil. You can't even accurately quantify them as trustworthy or untrustworthy. Our temperaments change as quickly and harshly as weather on the open ocean. For now, I am content to hear more about how Davos describes Saan. I've heard of him myself, and the stories are quite fascinating."

He turned to Davos. "I've heard rumors of him being in the area recently. I assume those are true if you're bringing him up."

Davos nodded. "On a small island off the coast of Pentos. A common enough haunt for him. The trip could be done in under a month with the right ship and crew."

"And you think a famous pirate will let you sail up to him for tea and a chat?" Florent asked, voice obviously mocking.

The old smuggler took the sneering tone in stride. "He will if he knows I'm coming. As I've said, we've had a positive enough relationship for decades. For all he mocks me for settling into a comfortable position, I do believe Saan will agree to meet. Out of curiosity, if nothing else."

Chyttering spoke up again. "I can't help but notice that the smuggler recommends we work with another criminal."

Valerica's lips pursed on their own accord. She couldn't claim to know Davos very well as an individual, but she approved of what she did know. And everyone had a past. If that past didn't affect the present or even aided in present endeavors, what was the point of judging them for it?

Judging by how stiff she went, it seems little Shireen shared Valerica's irritation.

"Ser Davos' past dealings allowed him to save the lives of hundreds during Robert Rebellion when he smuggled food to those trapped in Storm's End, including the life of my father. For that alone, not only do I think his past shouldn't be judged in this context, but I think we should consider his expertise a boon to us. Especially considering we could very well be looking towards sieges in the future." Shireen said sharply, voice verging on a hiss.

Chyttering shifted in his seat. "Of course, my lady. Everyone here remembers Ser Davos' actions during the Rebellion. Brave and valiant actions they were, for which many owe him their lives… Yet, I do feel the need to bring up that that was quite a long time ago, and—"

Shireen cut the man off, a pink blush of frustration staining her unscared cheek. "And Ser Davos has faithfully served my father and House Baratheon of Dragonstone ever since. Not only was he my father's most trusted advisor and right-hand man, but the late Lord Stannis trusted him enough to leave my guardianship in his hands. He was also by my side as we escaped King's Landing, which I cannot say for you, Lord Chyttering."

.

.

.

All the men in the room stayed silent. it seems they could not even argue this point without potentially insulting the late Lord Stannis and, therefore, Shireen.

Though Davos did not seem interested in defending himself against any slights, the warm look he gave Shereen spoke volumes. Valerica had no doubt that if the room was empty aside from the two, he would have embraced her and kissed the top of her head, much like Valerica had done for Serana when she was small.

"With Salladhor on our side, we'll have both men and ships. And even if he doesn't want to be involved in direct conflict, he can help get supplies around or act as a raider against King's Landing's shipping. Traditionally, it has been Dragonstone which has prevented that from occurring. If I know the man, he'd even be amused by that. And, if need be, Saan could help us find a way to sneak men into or even out of King's Landing," Davos continued.

"So, how exactly do you plan on convincing him to aid us?" Valerica asked. She didn't need convincing that this was a good idea; Davos presented a solid argument, yet having him vocalize his plan would strengthen his support and standing amongst the others at this table.

"Saan is a simple man… No, that's not right. He's a simple pirate. He seeks glory, coin, and amusement. If there is war, the songs that would be sung about him helping us overthrow the Lannisters would be wonderful, I'm sure. And he'd want to be a part of them."

"I'm sure he'd want gold, too," Morrigen added cheekily.

"And the Lannisters have plenty of gold, so what of it?" Shireen pointed out.

"Just so long as he doesn't want any of our gold or valuables," Blackberry grumbled, more to himself than anyone at the table.

Barre cleared his throat. "But still seems like a man of low moral character. Lady Baratheon, I cannot advise bringing him into your circle of confidence."

"Men of high moral character rarely win wars," Valerica snorted. She bypassed the tea to grab the discreet bottle of something much stronger that Morrigen had brought to the table. Upon seeing the uncomfortable looks on the men's faces, she left. "Do not attempt to soften things just because I am a woman. Women and children always see the worst that war offers, after all. And I'm no fool; we all know that when war comes, we all look for loopholes in the rules of engagement and ways to get leverage on our enemies. This man, Saan, we would pay him for his services. How is that any different from a mercenary company? Or you call them sellswords here, is that right?"

Monford raised his eyebrow. "Sellsword companies enter contracts. The most famous love to talk about their honor and loyalty to their patrons."

Another snort. "They kill people for money. No matter how you dress it up, gold for blood and blood for gold are the same thing. No matter who makes the exchange, it all comes down to those two things."

"I must say, my lady, having you here has made this entire experience more joyful. I can only imagine your homeland is filled with rainbows and honey for you to have such an outlook," Morrigen said cheekily.

Valerica gave the man a sharp look. In a different place, when she was a different her, she might have had him switched for such a comment. He may have even enjoyed it, too. Yet this was neither the time nor the place for any of that. "Playing by 'the rules' will only lead to death when war comes. Especially when your enemy has already demonstrated a willingness to violate something you apparently consider as sacred as Guest Right." The men before her sobered at that reminder. A tradition surprisingly shared with her own land. "Planning loopholes ahead of time and having as many resources as possible will give us the advantages we need. Especially since we cannot say for sure what force we'll be standing against. More than even that, we do not know who the Lannisters will be hiring."

She turned to Davos directly, "I'll give you some of my jewelry as a downpayment to the man. Give him an incentive."

"I like a woman who can appreciate taking the initiative," Monford said, thumping his fist against the table for emphasis. "We cannot be seen as passive, not to the Lannister sitting on the iron throne, nor to any potential allies. We all know Cersei is not sitting around working on needlework. She's already making moves to secure her future in this situation."

No… Everyone would be far less tense if the woman had been doing that.

"As do I, Lord Velaryon," Shireen said. The fact is, there are only so many plays we can make at the moment. There's still so much we don't know, both with our allies and with our enemies. The allies we do currently have set sail three days ago, and it will be a while before we hear anything concrete from them. Yet, we can focus on gathering ships and supplies. So, I will allow Ser Davos to start making plans and to meet with Salladhor Saan. And I hope you will all cooperate with him to the best of your abilities."

'Hope, not expect. Even now, she knows their loyalty is tentative at best,' Valerica thought. Looking around at the group of men who gave quiet words of agreement and small, jerking nods. 'And she's right. I would not be surprised if they all bid their time against Shireen. The only ones I would consider remotely trustworthy are Davos, Cressen, Blackberry, and maybe the Septon. However, he seems to have little love for the girl or her family. I will keep an eye on him.'

After all, Shireen also had Valerica on her side.

The conversations lulled into other topics, plenty of which Valerica didn't understand. She tried to make note of as many places and people mentioned as possible, but this was not her land, and there was only so much she cared to remember about it. So, for now, she let the words flow over her as she faded back from the conversation.

It was only when Shireen closed the meeting, and everyone rose to their feet that Valeria remembered the other presents in the room.

'By the gods, I completely forgot she was there,' Valerica thought, fear and aggravation tickling the back of her mind as she studied Melisandre. The silk-clad woman was still by the fireplace, bathed in the flames' brightness.

She hadn't done anything the entire meeting, not even contributing a single thought or opinion, let alone a suggestion. Shireen hadn't introduced her, and none of the men had addressed her. That last bit was the most worrying. Men never failed to notice a beautiful woman, nor did they waste the opportunity to get a woman's attention.

When Valerica saw Davos eyeing Melisandre as she slid out of the room with distaste, she knew he was her ally.

"Ser Davos," she said, cutting through the low drone of conversation. "Would you mind escorting me to my chambers? I still find myself getting confused navigating this castle."

The man shifted, looking around the room uncomfortably. "I… Would be honored, my lady. But I was going to speak with Lady Baratheon about—"

"It's alright, Ser Davos," Shireen said. "I need to discuss something with Lord Velayron privately, so please feel free to assist Lady Volkihar."

Eyebrows shot up around the room. Monford definitely didn't seem to know anything about this beforehand, yet Valerica was certain there would be talk about this meeting later. For now, though, everyone stayed silent.

"...As you will," the man said with a nod. After a final round of goodbyes and related pleasantries, Davos led Valerica out of the chamber and through the maze of corridors that made up the castle of Dragonstone, ensuring a healthy space between the two.

Valerica allowed the uncomfortable silence, broken only by the sounds of their boots on the floor on the distant yet steady sound of wind and waves, to go on for far longer than she wanted. Eventually, though, she finally cleared her throat and decided to get down to business.

"Are you scared of me, Ser Davos?"

The former smuggler hesitated in his step, though only briefly. "Quite frankly, my lady, yes. I don't know what you are or why you can do the extraordinary things you do, but I've heard plenty of stories of strange, pale women, and they all leave me terrified."

The ancient vampiress grinned. "I admire you for that. You're smarter than most. Smart enough, I suspect, to know that I am on your and Shireen's side."

"...Aye."

"And I assume you know the greatest threat scuttling about is Melisandre."

Another hesitation, longer this time. "...I've never liked her. I've never trusted her either, it's one of the few things Cressen and I agree on. Anyone who believes in something that deeply… She can never be loyal to any one person because everything she does is in service to her god or what she believes her god wants. No matter what I said about the matter, I was never listened to. It was the one matter that Stannis didn't care to hear my thoughts. After a while, I decided to stop talking and just keep watching. Now that he's gone, I watch to keep Shireen safe even harder."

"You care for her."

Davos raised an eyebrow. "I would think that is obvious. I love her as if she was one of my own. There's little I wouldn't do for her."

"As someone with a daughter of my own, I can appreciate that, And it has earned you my respect," Valerica said. "Ser Davos, however you may feel about me on a personal level, do you believe I am your ally?"

"Aye, I do."

'No hesitation this time.' Valerica was pleased. "Why?"

"Because you saved us. Because you gave Lady Selyse a respectable death. And because, despite also being terrified of you, Shireen has come to speak of you well," Davos said. " I can't say that I trust you blindly, as I wouldn't trust anyone with Shireen's safety blindly, but I trust that you do want to aid and protect her."

When they reached the door to Valerica's chamber, she turned, holding out her hand to Davos. "As of now, remember that you have another set of eyes on Shireen and those who may harm her."

The hand that took and shook hers was rough and callous, a typical sailor's hand. A good hand.

"It's a pleasure to be working with you then, my lady," Davos said, smiling pleasantly. Though an older man, even with a mutilated hand, he wasn't bad-looking.

"Do you have a woman, Ser Davos?" Valerica asked, her voice even yet blunt.

A red flush filled the man's cheeks, and he stepped back immediately. "Y—yes, my lady. I have a wife. We've been wed happily for many years. We have many children together. She is the only woman I've ever been with since the day we made our vows."

"Oh? I hope to meet her one day then," Valerica replied. 'Oh dear, I scared him.'

As he bid a hasty goodbyes, Valerica returned to her chambers. It was time to get the real dirty work started. When war came, she would ensure Shireen and the rest of her side was ready.

It was only when she was midway through drafting plans for some new constructions that Valerica realized she didn't know where Melisandre had attempted to take Shireen earlier in the day.

Tyrion V

Tyrion was fairly certain that the gods hated him.

He reached this conclusion several times over his lifetime, yet something would reiterate the point every so often.

Today, that came in the form of a storm he, the Tyrells, and the crew of the Maidens' Helm had run into only a few short days after departing Dragonstone. It hit them hard and fast, pelting them with sheets of rain and knocking them about with a vicious wind that seemed to delight in toying with them. The ship's captain —the weathered old man whose most prominent feature was his long, bushy eyebrows— had assured them that the waves weren't high enough to risk capsizing the ship and that he'd sailed through plenty more dangerous storms. Tyrion would believe that when he saw it.

And by 'saw it,' he meant when they were safely docked somewhere warm, dry, and no longer covered in bumps and bruises from being knocked about. Nor did Tyrion have to focus with every fiber of his being on not vomiting up everything he had eaten in the past two years.

"I won't judge you if you puke up your guts," Bronn said cheerfully, as if they weren't below the deck of a ship rocking from side to side with such vigor that any objects remaining on the galley tables sliding back and forth as if moved by an invisible hand. "You know what they say: better out than in."

"People say many things. Few are worth hearing," Tyrion replied, gripping the bucket between his knees tighter when the ship rocked again. "As soon as we reach Stonehelm, I will take a vow never to set foot on a ship again. If dwarves were meant to travel over water, we would have been given gills and a tail."

"You'd make an ugly as sin mermaid."

Tyrion closed his eyes and tried to focus. When he used his mind, it let him feel strong and secure in a way he never could while using his body.

The plan was simple, in theory, anyway. The Tyrells, their men, and Tyrion (and Bronn) would take a ship to Stonehelm and then travel by land to avoid traveling through the potentially enemy-controlled Crownsland. There would still be danger on the path —those roads weren't particularly well-traveled— yet the Storm lands would likely be infinitely safer than risking main roads too close to King's Landing. For a while, it was thought that they should sail the entire way, yet no one wanted that. It was easier to hide on land, and being at the mercy of a strange crew, even one provided by Dragonstone, sat ill with both Tyrion and his fellow nobles. When they got to High Garden, Tyrion and Bronn would break off and head to Casterly Rock to hopefully convince his uncle to stop siding with Cersei.

Of course, Tyrion also had his side objectives to work on. He was never one to make things easy for himself. First and foremost, he wanted to work on the different members of the Tyrell family. He wasn't liked by any of them, never had been, and it was a sentiment mutually shared. And, admittedly, Tyrion couldn't blame them. He wasn't particularly fond of certain members of his own family at the moment either. However, they each had things they wanted, and Tyrion was certain that if he figured out which strings to pull, he could ensure a more solid alliance. One which the rest of his family would survive.

'I must focus most of my energy on Olenna Tyrell and her granddaughter. The rest will listen to the two of them if they are convinced. Still, sweetening the other three to me could only be beneficial.'

There was also the matter of Stonehelm, specifically House Swann of Stonehelm. House Swann was one of the primary noble houses of the Stormlands, and its current lord, Gulian Swann, would need to be handled carefully. On the one hand, he was getting old and battling long-term illness; on the other, he remained a powerful man whose support could be vital to tipping other, more Minor Lords away from Cersei.

'If this damn storm doesn't wipe us all out first!'

Any further internal musings were cut off by the Bang! of a hatch door being thrown open, swiftly followed by the banging of footsteps. Tyrion's eyes widened as two of the sailors all but dragged a pained Lores Tyrell over to a bench.

"What's wrong with him?" Bronn asked, only half looking away from the bottle of Ale he was attempting to retrieve.

"Slipped 'n' busted his arm up good on the taffrail," one of the sailors—a tall, tattooed fellow—said. He would 'ave gone over the side if Tino here—" he nodded the other sailer, a dark-skin lad with gold earrings—hadn't grabbed 'im."

Tino looked down at the injured young man, shaking his head in amusement. " 'Dis is why 'da captain insisted all of you stay below deck. I get it; he was restless, but 'da deck during 'da storm is a sailor's place."

Loras let out a sound that could be a groan of pain, a hum of agreement, or an offended grunt. Seeing an opportunity, Tyrion turned to grab a soft bundle off the table before forcing himself off his to stumble over to the trio. All three were soaked to the bone, and water was dripping all over the floor and bench. It was a pitiful sight. Perhaps the sailors were used to such a thing, but Tyrion was certain that, soon enough, Loras would start shivering.

"Here," he said, offering the young knight his woolen blanket. "You'll need this more than I would."

Loras blinked at him, his eyes clouded with pain and confusion. The first sailor took the liberty of wrapping the blanket tightly around his self-chosen charge's shoulders, even using the edge to rub some of the water out of Loras' hair.

"Is his arm broken?" Tyrion asked, eyeing the limb that Loras clutched to his chest.

Tattoos shook his head, reaching down to gently squeeze Loras' hand. When Loras instinctively tightened his grip, letting out a loud hiss, Tyrion understood.

"Bone bruise. You see 'im all the 'ime on ships, usually with 'da rookies. It'll heal up quickly 'nough, no 'ore than a week with 'is arm in a sling. Then it'll be right as rain."

Internally, Tyrion let out a relief sigh. Part of his relief is selfish. Loras was well-known as a skilled warrior. Tyrion wanted him to be in fighting shape if they ran into trouble on the road. The softer part of him was happy that Loras' days with a blade weren't over. Jamie had once confessed to him that his greatest fear was to lose his sword hand. It was understandable; his skill with the blade had defined Jamie's entire life. If he lost that, what would he be to anyone?

'My brother. I told him that he would still be my brother.'

"'ealer 'ill is on deck too, but when he's done, we'll send 'im down 'ere to help the lad," Tattooed continued. "It shouldn't take long; we're nearly at the coast."

Fear and alarm shot up Tyrion's spine. "Coast? We're nowhere near our destination. Why are we heading towards the coast?"

Tino looked at him like he thought Tyrion was a dimwit. "'Da storm. 'Da captain is worried 'bout how it looks, doesn't 'ink it'll end anytime soon. He wants to take us closer to 'da coast 'n' lay anchor so we can wait 'til morning. To 'im it's better to find the coast now than to find it by accident later when 'da storm gets worse."

Tyrion bit the inside of his cheek. This wasn't good, and it wasn't part of the plan. Still, he could work with it. It all depended on where they were going. "Where are we? I mean, do you know where we'll be lay anchor?"

"Off 'da west coast of Tarth. Don't worry, 'da ruler of 'dis island 'has always been friendly to storm-stranded sailors. With any luck, we'll be sailin' again by dawn."

Tyrion had heard that. The seas around the Sapphire Isle were known for their storms and commonly saw shipwrecks and ships run aground. Consequently, Lord Tharth was known to give aid and shelter to those sailors.

'All right, this could be worse.'

"I can't say I'm happy about it, yet I will bow to the experience of the ship's captain. My only request is that you—we raise either the white flag or any sort of distress flag you may have," Tyrion said.

Tino's brow scrunched up, but Tyrion continued before he could protest or question. "As you said, Lord Tarth is known for offering shelter and hospitality to sailors besieged by storms. Making it clear that we are among those unlucky numbers will hopefully eliminate any suspicion or questioning will encounter if discovered during the night. More than that… I'm sure you gentlemen have been made vaguely aware of the circumstances under which we sail, correct?"

"Aye," Tattooed nodded. "Crazy mess, glad I wasn't there."

"Unfortunately, we do not know how far Cersei Lannister's influence has spread. The longer we can avoid being identified, the better."

Tattooed let out a low hum of consideration, his face still scrunched up and thought, before slowly giving another nod. "'Ere is sense to 'dat. I'll pass on your suggestion to 'da 'aptain. I can't promise what he'll do, though. 'Dis is his ship."

"Of course."

After a few heavily accented pleasantries, the sailors departed, and Tyrion returned to his bench with Bronn. When the ship lurched in the waves again, he grabbed a hold of the table's edge and hissed a combination of prayers and curses that he was sure would make a septa slap him.

Bronn laughed at his misery before resting his chin in his palm, expression growing thoughtful. "You really think your rabid pussycat of a sister has already gotten her claws into nobles this far out?"

Tyrion sighed. "There's no way of knowing. We don't know how long she's been planning this, nor have received word for days. Yet, as the saying goes, it is better to be safe than sorry."

Speaking of that… Tyrion glanced at Loras, who was still half curled into himself, before leaning closer to Bronn so they wouldn't be overheard. "When you get a chance, go pack a bag for the both of us—the essentials only. I want to have it ready in case we need to abandon our company immediately."

It was something he had been planning to do later, closer to their intended destination with less chance of discovery.

"And why would we need to do that?"

"If Tarth decides to be less than university hospitable, we need to be prepared for the possibility that the Tyrells will throw us to the wolves to save themselves."

"Aren't the wolves our allies in this scenario?"

Under different circumstances, Tyrion would appreciate a bit of wordplay. Instead, he glared. "Now is not the time for that. And besides, the Starks' house symbol is direwolves. I doubt they'd appreciate the comparison to a lesser breed."

Bronn gave a wicked grin, one completely devoid of remorse. "You know I am also completely willing to throw you to the wolves to save my skin, right?"

Tyrion shrugged. " I know that, and the fact that you're upfront about it is why I like you."

"Strange little man," Braun mumbled. He grabbed one of the rolling bottles of ale, downed its contents in one long swallow, and slammed it back down on the table with an audible thunk! Standing up, he winked at Tyrion, and announced louder than strictly necessary. "Pardon me, milord, time for me to do some dirty business."

'I suppose that's one way of deflecting attention,' Tyrion thought, wrinkling his nose.

With no one left to distract him from the storm or the thoughts of his siblings, Tyrion forced his mind to focus on the spontaneous destination. He'd never been to Sapphire Isle, yet he'd heard of its stunning landscapes and surrounding blue waters; unfortunately, its coffers did not match the land's splendor. Nor did the vigor of its current lord.

From what Tyrion remembered of the man, Selwyn Tarth had never remarried after the death of his wife nearly two decades ago, leaving him with no living sons. And while he was known to keep a string of paramours openly, no known bastards —male or female— had come from those women either. Other than that, there wasn't much to know; even before his declining health, Tarth was a man who preferred to keep to himself.

'Possibly the wisest thing he could do. Father always said Tarth was good-natured, but foolishly so,' he thought, rubbing a hand down his face. 'I wonder if I can use that to my advantage? While Tarth isn't a particularly rich House, its geographical position could make it useful as a launch point for allied ships, especially to get around to the Westerlands. They would do good business selling supplies that way.'

A wave of tiredness swept over Tyrion as he thought of his dead father. Was it possible to miss a man you had little love for? He still didn't know. It was as if his mind and heart had been at war since he'd seen Tywin Lannister's corpse on his sister's floor, looking small, old, and frail in a way that Tyrion had never thought possible for the great Lion of Casterly Rock.

'Oh Jamie, I hope you realize how foolish you are by staying at Cersei's side. She killed our father, and she'll kill you too, if you stop pleasing her. Seven hells, she may kill you as soon as you stop looking like her. That's all she wanted you for, you know? The only one Cersei could ever love was herself. I often wondered if she would have eventually replaced you with J—' Tyrion shoved that thought away as a new wave of nausea not caused by the vicious waves hit his stomach. That was too awful, even for him.

'If you were with me, we could have kept Myrcella safe. Now she's out in the world, somewhere I can't be, and I have to trust a young man I hardly know to protect her. The world has never been fair, but knowing that is a new brand of cruelty.'

Dwarves were not made to sleep in hammocks. Tyrion quickly realized that in his adventures with sea travel.

While it was true that they took up less space and, therefore, would theoretically be less cramped, the process of getting into and out of a hammock was significantly more difficult with short, stumpy legs. After the second time, Tyrion had fallen flat on his face trying to get out of his claimed hammock, Bronn and several of the sailors had —after they stopped laughing— banded together to make Tyrion a bed of some spare blankets and an emptied-out truck. While the entire thing felt vaguely like a coffin, the dwarf could not deny that it was decently comfortable.

That still didn't mean he could sleep through the banging of doors, thudding of rushed footsteps, and frightened, sharp whispers.

"Get up!" Bronn grunted, yanking Tyrion to his feet by his shirt.

"Waz goin' on?" Tyrion replied, blinking sleep from his eyes as he tried to regain his balance. Looking around one of the two small cabins that all the guest passengers had been sequestered in—Tyrion suspected they were put here to keep them out of the way of the actual crew—he was shocked to see that all the female Tyrells were also present. Then he noticed that, aside from himself, everyone was looking toward the first mate of the ship.

"We were found during the night by Tarth's men," Olenna Tyrell, who was… quite the sight in a simple sleeping shift and dressing gown, said, wrinkled face twisted into a scowl.

"Fuck!" Tyrion hissed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bronn inching towards the stuffed knapsack that he'd been using as a pillow.

"Calm down, all of you," the first mate said, with a curtness that any noble would be startled by. He was a tall, wiry man with deep olive skin and glossy black hair that pulled into a near waist-length braid. "Panic is not yet necessary. The men have not asked for any of you specifically. They have simply noticed a strange ship docked on their coast and are investigating. They asked all aboard to either come out or for some soldiers to be allowed on the ship for a basic inspection. It is not uncommon."

"Have there been any signs of aggression?" Margaery Tyrell asked. Tyrion noticed that despite clearly being woken suddenly and not having time to dress properly, she still took the time to put on her rose-themed eye patch.

The first mate —Tyrion vaguely recalled his name being Ravi— shook his head. "No. Some of the men have bows and arrows, as well as a small flame at the ready. They could burn the ship if they wanted, yet that does not seem to be their intention."

"What should we do then?" The question came from Loras, who was already pacing back and forth. As the sailors from last night had promised, his arm had been splinted and fitted into a sling. Tyrion wondered if the ship's healer had offered up some milk of the poppy, or if the young man was forced to deal with the pain of his injury. If the latter were the case, it would certainly explain the aggression rolling off Loras in waves.

"We do as they ask," Tyrion said quickly. " Just very carefully."

All lights turn to him. Mace scowled. "What do you speak of, dwarf?"

"To refuse their orders would raise their suspicion. As the first mate here has said, they are not being aggressive. I, for one, would not like to see that change. If we do things correctly, not only will we avoid trouble, we might even find ourselves with more allies," Tyrion explained.

" Are you suggesting we tell the men who we are and why we're here?' Olenna asked.

Tyrion shook his head. "Not unless we absolutely have to. I'm not saying we lie, as being caught doing that could be disastrous, just that we don't offer any unnecessary information."

"That's going to be harder for some of us than others," Bronn said, only half under his breath.

Tyrion felt an entire room full of eyes slide to him. He scowled. "You do realize I am not the only dwarf in the world?"

Bronn shrugged. "I know that, but do our new friends outside?"

"Should I hide in a crate then? Or do we have any small balls lying around? I can juggle, and you all can call me a jester!" Tyrion snapped back, frustration rising.

"Quiet!" Olenna snapped. She rubbed her chin, and her eyes narrowed at her granddaughter. "Margaery, I want you front and center when we go up. Don't wear your eye patch."

The young woman went pale, hand coming up to her face. " Grandmother, I—"

"No, that makes sense," Tyrion interjected. "Few things garner sympathy quite like an injured, beautiful young woman."

Margaery's look of shock slid off her face, and she nodded slowly. "Yes… I understand."

Olenna grabbed her hand comfortingly. "I'll be right beside you, my girl. I'm not quite as lovely to look at, but the feeble elderly can still tug at a few heartstrings."

"Pretty boy here is also beat up," Bronn said, jerking his head at Loras. "Should we put him on display too?"

The young man flushed with anger and opened his mouth to say something, only to be cut off by his grandmother.

"No, we shouldn't push things too much. We can't make our play too obvious," the old woman said, dismissively waving her hand.

"So we're playing up for sympathy then," Lady Alerie asked softly.

"Of course. It's one of the oldest forms of manipulation there is," Olenna replied. "Everyone, quickly! Prepare yourself to greet these guards. Dress down. Stick to plain clothes, little jewelry, and simple hair."

Tyrion silently nodded in agreement. There was sense enough to that, and they'd already been doing a less extreme version of it. The few fine clothes and valuables that the Tyrells had with them, or they had all borrowed from Dragonstone, had been packed away below deck. This was common practice for traveling nobles, as pirates and raiders were known to look for ships that had well-dressed ladies aboard. And if it was known who they were, or if it was found out later, they could claim that was the reason for the plain dress.

Mace Tyrell sounded like an unhappy hog. "This seems like a lot of unnecessary nonsense. I'm sure if we simply explain the situation to these men, they will see that it is in their best interest to let us go on our way. If not out of the good of their hearts or their sense of honor, then a bit of gold in the palm will surely change their minds."

Olenna looked like she was ready to send her middle-aged son to the corner for punishment, and even Tyrion had to resist the urge to snort.

"Believe me, Lord Tyrell. Few appreciate the power of a bit of well-applied gold more than I do. Yet I also know that attempting to press it into the wrong palm can be seen as an insult. And I'd rather not insult the men who are pointing a flaming arrow at the wooden ship I'm standing on."

Also, none of them had much gold on them anyway, so it would be more of a promise of gold to offer.

Before the Fat Flower could respond, he was once more quieted by the Queen of Thorns.

"Lord Tyrion is right," Olenna said, making a face like she had just tasted something foul. "Bribery can be a valuable tool, yet it isn't always the right one. But… the offer of a reward for aid may not be amiss, especially if worded correctly."

'By the gods, I think I'm finally winning her over,' Tyrion thought wryly.

Captain Eyebrows was mostly correct in his prediction that the storm would resolve itself overnight. However, the pale pearl gray of the early dawn light and the vicious wind that remained kept Tyrion from being too eager to sing his praise, especially since the waves it created still tossed the anchored ship to and fro. Both of which meant the crew's entire focus was on safely lowering the gangplank. The first mate was right when he said that Tarth's guardsmen appeared relaxed and calm; even the ones with the notched bow had them lowered and pointed at the ground. It only occurred to Tyrion now, as he tried to stay upright in the force of the wind blowing against his back, that the threat of the flaming arrows was likely a bluff. One fired in this weather would almost certainly go astray.

It was too late to mention that now, however.

On the bright side, it meant there was no rush for them to make their way down the gangplank, which was good because the plain piece of wood felt dreadfully uneven and unstable. First, the crew went, Captain Eyebrows and Ravi going up to converse with the figure who seemed to be the head of the Guards. Then were the Tyrells, with the few women on board huddled in the center with their age and injuries on full display, first surrounded by the men of the family and then by their guards. Tyrion hung near the back, hoping not to be noticed, with Bronn at his side.

"If it would make you feel better, I could stuff you in a sack and carry you around," the sellsword offered. Tyrion could barely hear him over the wind, the wood wobbling beneath his feet. "You'd have to stay still, though."

"I appreciate the offer, but it's a tad too late for that now," Tyrion replied, eyeing the group ahead of him. He winced when Loras Tyrell pushed himself forward, nearly elbowing several of their men into the water.

'The uncomfortably deep water at that,' he thought, eying it with some concern.

"Will this take long?" he asked loudly. "Unnecessary things usually do."

Olenna let out a decidedly unfeeble-sounding hiss, demanding he comes back immediately. Yet the Captain of the Guard only looked up, completely unimpressed by the young man.

"I don't see protecting my land from potential raiders or pirates to be unnecessary, lad. As much as I'd like to believe you folks were truly just some sailors in need of a safe cove for the night, faking distress is a common tactic among the more unsavory lot. Far as we are from the Iron Islands, we can't be taken any chance, especially these days."

Loras did not respond to this, yet though he quieted, he did not return to his space next to his sister, and the tension between the two groups remained elevated.

The head guardsman finished his hushed conversation with the captain and first mate, then turned to the rest of them and cleared his throat. "All right, the name is Morris, and, as you may have guessed, I'm in charge of the guardsmen here. I'm sure you'll all want to be on your way as soon as possible, and while everything Captain Harrigan here says checks out, we're going to need to give the ship a quick search before we can let you set sail. So long as everyone cooperates, this won't take any time at all. First, though, I will ask you to turn over all your weapons; you'll get them back as soon as the search is done."

If Loras' actions activated the nerves between the two groups, then Morris' orders only escalated it. All the Tyrell men who were carrying weapons gripped them tightly, pulling closer to their lord and his family, still standing upon the gangplank. Even Bronn, who often preferred to look unarmed, twitched a hand towards the dagger he kept hidden away at the small of his back. The only people who complied immediately, Tyrion noticed, were the sailors.

'Ah, I see how it will be. We are not two groups, but three.'

Mace Tyrell wanted to protect his family, and Bronn wanted to protect himself, whether that meant protecting Tyrion or abandoning him to his fate was to be seen. Captain Harrigan —so that was his name!— wanted to protect his crew and ship, even if he was getting paid to shuttle Tyrion and the Tyrells. And Morris had both his duty and the safety of his men to consider.

And it was getting very clear that Morris was swiftly losing patience with them.

"Come now, I don't think you all arrived at the shores looking for trouble. Yet I have no reason to trust any of you yet. So please, do not prove me wrong," he said sternly. Behind him, his men adjusted their grips on their weapons, and notched arrows started to rise upward.

At that moment, the tension between them seemed physical and palpable. It was as real and loud as the howl of the wind and the waves crashing against the rocky coastline where water met land. None of the Tyrell men drew weapons, yet none of them took their hands away either. Eventually, something seemed to snap.

"Alright, that's how it's going to be then," Morris sighed.

Tyrion pushed himself forward, waving his arms. "No! No, that isn't—"

At the same time, Olenna Tyrell let out a shrill, hysterical shriek of terror. It was fake. Anyone who knew the woman could tell that, but Tyrion would not blame her for an attempt to diffuse the situation the only way she could.

And yet, that wasn't what drew everyone's attention.

No, that honor went to the sudden swaying of Alerie Tyrell.

The woman swayed right, left, and right again—this time more dramatically. As if in slow motion, Alerie stumbled away from her daughter and towards the edge of the plank. And perhaps that would have been all that happened if not for the violent wind catching in her hair, loose sleeves, and dress skirts. It blew the fabric around her feet until the hem of her dress caught under the sole of her boot. That was the final nudge needed, and before anyone could react, Alerie toppled off the gangplank, hitting the water right below with an audible splash!

.

.

.

"Oh fucking gods!" Bronn swore, his rough voice returning sense to everyone's mind and air to their lungs.

There were more shouts, more swearing, and more exclamations of horror. Several rushed forward towards the edge of the plank, trying to see the woman, only for it to tilt dangerously. A few of Morris' men and the sailors rushed forward, each grabbing someone and pulling them onto solid ground. Tyrion needed no such aid and was down the plank as fast as his short little legs could carry him. In Tyrion's defense, he still kept an eye on the water all the while.

It did not appear to be very deep, yet the waves were rough and the current strong, even against the darkness of the water, the pale light meant Tyrion could barely see the deep green of Alerie's gown and her long silver hair as she got yanked about by the waves.

"Mother!" Loras yelled, lunging forward in an attempt to jump in the water himself.

Morris grabbed him and hauled him backward. "The water will get you too, boy, with an arm like that!"

Through the cluster of the three different groups, one figure broke through the chaos and threw himself into the water. It was one of the guardsmen, the tallest and the broadest of the lot, and one of the few wearing a full-face helmet. With long, steady strides, the guardsman's powerful body forced its way through the waves —the water coming up over his waist— until he was finally able to grab the skirt of Alerie's dress and haul her into his arms before turning and fighting his way back onto dry land.

There was a palpable feeling of relief once both of them were out of the surf; all animosity between the three factions was seemingly forgotten in the wake of a potential disaster being averted. Tyrion couldn't help but hope that this meant the morning might be able to be saved if they could build off this goodwill.

"Mother!" Loras and Margaery both cried, rushing forward to fuss over the woman, their father close behind.

Alerie didn't seem to quite be able to hear their words nor see their faces. Instead, she looked around at the group with wide, frightened eyes. It was as if she didn't understand who any of them were or why she was in the situation—cold and dripping wet in the arms of a stranger.

" I fainted," she mumbled. "I fainted and fell into the water. It was so cold. I fainted. I fainted and—"

"It's probably the stress," Morris said, stepping forward. "Stress and sailing can go hand in hand, in my experience, especially with the fairer sex. Still, after all this, I suggest you all follow me and my men back to Evenfall Hall for food, washing, and to be looked over by a healer. It… looks like a few of you have had a hard go of it lately. Lord Tarth is a good man; he'll be happy to host you."

Tyrion let out a sigh of relief. Yes, after everything, this was about as good of an outcome as they could hope for. It also meant that he might not have the sale in this terrible weather again.

"That is a wonderful idea. I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say—"

"Stop with the threats!" Loras snapped, glaring at Morris before whirling to face the large guardsman again. Give me my mother! I won't let a stranger handle her! She should be helped by someone she trusts."

"Lo—Calm yourself, brother," Margaery pleaded, putting a hand on her brother's good arm. Loras immediately shook it off.

The guard stepped back, head tilted down as he looked at the shorter Loras. "Your arm is injured. I don't think you'd be able to support her weight."

His voice was odd. It was higher pitched than you would expect from a man that size, and there was an echo from inside the helmet.

"He's right," Margaery said, grabbing for her brother again. "Leave it. We have no reason to think Mother is in danger. This man saved her, after all!"

But words fell on deaf ears, and Loras' long-simmering aggression boiled over as he lunged at the guard.

'Nonononono!' Tyrion's mind chanted, various worst-case scenarios flashing through his mind.

Oddly, though, it didn't go as badly as he thought it would.

So swift that Tyrion could barely see it, the guard kicked one armored boot into the charging Loras' stomach, effectively knocking the wind out of him and sending the young man sprawling onto his arse. All while still maintaining a gentle hold on Lady Alerie. When Loras hit the ground, a choir of chuckles escaped all the guardsmen.

"Loras!" Margaery screamed, falling to her knees by her brother and checking him over. Mace Tyrell nearly fell over attempting to do the same.

"...Loras?" Morris asked, eyes narrowing at the young man on the ground before scanning the other individuals who were clearly not sailors.

'Oh no,' Tyrion thought, stomach sinking. 'I don't like that look in his eyes.'

Morris pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing once more. "I take it I'm looking at Lord Tyrell and his family?"

There was a hiss of inhaled breath from the Tyrell men, and Olenna Tyrell's eyes —unnervingly sharp in her wrinkled old face— darted from one face to another before eventually setting her jaw and giving a sharp nod.

"Yes, there's no use denying it," she said before pointing a gnarled hand at Tyrion. "And Tyrion Lannister, the current Lord of Casterly Rock, travels with us."

"Sly old bitch," Bronn chuckled under his breath.

Mentally, Tyrion agreed. Though he didn't find it quite as amusing as his bodyguard. 'She's not interested in letting me escape from this situation if her family cannot.'

Morris sucked in his cheek, scanning all of them. His eyes lingered on Margaery's exposed, damaged face long enough that the young lady turned away. She put on a strong front, yet for all her sharpness, the maiming Margaery had endured had clearly affected her deeply. Behind Morris, his men exchanged hushed words between themselves. On their side, Tyrion watched on, hoping that none of the Tyrell guardsmen would draw their blades. There had already been one clash of violence, but that didn't mean it had to go further.

"Well," Morris said slowly, "Now that I know who you are, I think I will have to insist that you all return to Evenfall Hall. Lord Tarth will certainly have words about what is happening here."

A dozen mouths exploded with different words, excuses, and rebuttals. Before anyone in particular could stand out, Tyrion raised his voice as loud as he could. "My companions and I would be delighted to make the acquaintance of a man so famously even-tempered, kind-hearted, and good-natured as Lord Tarth! Please, good Ser, lead the way! But first, is there anything we should retrieve from our ship?"

Once more, displeased eyes turn to Tyrion. Some show annoyance, others outright animosity. When he meets Olenna's eyes, her lips pressed together so tightly they seem to disappear into her face. Despite this, Tyrion knows she will not go against his words. Open dissension amongst their little group would raise eyebrows. And if they were to win the allies here, the appearance of unification—even if it was merely an illusion—would be vital.

As if on cue, when Mace opened his fat mouth, Olenna silenced her son with a hand on his arm. "...Yes," she said slowly. "As our… companion says, we'd be honored to meet with Lord Tarth."

Tyrion grinned brightly in the face of the infamous Queen of Thorn's glare. 'Just because we're on the same side, don't think I won't be making my own bids and plays. I have plans in all this, too.'

"Alright, then, allow my men and I a moment to discuss things, and we'll be on our way," Morris said. Then he turned to the tall guard, who was in the process of passing off Alerie to Olenna's strange, silent twin bodyguards. Lady Brienne, would you care to ride ahead and warn your father of what has happened?"

His tone was light, teasing. It reminded Tyrion of when his uncles would jap with him when he was a boy. It was such a shift from his stern if affable demeanor that the name he spoke took a moment to register in Tyrion's mind.

'Wait… Brienne? That's a w—'

Before the thought could even conclude, the tall guard pulled off his helmet to reveal a damp, flushed face that was undeniably female, if only technically so.

'...Well, fuck. I was not expecting that!'

"Darling child, I won't ask you why you chose to ride out with Ser Morris and the others. I will only ask if you are all right," Lord Tarth asked his daughter, putting his hands on her shoulders.

The tall gi—Lady Brienne—obediently bent forward several inches to allow her father to press a kiss on her forehead before straightening up to her impressive full height. "I am well, Father. Wet clothes have never killed anybody."

Tyrion couldn't be sure that was strictly true; dampness and cold wind had certainly killed people before. But the temperature was exceptionally bearable this far inland—if still unpleasant. Still, he'd rather be inside, so long as it wasn't in chains, as soon as possible.

'He's not surprised to see her like this,' Tyrion noted, taking in father and daughter. He couldn't say they looked much alike, save for taller builds, broad shoulders, and blonde hair. Tarth, however, was distinctively… No, frail wasn't the right word for it, yet it was clear he did not have the powerful build of his daughter.

His daughter… Tyrion could scarcely wrap his brain around the idea. He knew, of course, that there were places in this world where women trained in martial skills alongside, or even instead, of their menfolk. Yet he had never expected to find one so close. 'Perhaps this is a stranger island than I thought? Perhaps the sons here wear dresses and spend their days focusing on needlework?'

No one except Tyrion and his group was surprised about Lady Brienne's attire or early morning activities. None of the guards had blinked when she removed her helmet, and Morris only smiled in an indulging, amused sort of way.

To the left of him, Olenna Tyrell cleared her throat, making a rough, low sound that finally pulled Lord Tarth's attention away from his daughter.

The man blinked intense blue eyes at them before giving a polite smile. "Excuse me, you'll have to pardon my fatherly instincts. Now, I believe I'm speaking to the Tyrells and Tyrion Lannister, is that correct?"

When they all replied in the affirmative, the man nodded and continued. "I have to admit when Ser Morris came to me and told me what he had found on his morning patrol, I thought it might be his idea of a jap. Then again, I suppose I should have considered it more believable from the start with what I have been hearing recently from King's Landing."

Tyrion did not like the sound of that, except what Lord Tarth said next, which was significantly more pleasing to the ears.

"Everyone, please, sit," he said, gesturing to the collection of comfortably padded benches and plush armchairs that dotted the sitting room. It was an informal space, nothing overly opulent or impressive compared to Casterly Rock or King's Landing, yet it also lacked any of the hallmarks of an intimate chamber reserved purely for family interaction. If Tyrion had to guess, this was a room Tarth used for close associates that he didn't quite consider friends. "A servant will be along shortly with some tea and light refreshments. I doubt the story of how you all came to my shore is a tale for an empty stomach."

The news of food and hot drinks caused the whole room to perk up. While the rain had passed for now, and there was significantly less wind inland —and none indoors— there was still an undeniable chill in the air. It had been getting colder recently. Tyrion was also hungry, properly hungry, for the first time in days. It seemed being on a ship made the thought of heavy meals disagreeable. But more than that, the offer of food and drink meant something more important, for all it would go unsaid.

Guest Right.

Yes, they'd been shown a degree of wary hospitality to this point. Morris and his fellow guards had been restrained and polite with their orders. They were being questioned in a comfortable room instead of in a dungeon, their weapons were taken, yet they were not restrained in any, and they'd all be offered warm woolen blankets if not fresh clothes. More so, though the sailors had been left behind at the ship with some guards and most of the Tyrell men had been led elsewhere, the Tyrells were allowed to keep two guards —Olenna's personal twin protectors, it hadn't even been discussed— and Tyrion had been allowed to keep Bronn by his side.

Bronn, who was slouched in an armchair and looking very much like he was about to fall asleep. Tyrion could only hope he wouldn't start snoring if that happened.

So, while they'd been treated kindly so far, Tyrion was glad to see the more concrete practice of Guest Right being played out. His father had always scoffed at the superstitious practice; privately, Tyrion saw it as foolish. But foolish wisdom could still be beneficial. And while Cersei may be willing to violate it, the practice was still considered important to many others.

Lady Brienne left the room, her striking blue eyes tracing over all of them as she went. The door was still swinging shut when a trio of maids brought in trays piled high with tea, sliced fruit, and large, sliced biscuits stuffed with egg, bacon, sausage, and other savory delights. The smell hit Tyrion's nostrils with the same heavenly intensity that came with sinking into a hot bath after a cold, wet day. Before he knew it, three of the biscuits, a peach, and two cups of tea —ginger, sharp and invigorating— were making themselves at home in his stomach. The sounds that filled the room indicated Tyrion wasn't the only one to be struck by this sudden vicious hunger.

Tarth allowed them time to feed with silent politeness, indulging in only a single biscuit and some sliced apple alongside his tea. When the chewing finally slowed, he spoke up again. "I will hear your story now if you please."

Because Tyrion could finish wiping crumbs from his mouth and chest, Olenna had launched into a dramatic recounting of her family's harrowing escape from King's Landing. The dwarf could only watch on in impressed bemusement as she performed her monologue, adding just the right amount of detail to keep the tale immersively descriptive without slowing the pace and pausing in the right places to dab at her eyes with a handkerchief or stumbling with her words as if overcome with emotion. Tyrion wondered if she'd spent every day since escaping the capital rehearsing this speech, or at least versions.

"And what that hateful woman did to my poor, sweet Margaery!" Olenna waved a hand at her granddaughter, who bowed her head, not meeting Tarth's sympathetic eye. She'd donned her eyepatch once more on her own or by her grandmother's instruction. Tyrion was glad, not just because it seemed cruel to force the girl to keep her ruined face on display, but because said face was simply hard to look at—especially since he knew what it looked like before. "It was all horrible, of course, but that was simply unforgivable!"

Tarth hummed before looking at Tyrion. "And you, Lord Tyrion, what is your side of the story? If you're a hostage, you look to be an exceptionally well-treated one."

"Of course not," Tyrion replied before Olenna could get a chance too. "While I certainly have been well treated, the Tyrells and I are joined against my sister as allies. You must understand that Cersei, in whatever madness has claimed her mind, tried to kill me, too. I knew I wasn't the only one in danger when I escaped. That is how I got on the path that led to me aiding the Tyrells here, as well as other families. She may be my blood, but I cannot stand back and let such wickedness go unimpeded."

That was a simplified and prettied version of events. One that didn't technically contain any lies, yet omitted both many truths and what his destination was. Yet even though Tyrion felt Olenna's shrewd eyes on him, he knew she would not speak up against his versions of events. Right now, a unified front continues to be more important.

Tarth rubbed his chin, lips pressed together tightly. "Your story… along with others I've heard, is troubling. I must spend the day thinking about what I've recently learned."

"Will you help us, Lord Tarth?" Margaery asked, voice soft yet steady.

The older man paused, giving the question consideration. "...I have always made it my policy to offer aid to those caught in a storm, and that is what I intend to do for now. The captain of your ship has relayed that, though the rains have passed, he does not wish to sail in this wind. He believes it will pass by tomorrow morning, so for the next day, at least, you will be my guests. I will have you all shown to rooms where you can get a few more hours of rest if you wish or too simply relax. Baths, if you wish them, and clean clothes too. I'm afraid my keep is far from as opulent as Highgarden or Casterly Rock, but I hope the accommodations are comfortable enough."

"We are grateful for all the hospitality you show us, Lord Tarth," Tyrion said quickly, a sentiment everyone echoed.

Tarth smiled, his expression falling away when his eyes returned to Margaery's face. "I will have my maester ready to attend… all who wish it, as well."

He clearly didn't want to say 'the disfigured girl, drenched lady, beaten young knight, or old crone.' Tyrion thought he did a remarkable job keeping his words tactful.

His frown fell deeper. "Tonight, at supper, I'll let you know any… further decisions I make. Until then, I will say no more on any subject"

With that, this little meeting was over, and Tyrion was left with more questions than answers.

The sun was… still mostly hidden behind clouds, yet at least high enough in the sky to provide some natural light when Tyrion emerged from the small yet comfortable chambers he had been to rove the wider hallways of Evenfall Hall.

In clean clothes, freshly washed skin and hair, with a full stomach, and a mind made clearer after a few necessary hours of sleep, Tyrion did not hurry in his wanderings. For one, that would have defeated the purpose of his exploration, and for another, it would have looked suspicious. They hadn't been told to stay in their rooms, nor was there an extensive guard present in the guest wing when he emerged. The ones who had been there watched him quietly, plenty of questions in their eyes, but they did not try to stop him.

Tyrion wondered if they'd be so calm if he were more like Jamie. Tall, strong, and dangerous in a way they could more easily comprehend.

Except Tyrion wasn't Jamie. He was a dwarf and, therefore, mostly overlooked. Sometimes, he preferred it that way. And more than that, Tyrion was a guest, not a prisoner. He should be free to wander the public areas of this castle.

Not that there was much to see, necessarily. Evenfall Hall wasn't exactly a pitiful shack, but Tarth hadn't been lying when he said it wasn't as opulent as Casterly Rock. Of course, few castles were. Nonetheless, the seat of the Tarth family was pleasant enough. Lots of pale stone and plenty of windows designed to allow for a view of the magnificent sapphire blue seas below them. Tyrion also suspected that these windows could all be thrown open during the peak of the summer heat to allow the ocean winds to blow through the castle and keep it cool. For now, though, many windows had been closed and covered with thick blue velvet curtains to lock in as much heat as possible. Pleasant enough designed features they may be, but they still weren't what Tyrion was looking for.

'What kind of Castle has no secret passages or hidden rooms? It's simply a tragedy!' Tyrion thought as he investigated another display cabinet, disappointed when he realized it was, in fact, just a cabinet.

Evenfall Hall Wasn't a particularly large castle, and Tyrion had already discovered the kitchen, pantries, larder, and buttery, as well as a collection of parlors, galleries, and storage rooms. None of which yielded anything of particular interest, though he could snag a delicious spiced pastry from the kitchen without anyone noticing.

But more than not finding anything interesting, Tyrion was very disappointed not to even hear anything of value. As a general rule, castle staff loved to gossip. More specifically, they love to gossip about the nobles inside the castle. And, if you listened hard enough, gossip could often be good as gold. Yet the maids in this castle seemed content to discuss various bodily sores and aches, neither of which Tyrion cared to hear more about.

The one valuable thing Tyrion had learned was that Lord Tarth was apparently in between paramours. His last one had been an unimportant, middle-aged widowed woman from House Wylde—which, if part of the pattern, certainly explained why Tarth did not have any bastard children running about. She was absent, though, having had to return home to care for her grandchildren after their parents passed. Tyrion wasn't certain what he could do with that information, but he tucked it away just the same.

Two more hours of exploration passed before Tyrion finally stumbled upon something of interest: Lady Brienne in the castle's armory.

She was hunched over a colorful shield on a table, polishing it with such care that it was almost a reverent action. Tyrion watched her silently until she finally straightened and held the shield up to the light for inspection. When Tyrion saw that its design was a green shooting star above an elm tree proper on sunset, he finally spoke up.

"This is an odd place to find the shield belonging to the famous Ser Duncan the Tall," he said, Lady Brienne whirling around at the sound of his voice. "Or, at least, an excellent replication. They even added knicks and dings to make it look authentic."

"It is real!" Lady Brienne snapped, her voice fearsome and protective. She hugged the shield to her chest as if it was something precious, even glancing down to confirm it was still there before looking up at Tyrion. "It's been in the possession of my family for generations!"

Tyrion held up his hands in surrender and apology. "I mean no disrespect. I have always wondered why it wasn't on display in the Red Keep's armory, and I suppose this answers the question. For years, I thought it might have been destroyed by the fire at Summer Hall.

"He left it here years before that," Lady Brienne answered immediately. Then she stiffened, giving Tyrion a suspicious look like she didn't intend to give him any personal information about herself or her family. " I'm surprised you even recognized it."

"Just because I never had dreams of grandeur on the field of battle doesn't mean I didn't love the Tales of Dunk & Egg like any other young nobleboy," Tyrion replied with a shrug. Then he added, "They were my brother's favorite stories growing up. It was one of the few books we both enjoyed together. I remember the design from illustrations in the copy he had. Many years later, I saw a more elaborate illustration in the White Book in King's Landing."

Lady Brienne nodded slowly, seemingly finding his answer acceptable enough to offer him more information. "Ser Duncan is my ancestor. My great-great-great-grandfather, or so the family story goes. Fathered before he joined the Kingsuard, of course."

Tyrion blinked. "I've never heard of such a thing."

Now it was Lady Brienne's turn to shrug. "As I said, it is my family story. No paper records exist of a union, only the verbal tale of an only daughter who loved a hedge knight, wedded him, birthed a child, and then agreed to leave the child with the mother's family after she died in the birthing bed. That, and his shield. Still here all these years later."

"Well, I certainly believe it's possible," Tyrion said, partly to himself as he took in Lady Brienne's height. 'Gods, she's taller than Jamie. By a decent amount, too. She may even have bigger biceps than him!'

Tarth's heir had changed into some fine, yet plain trousers and a loose-fitted white silk tunic. In the back of his mind, Tyrion was glad not to see her in a dress. Lady Brienne's appearance was already so… odd! She was so awkward, ungainly, and distinctively unfeminine that picturing her in a dress would be a comical image that invited laughter. These masculine clothes suited her better, much like the armor had.

"I've always loved the story too. And not just the story either but the true history behind it," Lady Brienne said, more to herself than Tyrion. "Ser Duncan… He started with nothing; he came from nothing, and then he became a hedge knight and eventually Captain of the Kingsguard. The most famous knight of his time! It's incredible. it's inspiring." Then she looked up and smiled. "Did you know he was over seventy when he died at Summer Hall? Seventy, and still a fearsome warrior."

"That I did know," Tyrion nodded. And he's still managed to save more people than I hope to ever save in my entire life!"

Brienne's smile widened. Such a simple thing, and yet it did wonders for her face. No, it didn't make her into a beauty. Her features were still broad, coarse, and freckle-covered. Her teeth were prominent and crooked, with a left canine missing entirely, framed by a wide mouth with too-large lips. And yet the smile gave her a sense of vigor and confidence that she had previously lacked and brought life into a pair of truly stunning blue eyes. As blue as the sapphire waters that surrounded her home.

Tyrion took another step into her room, banking on Brianne's good cheer to allow the movement. He nodded toward the shield. "Some say he was the greatest knight who ever lived. I suppose you agree?"

Brienne nodded, then snorted. "And some say he wasn't a knight at all. As if that discredits all he accomplished."

"Is he the reason you…" Tyrion chose his words carefully, "...wanted to learn to use a sword?"

"I can do more than use a sword!"

Tyrion raised his hands again. "Apologies once more, my lady. I'll hear more of the story if you offer it to me."

When Brienne looked dubious at the offer, Tyion added. "My lady, please, if you fear me as a Lannister, you should know that few of my own family would like to claim me as such. If you fear me as an outsider, then I gently remind you that your father has accepted me as an honored guest. And if you fear me as a man… Well, I think we both know you could punt me across the room with a single kick and without breaking a sweat."

"...True," Brienne said, a small smile playing on her lips. She gestured towards a small bench, which Tyrion took a seat on. She sat on the table, long legs swinging ever so slightly. It was a strangely girlish action.

'That's because she is a girl,' Tyrion realized with a start.

No, not a girl precisely. She was easily a woman grown, certainly of marrying age. Yet Brienne was still much younger than Tyrion originally assumed. Honestly, he should have noticed it sooner. Yet Brianne's large size made it difficult for Tyrion to even imagine the girl-child she must once have been.

"While I have always found the tales of Ser Duncan the Tall inspirational, they were only part of my decision to take up the sword. The other part was a desire to be good and exceptional at something." Brienne gestured broadly at her body. "If you think me a freakish fool, Lord Tyrion, then I implore you not to bother saying. I assure you I have heard it all before. That, and so much worse."

She swallowed hard. "I know how I appear, my lord. Yet I truly don't believe I had any better choices. You must understand that my mother died when I was so young that I don't even remember her. My older brother and two younger sisters followed her to the grave. Father… he never remarried. He loved my mother too much. So he was stuck with just me. Just his awkward, ugly daughter. At first, I tried to be the best noble lady possible. I learned the songs, I learned the dances, and everything else my septa tried to teach me. Most, I wasn't very good at, but I always tried my hardest. In return for my attempts, I was met with scorn and mockery. Or pity, which hurt the worst."

The young woman stopped to draw in deep, shuddering breaths. Tyrion got the sense that she had both wanted to say this for a very long time, even to a stranger, and that if he interrupted her, Brianne would never finish her story

"And eventually, I decided, if I couldn't be a lady worthy of song, I'd be a warrior worthy of legend. I started watching the guards as they trained, and when our old master-at-arms, Ser Goodwin, found me waving around a practice sword, he decided I would join them in training. Oh, Father tried to stop it. He tried for years. He had hoped for me to marry well, of course. And considering my other deficiencies, he didn't want another mark against me. Of course, those betrothals always fell through, either through death, the man's choice, Or when he couldn't beat me in combat."

Brienne jutted her chin out proudly at that, and Tyrion hid a smile behind his hand.

"After Ser Humfrey Wagstaff left our island with three broken bones, Father stopped trying to arrange a marriage for me. Instead, he sat me down and told me that if I wanted to learn to fight, I would learn properly. From that point on, he has always supported me. And no matter what he does, I will always love my Father for that. Plenty of men in Westeros would have thrown their daughter away for acting, for simply looking as I do, and yet he loves me and supports me inside of my wrongness."

An ugly twist of jealousy formed in Tyrion's gut. 'Lucky girl, I don't think a day has passed that my father didn't wish he threw me down a well.'

He cleared his throat. "How good are you with a sword?"

At the question, Brienne's grin was back. This time, there was a vicious edge to it. "If I got a chance to prove it, I'd be one of the best you've ever seen."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Quite the claim, considering who my brother is."

Brienne's smile didn't drop. "I know how to use an ax and a Morningstar as well, though I prefer the latter to be blunted."

"...Good to know."

'It looks like this castle had some secrets after all; only they were a person instead of juicy gossip or hidden treasure.'

Tyrion couldn't be certain Brienne was as skilled as she claimed. For all he knew, all the guards she trained against lost on purpose. Yet she had put Loras Tyrell on his arse in one move. Despite the circumstances, that was still impressive. He found he would like to see her in an actual fight. If nothing else, it would be a novel sight.

The castle bells rang out. It was early afternoon. Supper would be served at six bells, which meant Tyrion still had plenty of time to kill.

"You are an unusual creature, Lady Brienne of Tarth; I will not deny that. I also do not make a habit of laughing at those who are outcasts from society—for reasons I'm sure you can understand," Tyrion said with a small, tight grin. I thank you for your story, my lady. For now, may I trouble you with the directions to the library? I don't wish to take up any more of your time."

Brienne gave a small nod, still looking at Tyrion as if she wasn't quite sure she believed his words, even if she liked the sound of them. "Of course. I will escort you there myself… and then I suppose I will see you at supper."

It wasn't much; it wasn't an offer of friendship or a promise to speak to her father on their behalf, yet it was a kindness. And at this point, Tyrion wasn't looking to deny any kindnesses.

' Strange creature indeed. I'm sure I can find a use for you, La— Ser Brienne.'

"Before we sup, I must beg the pardon of you all. I must admit that I know more about the situation in King's Landing than I suggested. If you all please, I can share that knowledge with you now," Lord Tarth said from his seat at the head of the table in the grand hall.

Around them, servants swarmed to lay down platters of roasted quail, poached fish, seasoned potatoes and greens, thick gravy, and buttery bread with full flagons of wine at the ready. It wasn't a lavish feast, but it looked hardy and smelled heavenly. The question was if the news they were about to get from Tarth would be enhanced by the meal or completely spoil it.

The overlapping affirmatives Tarth got from Olenna, Mace, and Tyrion prompted the man to pull a fold of pieces of parchment from his sleeve and pass them around. To Tyrion's annoyance, he passed it to Olenna Tyrell first, and as it made its way down the line of family members, it left flushed faces and angry snarls in its wake.

The old woman grew still and angry, sharp eyes flittering around as if looking for answers in the air around her.

"These are lies! Lies and slander!" Mace bellowed, his face now remarkably resembling a tomato. " That woman… She's a devil. She wants to see us all burn. I know it!"

"Madness," Margaery whispered. "Simple madness."

Silent tears trickled down Alerie's face, and Loras swore loudly. Tyrion all but tore the parchment out of the youth's hands to read it.

He read it once, then twice, and then after he finished the third time, he downed all the wine in his goblet. After a moment of brief consideration, he reached over to steal Bronn's wine as well.

'Oh, Cersei… What have you done?'

Except Tyrion knew what Cersei had done. It was laid out in front of him, right here on this piece of parchment, proudly declaring it to the world. It was an elaborate web of lies and rage, telling the tale of a grand conspiracy against her family.

"No one will believe these fallacies," Olenna said, voice clipped. "They will see her for the fraud she is."

"I must admit that I found her claims rather fanciful when I got the letter. Yet it was the second letter that truly put me on edge," Tarth admitted.

.

.

.

"SECOND LETTER?"

The question boomed out of all of their mouths —except for Bronn, who was refilling his wine— to the shock of Tarth, who jumped at the sudden sound.

"Uh, yes… I was getting to that. I didn't want to give you too much bad news at once," Tarth said, producing a second piece of parchment and passing it around. "Brace yourselves."

If the first letter was greeted with anger, the second one was greeted with dread.

"The Greyjoys… She's allied with the Greyjoys," Alerie said, tears coming heavier now. "Doesn't she know? Doesn't she understand?"

"Who is Euron Greyjoy?" Margaery asked. "I thought Balon Greyjoy was the current lord."

"One of Balon's brothers," Olenna replied. Her voice sounded like she was only half-focused on the conversation. "He was banished many years ago. Rumor has it that he was too brutal for even his kin to stomach and has spent much of that time since causing trouble in all sorts of distant seas. I suppose he decided it was time for a homecoming. I doubt Balon appreciated the reunion."

"It makes sense," Bronn grunted. I've heard there's been some strangeness going on around the Iron Islands recently. It would make sense if they wanted a bit of quiet after a change of power. You don't want outside eyes on you while you're getting things settled, you know."

All eyes turned to the sellsword, who shrugged. "Unlike most of you, I actually talked to the sailors on our ship. It turns out they had a lot to say."

'And that is why I pay you well, Bronn.'

Loras swore again, and Mace let out what could only be described as angry squeaks. Tyrion rubbed a hand down his face. He was sweating so badly that he felt he needed another bath.

"I can't believe she'd do this," he said. "She was Queen during the Greyjoy Rebellion! She has to remember how they burned the Lannisport Fleet, the raiding of Lannisport itself!"

'Why didn't you stop this, Jamie? I can only hope you didn't suggest it!'

Because, reluctant as Tyrion was to admit it, it wasn't necessarily a foolish move in theory. The Crown was short on ships; everyone knew that, and if the Greyjoys had an abundance of anything, it was ships—ships that could be easily used to threaten the Reach, North, and Riverlands. Even the Stormlands and Dragonstone were imperiled. The decisive naval advantage her enemies had enjoyed had, to all appearances, just been effectively countered.

And there was no Stannis Baratheon alive to break them like before.

'But to ally with the Greyjoys? That has to invite ruin. And what would she give them in return?'

"And it does get worse," Tarth said, taking a generous gulp of his own wine. "As you'll see later in the letter," —it still being in the hands of the stunned Alerie— "Cersei Lannister has announced that 'for their safety,' she wants every noble house of Westeros, no matter how great or minor, to send at least two children to King's Landing for fostering. If no children are available, other family members will do. She must have expected some resistance because she's also promising that the first fifteen families to do so will be rewarded for their loyalty."

Tyrion bit the inside of his cheek. "Do you know how many noble families have believed her claims and are cooperating with her orders? As much as I'd like to believe our peers are too smart for such a thing, I have no doubt she'll get hostages from at least fifteen families, likely from ones closest to King's Landing. On top of the ones she managed to capture during her initial coup, that is."

Tarth shook his head. "I'm afraid I cannot say. One of the few benefits of being a small, out-of-the-way House is that I haven't been harassed for my support yet. I've only received these two letters. However, I have heard from other lords who didn't immediately respond that they received follow-up letters, none of which were pleasant."

Then he looked to Brienne, who'd maintained a thoughtful silence throughout the dinner conversation. With a smile, he reached over and squeezed her hand. "Not that I'd ever consider sending my daughter away, of course."

Brienne smiled back. "I do not doubt that, Father."

This touching familial moment aside, Tarth turned back to them and cleared his throat. "With this new information on the table, I ask you to reshare your stories. Lord Tyrion, you were accused of kinslaying. That is a grave accusation, yet I'd hear what you'd say in your defense first."

His words were not harsh, and his tone was not accusatory. That was an improvement over much of what Tyrion had experienced in the past week.

"I did not kill my father; I want to make that very clear immediately," Tyrion said, shaking his head. "I will admit to causing Cersei's burns, but I only acted in self-defense. I can't even truly say I wish to do her harm. I feared for my life, and my only thought was of escaping…in that moment. Cersei is my sister, and yet she tried to kill me. She tried to kill me, and she did kill our father. For reasons I can only assume were because he tried to stop her. And despite my difficult relationship with him, I cannot forgive her for that."

"Hmmm," Tarth hummed before turning to the Tyrells. "And you all?"

"I have nothing to say in our defense because nothing needs to be said in our defense," Mace bellowed, shooting to his feet. Then, the most miraculous thing happened. For a moment, the Fat Flower almost looked intimidating and impressive in his anger. "We were attacked under Guest Right, I tell you! Guest Right! Perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised, given who her father was, but in all my years, I have never seen something so disgraceful! They killed my men! More than that, they've maimed my daughter! There's nothing to excuse such an action!"

Margaery flinched away from the finger Mace pointed in her direction. "Father, please, do not make this all about what has happened to me. Many others have suffered because of Cersei Lannister's decisions. Let us not forget that Renly Baratheon is still in a coma from the injuries he received."

"Lord Renly was harmed?" Brienne asked, eyes going wide. Everyone gave her a surprise look at the outburst after she had largely remained silent so far. The young woman's face flushed, and she cleared a threat. "I… am surprised we didn't hear that our liege lord was incapacitated."

'No,' Tyrion thought, eyes narrowing. 'That was a worry of a personal kind.'

"We were still debating among ourselves the best way to word such news, Lord Tarth," Margaery said sweetly. "As I'm sure you'll agree, offering such horrible news must be done delicately. Phrasing it wrong could lead to terrible misunderstandings. More than that, we didn't want to risk saying anything that would insult Lord Renly and, therefore, you."

Tarth let out another thoughtful hum. "Where is he now?"

They share glances, wondering if this information could be safely shared. Eventually, Tyrion swallowed and decided to take a chance on this man. "On Dragonstone under the Lady Shireen's protection, receiving the best care he can. When we left, he was still in a coma, yet the healers were hopeful."

Tyrion didn't feel the need to say what exactly they were hopeful of.

"And why wasn't he sent back to Storm's End? Surely his own maester would know how to best care for him."

There were more shared looks. This time, Loras spoke up, somewhat hesitantly. "The healers on Dragonstone advised against moving him. They said it could make his condition worse."

"And I trust two of the healers fully. They were the ones who assisted me after…" Margaery gestured to her face. She gave a self-deprecating smile. "As bad as it looks now, I'm certain it would have been even more horrid had they not tended to me."

Tarth winced, and his next question came slower. "But, if Lord Renly were to awaken, he'd be allowed to leave if he so chooses. Correct?"

"Absolutely," snapped Olenna. The old woman was clearly unhappy about Tarth's insinuation as she struggled to maintain her composure. "We'd insist he go back and sort out the affairs of his lands, in fact. As of now, Lady Shireen Baratheon has claimed temporary control of Storm's End, abetted from afar and with aid from Lord Renly's men there, but we all know that is a solution that will only last for so long."

"That is… understandable," Tarth said slowly. He relaxed more in his seat. "But we must clear up this business of Princess Myrcella. Cersei has claimed you all abducted her. Where is she?"

Tyrion bit down on his tongue to elicit the necessary wince. The Tyrells looked at each other before Mace shook his head.

"I'm afraid we know nothing of the girl's fate. None of our group has seen her," he said.

All eyes turned to Tyrion. He bit down harder and bowed his head. "I do not know. She wasn't with any of the groups that escaped, and she wasn't with me. I pray that my sweet niece is safe, but for all I know, Cersei is lying about that as much as she's lying about everything else. She could have Myrcella locked in the Maiden's Vault for all I know."

Lies destroyed trust. And he needed the Tyrells, and even Tarth, to trust him. But his duty to protect Myrcella exceeded any of that. So he would keep this secret, even from Bronn.

"I was afraid of that. It is always the little ones who suffer the most," Tarth sighed, shaking his head. Tell me about the Starks. They helped you escape, correct?"

'I'm not going to get a better opening than this,' Tyrion thought, leaning forward and rapping his knuckles on the table to draw attention to himself. "I'm so delighted you bring them up, Lord Tarth. Yes, they did help us escape. Through them, an alliance of Houses willing to stand against my sister was formed. Aside from the Starks, Lady Shireen of Dragonstone and, by association, Storm's End stand with us, all of which we've put under the command of Ser Barristan the Bold himself. We are expecting support from Riverrun and the Vale as well through Ned Stark's family connections. More than that, there are emissaries sent to woo Dorne. After all, their hatred of the Lannisters is well known."

The Tyrells looked on the scarcely concealed horror at how much Tyrion was revealing—or, to be honest, embellishing. He swore Olenna let out a sigh of relief when he kept his mouth shut about dragons and magic and lost Targaryens.

"If you require proof of what I'm saying, we do have letters of support from Lady Shireen Baratheon and Lord Ned Stark that we can present to you," Tyrion said, casually sipping his wine. In some cases, the appearance of casualness equally equates to confidence.

"Those would be well-met, yes," Tarth nodded. "Do you have them with you, or are they on your ship?"

"Hidden on the ship."

More specifically, they were hidden in a secret compartment among Olenna Tyrell's smallclothes. A place few men would ever be brave enough to venture.

"And if you need any proof of my dedication to the cause, I can tell you that I am traveling with the Tyrells, despite the harm my family has done them, as part of our plan to get me to the Westerlands so I may sway the rest of my family against Cersei," Tyrion continued.

In a strange way, he was almost having fun. He thought getting to sway minds was a bit like a magic trick. You had to keep the people focused on one thing while you did another thing secretly. It was all very theatrical.

"Do you think you'll be able to?" Tarth asked, eyebrows raised.

Tyrion grinned and nodded towards the letter that had returned to Tarth. "Now that I know Cersei has allied with the Greyjoys, I have no doubt. For as little as some of you may think of my family, I assure you that we hate the Greyjoys as well, and our lands have suffered at their hands, too. Her association with such vile sorts also adds credibility to my own claims of her committing kinslaying and breaking Guest Right. My Uncle Kevin will be furious upon learning what she's done. With the right words, hopefully, furious enough to disavow her, especially after he hears how his brother really died."

Another sip of wine, this time to allow Tyrion time to think. He considered hinting that a 'certain high-ranking representative of certain foreign powers' had also been targeted in Cersei's coup and was standing with them. Eventually, he decided against it. It could potentially open the door to too many questions, and it would be too easy to let something important slip. After all, they hadn't heard Tarth's word that he would assist them yet.

No, that conversation would be for a later day. For now…

Slowly, Tyrion put his wine down and pulled himself up to his full height. "And now that we've answered all your questions, Lord Tarth, I would like to ask you one of my own. Or, rather, I'd like to ask you a question that Lady Margaery has already asked you once more."

Tyrion did not have the power to make this offer, he knew. Yet, once more, he didn't think the Tyrells would argue against his overstepping. He couldn't keep doing this, Tyrion knew. Eventually, it would come back and bite him in the arse. Certainly, Olena would take pains to make certain of that. Tyrion promised himself this would be the last time. Well, the last time if it worked.

He paused for a moment, letting tension linger in the air. "Will you help us, Lord Tarth?"

.

.

.

"No, I cannot."

Rumbles of dismay and aggravation filled the room, all of which Tarth bore gracefully.

"Tarth, you know that, as Lord Renly's vassal, you are obligated to aid him, right?" Olenna asked, anger seeping forth clearly.

Tarth nodded. "And if Lord Renly were to ask for my assistance, I would agree to get it. I would even aid Lady Shireen if she requested it of me. But I cannot risk my land and my people on this sort of third-hand account you've given me. Regardless of your letters, I am unable to confirm the validity of being too unfamiliar with Lady Shireen or Lord Stark to do so. And even if I was willing to help you, we are a small house and I would have little to offer you. Make no mistake, I still intend to offer you shelter for the rest of the night. Yet come morning, weather permitting, you all must be off."

'Damn, I thought we had him too,' Tyrion thought, eyes closed in dismay. 'I—'

Screech!

"Father, I must protest this course of action!"

Once more, all eyes turned to Brienne. The young woman was on her feet, cheeks red once more, though now flushed with vigor. For supper, Brienne had donned an embroidered deep blue velvet doublet quartered and breeches with polished black boots. An outfit that complimented her father's nicely. And, once more, Tyrion found he was glad she hadn't been made to wear a gown. Instead of projecting an image of femininity, she projected one of strength and conviction.

Tarth blinked. "Brienne, I—"

"Father, you claim our location will keep us from being noticed, yet we are so close to King's Landing, especially if they mean to wage war against Storm's End, that I cannot believe that will hold true for long. We will be affected if naval battles erupt in the coming conflicts!" Brienne exclaimed, plowing forward through her father's words. "More than that, we must also be concerned about the Greyjoys. While they have rarely come to our shores in the past, with Cersei Lannister allying with them, we need to assume they will also come here. Or need I remind you that we are an island!"

Now it was Tyrion's turn to blink. While he had hoped Brianne would speak up in their favor, he was surprised by how eloquently and passionately she could do it. Next to him, Bronn let out a low whistle. He was impressed, too.

"Father, you have always raised me to be brave and just. You have raised me to act nobly and to stand for my own morals, even in the face of staggering odds. And now I must defy you as both as your daughter and as the heir of Tarth. Hear me when I cannot stand following a woman like Cersei, one who would kill her own father and then ally with rappers and pillagers. No, I refuse to accept her as my ruler. Not when it should be—"

Her speech came to a halt, words catching in her throat. Brienne swallowed them down, but not before Tyrion could see her lips making the shape of an R.

Brienne drew a deep breath and steadied herself one more. "We should help these people. I know it, and I believe you know it as well. But even if you refuse, I intend to accompany and aid them in their journey—"

"YOU WILL DO NO SUCH THING!" Tarth was on his feet now, gripping Brienne's tunic.

"—so I can help restore the honor of the realm and avenge our liege lord," Brienne continued. She stared down, locking eyes with her father. "So I can either have your blessing and aid, or you can lock me away and live with my anger."

.

.

.

Tarth let out a long, low breath, dropping his head and arm. When he finally looked back up, he gave them all a tired grin. "Very well then. I will assist you all in all the ways I can."