Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Appendix (as of the New Year of 125 AC)

House Arryn

Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East. (30 years old)
-Her Lady Companion, Jessamyn Redfort. (30 years old)

Her cousin, Ser Arnold Arryn, a captive in a Sky Cell. (43 years old)
-Arnold's late wife, Betha Royce.
---Their son, Eldric Arryn, a squire in Runestone. (14 years old)

Her distant cousin, Ser Joffrey Arryn, Knight of the Bloody Gate. (32 years old)
-His wife, Catelyn Hunter. (18 years old)

Her distant cousin, Isembard Arryn, the Gilded Falcon. (60 years old)
-Isembard's sons, Ser Benedict, Ser Archibald, Maladon
-Isembard's daughter, Alysanne

House Royce

Elaena Royce, Lady of Runestone. (23 years old)
-Her husband, Ser Olyvar Templeton. (28 years old)
---Their son, Samwell Royce. (1 year old)
-Her sisters, Baela and Rhaena Targaryen. (8 years old)

Her closest related cousin, Mya Royce. (Age 34)

Her great-uncle, Ser Gunthor Royce, the Bronze Giant. (63 years old)
-His eldest son, Ser Gerold Royce, steward of Runestone. (45 years old)
----Gerold's eldest son, Ser Jon Royce. (31 years old)
----Ser Jon's wife, Mya
-------Their sons, Allard and Robar, squires. (16 and 15 years old)
-------Their daughters, Barba, Willa, Rhea and Alyssa. (14, 13, 12, 10 years old)
----Gerold's younger son, Ser Willam Royce. (22 years old)

--Gunthor's late daughter, Betha, Arnold's wife and Eldric's mother.

--Gunthor's younger son, Ser Jorah Royce. (37 years old)
----Jorah's son, Gunthor, an acolyte of the Faith and University student. (18 years old)

House Royce's vassals

Septa Roelle. (24 years old)
Septa Myranda, Arnold Arryn's mother and Eldric's grandmother. (58 years old)

Ser Simon Storm, the Griffin's bastard. (33 years old)
-His wife, Ginger, a merchant's daughter. (27 years old)
---His brother and squire, Alyn Connington. (12 years old)

Ser Robert Stone, Master-at-Arms of Runestone. (59 years old)

Maester Rookwill. (70 years old)
Maester Qarlton. (48 years old)

Ser Benfred the Grim, Ser Bryce Coldwater, Ser Pate of Gulltown, Ser Yohn Royce, knights of Runestone.
Tansy, Head Maidservant.
Pate, the Cook.
Septon Lomas.

House Tollett

Lord Edwyle Tollett, Lord of Grey Glen.
---Edwyle's son, Ser Jon Tollett, Yorbert Royce's former squire.
---Ser Jon's wife, Carolei Coldwater
-----Their son, Roland, a squire.
-----Their daughters, Millicent, lady-in-waiting in Runestone, Lysa. (9 and 7 years old)

-His younger brother, Ser Rymund.
---His eldest daughter, Lianne and her husband Ser Humfrey Tollett, Knight of Moondancer's Port.
---His middle daughter, Dalla, a septa.
---His younger daughter, Cella, head lady-in-waiting of Runestone. (22 years old)

House Coldwater

Lord Amos Coldwater, Lord of Coldwater Burn.
---His eldest son, Ser Leyton.
------Leyton's eldest son, Ser Amos.
----------Ser Amos's daughter, Alysanne, a lady-in-waiting in Runestone. (10 years old)
---His middle son, Ser Bryce.
---His younger son, Ser Androw.
---His daughter, Carolei

House Shett

Ser Andrik Shett, Knight of the Gull Tower.
---His daughter, Maris Shett, a lady-in-waiting in Runestone. (9 years old)
---His son, Yorbert, a page. (6 years old)

House Redfort

Lord Byron Redfort, Lord of Redfort.
---His wife, Marla Manderly.
-----Two sons and a daughter.

---His younger sister, Jessamyn Redfort.

---His younger brother, Ser Adrian Redfort.

House Grafton

Lord Lucas Grafton, Lord of Gulltown.
---His sons, Ser Jon, Ser Marq and Matthis, a squire.
---His daughter, Marianne.

House Templeton

Ser Jonothor Templeton, Knight of Ninestars. (78 years old)
---His grandson and heir, Ser Luceon Templeton. (27 years old)
-----Ser Luceon's wife, Lanna Belmore. (23 years old)
---His second grandson, Ser Lyonel. (25 years old)
---His third grandson, Ser Lomas. (20 years old)

---His eldest daughter, Septa Myranda.
---His second daughter, Alysanne, dowager Lady Melcolm.
------Her daughters, Myranda, Rowena, Perra
------Her son, Galbart Melcolm, Lord of Old Anchor. (10 years old)
---His third daughter, Janna, Lady Sunderland.
------Her eldest son, Orrel Sunderland, heir to Sweetsister and the Three Sisters. (17 years old)
------Her second son, Clifford Sunderland. (11 years old)
---His fourth daughter, Lysa, Lady Dutton.
------Her son, Patrek Dutton, heir to Dutton Keep. (8 years old)
---His fifth daughter, Sara, married to Ser Armistead Egen.

---His youngest son, Ser Olyvar.

House Corbray

Lord Leowyn Corbray, Lord of Heart's Home.
---His wife, Lollys Dutton.
------Their son, Martyn. (3 years old)

-His brother, Ser Corwyn, wielder of Lady Forlorn.
---His wife, Amerei Hayford.
------Their daughter, Olena. (1 year old)

House Waynwood

Lord Martyn Waynwood, Lord of Ironoaks Castle (50 years old)
--Martyn’s eldest daughter, Alayne. (27 years old)
----Alayne’s husband, Ser Aaron Waynwood, a distant cousin. (29 years old)
------Their son, Roger. (3 years old)
--Martyn’s son and heir, Karyl, a sickly boy. (12 years old)

-Martyn’s first brother, Ser Waymar (48 years old)
----Waymar’s wife, Ninette Upcliff
-------Their children, Ser Martyn, Ser Ryam, Tristan, a septon and university student

-Martyn’s second brother, Ser Tristan (45 years old)
----Tristan’s first wife, Perra Dutton
-------Their daughter, Sara, a septa
----Tristan’s second wife, Lollys Ruthermont

-Martyn’s third brother, Ser Wallace (42 years old)
----Wallace’s wife, Carolei Elesham
-------Their children, Davos, a maester, Ser Moros, Alayne

-Martyn’s fourth brother, Ser Jaremy (38 years old)
----Jaremy’s wife, Jeyne Borrell
-------Their daughter, Lysa

-Martyn’s fifth brother, Ser Harrold (33 years old)
---Harrold’s wife, Pegga Wydman
-------Their son, Horton

House Belmore

Lord Lyonel Belmore, Lord of Strongsong
---His eldest daughter, Lanna Belmore.
---His younger daughter, Bethany Belmore. (18 years old)
---His son and heir, Robert, a squire.

House Hunter

Lord Baldrick Hunter, Lord of Longbow Hall.
---His eldest son, Ser Patrek
---His middle son, Ser Aron
---His youngest son, Eon, a squire at 24
---Bethany Hunter, married to Ser Mandon Lynderly

-His younger brother, Ser Lyn
---His daughter, Catelyn

Other lords and knights of note

Ser Mandon Lynderly, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon
His nephew, Loras Lynderly, Lord of the Snakewood

Lord Karyl Egen and his nephew and heir, Ser Armistead.

Lord Orson Moore and his son Ser Tom

Lady Janei Comyn, Lady of Comyn Keep. (5 years old)
Her mother and regent, Lady Mya
Her uncle, Ser Rogar

Chapter Text

116 AC

“A fine strike,” Laenor laughed from the ground.

Qarl was a fine swordsman, better than Laenor would likely ever be. Though as he was of low birth, he was hopeless ahorse; he’d never be favored in a tourney. But Qarl was strong and handsome, well-muscled and tall. They’d soon become close friends, much to his parents’ disapproval. His days were filled with constant complaints from his father, who wanted him out of High Tide and living at King’s Landing with Rhaenyra. But the Red Keep was not a happy place for him. He liked spending time with his sons, but Rhaenyra was always twitchy whenever he played with them. She preferred keeping Jace and Luke away from both him and Ser Harwin, lest questions be asked. He only ever spent time with them if there were no servants around.

“Again?” Qarl smiled down at him, extending his hand.

“I’m afraid not,” Laenor sighed as he stood up. “I’ve an appointment to keep in the Vale.”

He did not fail to miss Qarl’s jealous look. He loved that in him. They walked together to the armory. Qarl likely believed that there was some handsome knight in Runestone that had him returning almost every fortnight. He couldn’t be more mistaken, Laenor snorted with amusement. His cousin Elaena’s knights were either too old or too bearded for his tastes. The redhaired Stormlander was easy on the eyes, but he’d followed the rest of the herd and had grown a beard of his own. Grey-haired Ser Benfred reminded him of Daemon but lacked the Rogue Prince’s charm, though he could boast of having a better sense of humor.

“Before you leave,” Qarl whispered, not wanting the nearby knights to hear. “Could you lend me a hundred stags? I’ve a debt to repay and would rather do it now than later.”

Laenor grabbed him by the shoulder, smiling. Qarl had terrible luck at dice and Corlys Velaryon was as rich as he was generous with Laenor’s allowance. One hundred stags were but a pittance for him, one that he’d gladly give him. He called over one of his squires, he had three, and ordered the money brought to Qarl. His knight offered him the secret smile that was only his. If only there weren’t any knights around, Laenor lamented.

“I’ll be a few days away, as I’ve a hunt planned,” Laenor explained.

He loved hunting. He thanked the Gods for his cousin Vaemond, who had the good sense of marrying a Massey. His wife’s family were more than happy to share their hunting grounds with them. There was no good hunting in Driftmark and trying to hunt in Dragonstone usually earned you the Cannibal’s unwanted attention. The horrid beast had picked up the nasty habit of stealing kills. Elaena, thankfully, also had forests of her own, and even hills and a mountain or two, where he could hunt to his heart’s content.

“You said we’d go hunting,” Qarl grumbled.

Laenor had to laugh. He’d be taking Qarl to Massey’s Hook, not Runestone. Massey’s Hook was but a short boat ride away; nobody would question Qarl in the hunting party. He’d be just one of many knights. He’d be flying with Seasmoke to Runestone. His parents willfully closed their eyes when Qarl was among the knights, but to take him, and only him, to Runestone? Besides, he didn’t want to share Seasmoke with anyone.

“It’s rutting season soon; we’ll go after deer then.”

“Laenor?” his mother’s voice cut across the yard.

He winked goodbye to Qarl, who answered with a knowing smile, and set out to talk to his mother. He could see her reaction from afar, the smile she always seemed to have when Laenor spent time with any of his friends. He much preferred his mother’s pained smiles to his father’s looks of disappointment, but he’d rather face neither. At least his parents did not look at him with pity, like Harwin did.

“Rhaenyra sent word. The queen is hosting a ball in King’s Landing and Rhaenyra bids you go, to escort her.”

“An order?” Laenor scoffed. “I’ve things to do, I’m not a dog at her beck and call. She’s not queen yet. A wife is not supposed to command her husband. If she sends word again, tell her that next time, she should ask me instead of ordering.”

“She’ll not like it,” his mother pursed her lips. “You are going to Runestone then?”

Laenor nodded. Ever since Daemon asked, he’d been visiting his cousin with increasing frequence. Lord Corlys only ever raised his eyebrow when told he was off, but his mother? She asked constant questions about his cousin. Sometimes, it even seemed she believed that he was in love with Elaena.

“With every passing day, mother, I seem to care less and less about what Rhaenyra likes,” Gods knew she cared little for his likes. “I’ll bring you a pelt, I’ve a hunt planned,” he smiled at her.

Rhaenys had never been able to resist his smiles, ever since he was six. He kissed his mother’s cheek and set out for his rooms. He wouldn’t bother with washing before leaving, he’d arrive at Runestone with bugs splattered all over his clothes. And besides, his cousin’s servants were good at their jobs. Not long after arriving, there would be a hot bath waiting for him. It took them just two of his own visits for them to begin heating his bath, unprompted. He changed into his riding clothes and left for the beach, where his best friend waited.

“What are you smiling at?” he asked Seasmoke, rubbing the dragon on the snout. “Ready to go?”

He had spent his entire life around dragons and fully believed that none had as much character as his own. Syrax did not smile as much, Caraxes did not laugh, Meleys did not answer back. Laenor oft spoke to Seasmoke, and his dragon listened and chirped and crowed in response. He rubbed Seasmoke’s scales on his way to the saddle, the dragon closing his eyes and huffing with satisfaction.

In the air, Laenor Velaryon was free. He could forget everything. Seasmoke was not troubled by a wife and her lover, by whispers about his sons, by his father’s pointed stares, by his mother’s pained smiles or Laena’s pitying smiles. And up here? He was one with Seasmoke. If he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, he could no longer tell where he ended and Seasmoke began.

How he wished to be a bird, to spend his entire life in the sky. To be free to go where he wished, without having to ask his father or Rhaenyra. He had wanted to go and fight in the Stepstones, but his father refused him. He had wanted to sail as far as the wind would take him, like his father had before him, but his father refused him. His precious heir was more important than his son. His connection to the throne more valuable than Laenor.

“Yes, yes,” he laughed after Seasmoke grumbled, taking him out of his brooding.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’ve asked for wine to be heated up for you,” Elaena spoke as they entered into the hall.

He’d arrived a few hours before dinnertime and had taken his time to bathe, cloth and groom himself, before presenting himself to his cousin and her knights. Runestone was tense in a way that Driftmark and the Red Keep weren’t. The knights were split right down the middle in two groups. One of them looked up to Daemon and listened intently to what Elaena had to say; the other, mostly older knights, grumbled about a girl child ruling Runestone. Would Rhaenyra have to deal with this when her time came?

“Thanks cousin,” he smiled at her, looking her in the eyes. She’d once again hit a growth spurt, now coming up right below him. He prayed she’d stop there, if she outgrew him, he just knew that Laena would tease him, no matter that he was a head taller than Laena.

“Lady Elaena,” a knight he’d never seen before spoke once they’d sat down. To his side, his cousin sighed. “When I received Ser Gunthor’s invitation I had hoped to find Runestone in a regent’s good hands, but alas I find that the running of the castle has been left to a child. I am concerned, my Lady, that due to your stubbornness the land will be made to suffer,” the knight’s voice rose. “Would it not be in Runestone’s best interest for Ser Gunthor to serve as regent?” One of the tables slammed their tankards on the table, in agreement.

“I already have a regent, Ser Vayon,” Elaena stood. “If you have any complaints on my rule, I beg you to go and complain to him,” she turned to face Laenor. “My father is currently in Pentos, is he not?”

“He is, a guest of the Prince,” Laenor smiled at the knight.

“As you have heard,” Elaena smiled down at the knight. “Go to Pentos and tell him to come back, for a child seems to be ruling on her own.”

That prompted one of the other tables to start cheering. Red-faced, Ser Vayon remained standing. Daemon had told him to be careful of old Ser Gunthor, so Laenor’s eyes searched for knight. He’d found Gunthor to be an agreeable fellow, if stubborn and cantankerous, but like all uncles he was the jealous sort, cursing that he was born after an elder brother. Ser Gunthor remained quiet, watching Ser Vayon and Elaena.

“You must appoint another regent then,” the knight doubled down. “With your princely father away at some distant port, Runestone needs a man’s hand.”

“I must? I seem to have forgotten that knights could command their liege ladies,” his cousin’s voice was cold. “Sit down, Ser Vayon, before you further shame the education your father paid dearly to provide.”

The hall laughed, some even threw bread at Ser Vayon. The knight sat down, red with anger. As they continued eating, a rich broth made with sheep’s bones, Laenor kept his eyes on the knight. He stewed in anger, whispering furiously to Ser Gunthor and another knight. Laenor hadn’t been witness to any display such as that. All he had ever seen was Ser Gunthor dragging his feet and looking longingly at the high seat of the Royces.

“Cousin,” he whispered at her side. “Do you mind if I try something?” she nodded. He stood to speak. “Ser Gunthor!” he called out. “Any sparring planned after dinner?”

“Aye, ser,” the old knight nodded. Laenor could trust that there would always be someone training at Runestone, at all hours.

“Good,” he smiled. “I don’t think we’ve ever sparred ser,” he faced Ser Vayon. “I’m always looking for new foes to test my steel with, what say you?”

“You honor me,” the man said with uncertainty in his eyes.

“Good, let us rest a while after eating and meet in the courtyard,” Laenor winked at the knight, returning to his soup.

When Ser Vayon finally stepped into the yard, armed with blunted steel and a padded jerkin, he found someone unexpected in the audience. Runestone’s courtyard was large enough for Seasmoke to lay around and watch them spar. The knight went bone white the very moment he caught sight of Seasmoke. Laenor smirked and stepped forward, with his own blunted sword and padded jerkin. He hadn’t brough his own, so he was sparring in Royce colors.

“Shall we, ser?” Laenor asked with a grin.

It took far too long for Ser Vayon to get into position. Laenor tutted. If the knight ever went complaining to Daemon about his daughter he had to get used to dragons, neither him nor Caraxes would be as nice as Laenor and Seasmoke were. Ser Vayon was in no danger, Seasmoke was quite accustomed to watching Laenor and his sparring partners. Seasmoke never reacted whenever Laenor lost, the little devil would even laugh at him once they were on their own.

But Ser Vayon was nothing special. Laenor could tell that even if Seasmoke wasn’t there, Laenor would win. As it was, the knight’s eyes were fixed on the dragon, his footing uncertain. Sweat ran down his brow and Laenor knew it wasn’t from effort. When Ser Vayon fell to his knees, Laenor’s sword to his neck, his cousin cheered the loudest. He helped the knight up, gracious in victory, and clapped his arm with a smile. Hopefully that’d be the last time he saw him in Runestone.

Ser Simon Storm walked up to him, blunted sword in hand and a smile on his face. The bastard had grown used to Seasmoke on his previous visits and fought as if the dragon wasn’t there. After being trounced, his back to the ground, Laenor looked towards Seasmoke and could swear the dragon was smiling at him. Once they were alone Laenor would show him, Seasmoke might be much bigger than him now, but he still knew all his weak spots.

“You’re getting faster,” Ser Simon complimented him as he helped him up. “We’ll make a master of the sword out of you yet.”

“Will you be joining the hunt?” he asked Elaena’s commander of the guards. They’d be going after elk in a nearby forest.

“I’m afraid I have to change your hunting plans, cousin,” Elaena walked towards them. “Before you arrived, men from a village to the west came to tell me of a shadowcat going after their sheep. I would like to ask you to lead a party to hunt it down.”

Laenor gave her a big smile. He’d never gone after a shadowcat before. It was a hunt worthy of the kings of old.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Beast nearly took the man’s head off,” he told his cousin once they’d returned from the hunt. “See this?” he’d taken the man’s vest with him, wishing to show it off. “It’s hard leather around the neck, look at the holes where the beast’s teeth went through. Shadowcats are much larger than I thought. I imagined they were around the same size as a lion; my father has a pair form the Westerlands in his menagerie, but it was bigger and quicker.”

“Ser Gunthor has been speaking wonders about you to any who’d listen,” Elaena informed him. “All of Runestone has heard of your bravery with the spear.”

“Gah,” Laenor laughed. “I wanted to tell everyone the story.”

“Well, you’ve told me. Thank you.” Elaena smiled as she held the pelt in her lap; he’d given it to her as a gift. “My sheep are even more grateful than I am,” she japed.

“What castle comforts did you get up to while we traipsed around the forest chasing down a dangerous predator? Any new works of pottery?”

“A flowerpot, in the shape of a frog. I’ll paint it once it dries,” she laughed, a laugh very unlike Daemon’s. For all that she looked like him, she didn’t act much like her father. “I’m afraid I didn’t get to enjoy the comforts of Ladyship while you roughed it out under the stars, I travelled between some of my villages, looking after my breeding projects.”

“Anything new?” Laenor asked. He was in a good enough mood to ask about her sheep; he usually steered clear of the S word. Whenever Elaena was asked about them, she tended to go into long explanations of wool thickness, horn length and the kind nature of ewes.

“The second generation is growing healthy and strong,” she had a pleased smile on. “Come the shearing, we’ll see progress and choose the next rams and ewes to match. I’ve been giving tables for skirting to the various villages, which lets us better separate and clean the fibers.”

“Well, that’s good.” He didn’t really know what a better table was good for, but his cousin was happy.

“What about you?” she looked him in the eyes. “We had barely the chance to talk before the shadowcat stole you away. What’s new in Driftmark? Did you ask Qarl to check the weight of the dice?”

“He did, he did,” he laughed. “It truly is bad luck.”

That was the one thing that had made him love his cousin. She knew and didn’t judge him. The pointed stares, the pitying smiles, none of them appeared on his cousin’s face. Somehow, perhaps because of her friendship with Jeyne Arryn, she thought of him as normal. He could even speak to her about Qarl. Even the one time he was drunk and sad, she listened to his pain about Joffrey.

“My father misses the sea; he’s spoken about sailing to the Summer Isles. But he won’t take me,” Laenor grumbled.

“Did you ask to go with him?” Elaena’s eyes squinted with suspicion. She knew the last time he’d asked to sail with his father was before he married Rhaenyra.

“No,” he sighed. “I’ll find the courage.”

“If you don’t speak up, they’ll never now,” she chided him. He really thought it amusing, a girl of four-and-ten chastening him so.

“Father won’t risk his tie to the throne. I once overheard them speaking, back when he was leaving for the Stepstones. I asked to go, you know this, and father told mother I was too valuable to risk at war. He’d rather I stay quiet and safe in Driftmark,” bitterness colored his voice.

“That was then, you were young. I know he would be happy if you told him you want to sail like he once did,” she squeezed his hand. “Besides, what pirate would risk attacking your ship if Seasmoke is near?”

“I’ll try speaking to him,” he snorted. “I’ll let you know once he refuses me.”

“He won’t. You’ll soon see that his son comes before his legacy,” her cousin nodded sagely, with all the wisdom of a maid of four-and-ten.

He prayed she was right. For all his life, it had appeared that Corlys Velaryon put the legacy of their house first. For as long as he could remember, his father had been trying to address the insult that the kingdoms had offered: they had denied his mother her rightful place as heir and then had refused him when he was a child. He cared little for that. If he already felt trapped as heir to Driftmark and Rhaenyra’s consort, he didn’t wish to imagine how he’d feel with a crown on his brow. They would have probably made me marry Laena, he shuddered at the thought.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I hear you gave our cousin a shadowskin cloak,” Rhaenyra glared at him.

His wife had come to visit Driftmark, little Jace and Luke with her, no sooner had he returned from the Vale. She was quite mad at him, for having left her unescorted for the queen’s ball. Though Vaemond did tell him that Rhaenyra asked Harwin Strong to be her escort.

“I did,” he replied, eyes focused on his sons. “It’s her land, every beast in the forest belongs to her. I have no need of a new shadowskin cloak.” He had two.

“What do you think people will whisper?” Rhaenyra pulled at his arm as she furiously bit back. “Already they say that you turn your back on me to go gallivanting with Elaena Royce. I know I gave you leave to pursue your own pleasure, but do not drag me into a scandal.”

“You are out of line, Rhaenyra,” Laenor’s voice was cold. “Any scandal comes from your continued friendship with Ser Harwin.”

“He’s my sworn shield.”

“Aye, and Ser Qarl is only my friend,” Laenor scoffed.

“You are being impossible.” Rhaenyra crossed her arms, shaking her head. “All I ask is for you to think of our children and my claim, think of how it looks when you leave me behind to go play knight in the Vale.”

“You demand I spend no time with the boys where eyes could see and compare, and then ask Strong to escort you in front of the queen and her lackeys?”

“I couldn’t go without a partner, and you refused me!” there was hurt in Rhaenyra’s voice.

“Sorry,” he grumbled. “Next time ask me, don’t order me. It upsets me.”

“Apology accepted,” Rhaenyra sighed, her breathing going back to normal. “So? Is she your lover?”

“You know better than to ask,” he whispered.

“Sorry,” Rhaenyra grabbed his hand and squeezed it. They were friends first, he remembered. “I just wanted to hear it.”

They sat in silence for a while. The Red Keep choked him and killed him little by little, with its whispers and intrigues; but it did much worse to Rhaenyra. She had to be constantly on alert. Whenever Rhaenyra felt comfortable, the queen was there to spit venom in the ear of whoever listened. And the boys? Those poor boys paid the price of their father being unable to father them. He was their father. He saw them far too little, but they were his. Even if they looked just like Harwin, they were his. He held them when they were born, they squeezed his finger and Jace called him Da.

“Won’t you take them to see your mother?” Rhaenyra asked him. She also saw the distance between the boys and his mother. The awkwardness with which she carried them.

“Come here you rascals,” he took one babe in each arm and left for the flower garden, where his mother liked to spend her time.

“Laenor,” she smiled from her seat when he’d arrived. “You’ve brought the children.”

“Here mother, take Jace,” he handed her the babe and sat down with her,

“I heard Rhaenyra, she has a very loud voice. Not unlike her grandmother.”

“We had a small disagreement,” Laenor coughed. “You told Laena once that all marriages fight.”

“I did.” His mother stared at Jace’s face, brow wrinkled with worry. “But yours is not a marriage like others.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Would you have been happier? married to Daemon’s girl?” Rhaenys whispered.

Unbidden, the worst memory he had came to mind. When he was four-and-ten his mother had caught him kissing a fellow squire. The next morning he’d found her praying before the Father’s statue, asking him to make him normal. That’s what they all wanted from him, except his cousin.

“I might’ve,” he mumbled. “But I don’t think she’d have been happy, and she deserves to.”

“And don’t you?” His mother laid her head on his shoulder. He could feel warm tears falling on his arm. He put his arm around her, holding his mother. After a while, she sat up and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “What’s this I hear about you going after a shadowcat?”

“We, uh,” he bit his cheek. “We found it sleeping.” Best not to worry his mother with his adventures.

Chapter Text

124 AC

Tore woke before dawn. The day was cold and his wife warm, but he had to leave bed to start his day. The old floorboards groaned as he stepped on them, he’d soon need to replace them. He heard his daughters breathing and his son’s coughing as he walked towards the stairs. His home was of the old sort, built sturdy with cob; half buried under the earth. During summer they’d sleep on the upper floor, where wind came in through the window, but come winter they’d move for the bottom floor and huddle around the hearth. The outside door was halfway down the stairs. Of the bottom floor he could see little from the stairs, lit up only by the hearth’s embers. Somewhere down there was the quilt his wife, Jenny, was making to take to market.

As soon as he got out, the dog began barking. The mutt his eldest daughter had brought home had at one point become Tore’s responsibility. She had promised to feed and care for the dog, but Tore now took care of it. He would have gotten rid of it, not wanting another burden, but it kept foxes away from the chickens that Lady Royce gave them. The dog was now running around him, begging for food. Last night his wife had caught some mice trying to get into their pantry and they’d set them aside to feed the mutt.

“You could’ve hunted them mice yousself,” Tore complained as he threw the rodents at the dog.

Free from the dog’s attentions, Tore walked towards his shed. The ground was muddy; it had rained the entire night. He’d built the sheep shed with his father many years ago, after the old one had collapsed. Tore’s father had also been a shepherd, as was his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father, and so on from the day the Smith came down and made them shepherds. His animals were still sleeping, making it easier for him to count them. They were all there.

He felt around his ewes, ignoring their protests, to find the pregnant ones. He’d castrated his old rams, keeping only the new bronzefaces to stud. His younger sheep all gave him better wool, and they could shear them twice in one year. The bronzefaces had soon shown they were worth breeding for. The last shear had been but a few days ago and Tore had gotten terribly drunk during the feast that followed. Today he’d be leading them to the river, he’d been assigned grazing grounds by it.

Ever since Lady Royce had sent them the new sheep, they’d been slowly changing things. Skirting was faster nowadays, as they’d been sent tables with gaps in them, made just for skirting. And no longer did they have to run after sheep and wash them before shearing, as they’d been told it was easier to clean the fleece with hot water.

Tore went around the shed, checking pillars, looking for any tears in the wood, or any rodents that might have gotten in. There were a few rotting boards, he’d need to see to that before winter came. Once the sun began to rise, he started to loudly clap and yell, to wake the sheep. He wanted them out early, so he could take them back early. He went around the complaining sheep, checking they all had their bells on. Sometimes they rolled around in their sleep and the bells fell off. He had four kinds of bells, all of which looked and sounded different. He had one for the studs, one for the pregnant ewes and lambs, one for ewes, and another for his old males.

“Pa?” his eldest daughter, Tansy, called out to him, just as he was leading the sheep out. “I brought you food for the day.” She handed him a small wicker basket, its contents wrapped in colorful cloth.

“What are you doing today?” he asked her with a smile. Tansy, responsible and hardworking, was his favorite, and he was dreading that she was of marrying age.

“We finished spinning yesterday, we’re stitching the quilt today.”

He’d seen his wife and daughters, all together, with their distaffs and their spindles, spinning away. Lady Royce was content with taking only fleeces off to somewhere else, where they spun it and worked it, but with their own share of the wool? They’d get more coin if they spun it themselves, if they weaved it themselves, or if they made something with it themselves. Their village had been making colorful quilts for generations; designs and colors passed down from mother to daughter, ever since the days the Smith came down to teach them.

“Good. How are your sisters learning?”

“Holly likes the work, she’s good at it too. Rosie still needs to learn patience.”

“And Rowan?” he asked about his youngest.

“Ran off, saying Tore needed her,” Tansy said with a grimace.

“I’ll tell your mother to speak to her.”

Tore was his name. Tore was his son’s name. Tore was his father’s name. And his father’s father’s name. They’d passed down the name for generations. And his Tore was a sickly boy. But he was his only son. He thought his first winter would have taken him, but he held on. His boy was weak. Only a year younger than Rosie and she’d already grown a head taller than him. His daughters were all strong and robust, but his son was frail. He couldn’t work like others. They’d put him to help with the skirting, and he’d grow tired early on. He wasn’t even strong enough to look after the sheep while they grazed. Tore knew he was soft on the boy; another would have already abandoned him in the forest. He’d oft thought that had it not been for Lady Royce’s new sheep bringing them so much more coin, he would have likely not been able to take care of the boy. If you don’t work, you don’t eat, after all.

“Tore should learn to take care of himself,” Tansy complained. “He has Rowan boil him tea and clean the house when it’s his turn.”

“Your sister likes doing it,” he sighed. “I’m taking the sheep, be helpful to your mother.”

As he drove the sheep to the river, he thought of his son. If his son of twelve was ashamed of being taken care of by an eight-year-old, he didn’t show it. He was worried what sort of man he’d be. No shepherd’s daughter would marry a boy who couldn’t work. He couldn’t leave the house and the herds to him, he’d much rather leave them to Tansy’s husband, whoever it may be.

“’lo, Tore!” Pate greeted him with a smile.

“’lo, Pate.” They clasped each other on the arm. Pate was also a sheepherder, on his way to graze his sheep. “Any news?” They colored their sheep collars differently, so they didn’t fear their herds mixing.

“I saw the dragon again!” Pate told him with excitement. “’twas all green and flying. As big as a mule it was.”

Tore just shrugged. He hadn’t seen no dragon. Everyone in the village agreed that Pate was a drunk and besides, everyone knew dragons were giant beasts, much bigger than mules. Tore reached for his pocket, where he kept some sourleaf, as he prepared for the long day.

Halfway through the morning he ate his daughter’s cooking. Tansy was a good cook, a good spinner and weaver, and a good older sister. Holly was sweet and hardworking. Rosie and Rowan were young and already learning responsibility from their elder sister. But Tore, he sighed. Tansy had once taken care of him and grown tired. Then Holly began to take care of him and grew tired. Rosie never bothered to, but Rowan took to it. His wife said that Septon Lyle thought him clever, and that he’d once mentioned he might have the makings of a septon. But Tore didn’t want a septon for a son. He didn’t want his name to die with his son.

“’lo, Tore, Pate,” a gruff old voice called out to them.

Coming from upstream was old man Jon, the peddler. He must be close to eighty, Tore thought, he was already old when I was a lad. He traveled between the nearby villages and the Bronze Sept with his mule, buying, selling and bartering his wares. His mule was now packed mainly with clay pots, jugs and plates.

“See anything you like?” Jon beckoned them.

“This is a good jug,” Pate said as he handled the jug and looked inside it. “How much?”

“Ten pennies, but if you get something else, I’ll let you have two for eight-and-ten.”

“Got any dyes?” Tore asked while Pate looked through the rest of the clayware. “Wife said she’s running low on orange.”

“Orange… orange…” Jon muttered as he looked through his bags. “Here we go. Orange, red, green, brown, and yellow. Three stars each.”

“Three?” Tore groaned. In the last few years, the cost of dyes had risen. He knew once they sold their quilts they’d make the coin back, but it still hurt. “Are you staying in the village? I’ll be getting my sheep back before dusk.”

“Aye, I’ll go to your house then,” Jon nodded as he put his dyes back on their bag. “I also have some brass pots, pewter plates and a pair of wooden shoes.”

After they both shook their heads, and Pate paid for his new jugs, Jon moved on. Likely to find another shepherd in the fields, or a farmer. Pate was quite happy with his jug, the one he’d chosen at first at least, as it had a lid and he could take some ale with him when he looked after his herd.

“Did ye speak to Chayle?” Pate asked him after a while.

Chayle was the new proctor sent by Lady Royce. He came from Gulltown. Tore was not sure what Chayle did, only that he did a lot of counting, a lot of writing and a lot of weighing, and that he was paid in silver. And that he wanted to marry his Holly.

“I’ll go this afternoon,” Tore grumbled. “Holly is just six-and-ten, still young.”

“But Chayle is rich.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His return was easy. The herd was in a good mood. Likely because they’d dug up some root vegetables and gorged themselves. No sooner had he put them in their paddock, still too early to lock them in the shed, did Jon show up at his house.

“Let me get Jenny,” Tore told the old man. “She’ll know what colors she wants.”

He found his wife and daughters huddling around the quilt, working. His son was separating wool into two different piles. While Jenny looked at the dyes, Tore went to his hidden stash. A board under the stairs came loose, revealing the treasure underneath. That was where they hid their coin. Come winter, they’d rely on it to survive. He had a few stags in there, but most of what he had there were stars and groats. His father once had a dragon, given to his mother by the Good Queen when she’d visited Gulltown. They’d bought sheep with it, after the long and hard winter that had taken his mother, two of his brothers and his only sister.

“I need nine stars!” his wife called from outside the house.

“You can take a stag and two stars, father,” he was just beginning to count when Tore called to him. He nodded, taking the stag and the two copper coins outside.

“Where’d you learn that?” Tore didn’t remember teaching his son about money. “And what are you doing with the wool?”

“Septon Lyle let me help with counting the tithe. Chayle told me that Lady Royce pays more coin for this wool.” He pointed at one of the piles. “So we can sell it and use the other kind for the quilt.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday,” Jenny sighed. “We was spinning and he was in the way, so I sent him to the sept. Chayle was there.”

“I see,” Tore thought hard about it. He wanted his son to be a useful adult, to be able to feed himself. He couldn’t work. But if being a septon was his only choice? “I’m going to talk to Chayle,” he announced to his family. Holly blushed. “Tore, come with me.”

Tore ran up to his side. At twelve he was the size of a nine-year-old. Little Rowan might soon outgrow her older brother. The walk to the big house by the sept, where Chayle lived and worked, winded his son. Looking at the boy trying to regain his breath, he knew that his name would die with him. His wife was too old to have any other children; Rowan’s birth had almost taken her from him. If he wanted Tore to survive, he’d have to give him away to the Faith. There he could work and make something of himself. He could feed himself.

“Chayle?” He knocked on the door. The serving girl opened the door, letting him in.

“Tore, and Tore, good to see you two,” Chayle smiled at them. He was a tall man of four-and-twenty, dark haired and dark eyed and wore a colorful wool doublet. “Sit, sit, I was just about done with the day’s work.”

“’lo, Chayle,” Tore nodded at him, his son mimicking his greeting. “Me and the wife, we talked about your offer.”

“And?” He could see the nerves in Chayle.

“You can ask Holly to marry you,” Tore sighed, defeated. He didn’t want to marry away any of his little girls, but his wife made him see that life moved forwards, not backwards. “We’ll discuss a dowry if she says yes.”

“Thank you Tore,” Chayle smiled, his teeth were clean and white. “Or should I say father?”

“Don’t try your luck,” Tore grumbled, but the hint of a smile almost showed.

“We should drink.” Chayle stood, reaching for a jug of wine. “You drink, Tore?” he asked his son, who shook his head.

“He can’t handle it,” Tore, the father, sighed.

“Lily?” Chayle called his serving girl. “Bring some honeyed water for young Tore here.”

“I’ve something else to ask you,” he told the proctor once they’d drank a bit. “You went to that septon’s university in Gulltown, no? What’s it take for the boy here to become a septon?” His son looked up at him, eyes wide.

“You want to be a septon, Tore?” Chayle asked his son.

“The septon says he’s clever and has the makings for it. And he can’t work with his body,” Tore answered for his son.

“Well.” Chayle crossed his arms. “Septon Lyle could take him on as an apprentice, teach him to read and write and about the Seven, then send him on to the sept in Gulltown to take his vows. Costs money, however.”

“No need for that septon’s university then?”

“Not really,” Chayle smiled. “The only septons there came from rich families, or where the cleverest acolytes so the Faith paid for them. If Tore is clever, they’ll send him.”

“And you?”

“Well, you know I was an orphan.” Chayle had told them his history when he first started courting his Holly. “His High Holiness picked me up around the Redfort and paid for me. Then Lady Royce offered me this job, before I could take a septon’s vows.”

“D’you think the boy could be a septon, then?”

“From what I’ve seen of him?” Chayle’s eyes locked on little Tore’s. “He’s clever. Quick to learn things.”

“I’ll speak to Septon Lyle then.” Tore stood, nodding.

“Wait!” His son clutched his arm. “What about you Chayle? What about what you do?”

“Me? Well.” Chayle stared at his son, thinking. After a few minutes he spoke. “We’ll be brothers soon, so I could take you on as an apprentice. Teach you to read and count and, if you’re clever enough, you could go to the university. I know Lady Royce wishes for proctors born in her lands.” He turned to face Tore. “The university will cost much more, however.”

“I don’t want to be a septon, father,” Tore’s voice shook as he looked up at him.

“Thank you, Chayle,” he told the proctor and took his son from the man’s house. “We’ll speak to you mother, see what we do.”

The boy nodded and followed him quietly. That night, after the children went to sleep, he spoke with Jenny. They didn’t know how much it’d cost to have their son study like Chayle. They worried that paying for him would mean they would go hungry come winter. But they both knew that Chayle was rich, paid in silver. If Tore could study, he could help them out, once he was also paid in silver.

“Holly will marry,” Jenny whispered. “She’ll accept Chayle, the girl is smitten. And there are many who would love to court Tansy. We can bring her husband into the family. He can help you with work. Rosie and Rowan can help me with the quilts. If we take them all the way to Gulltown, instead of only to the Bronze Sept market, we can sell them for more. We can pay for Tore,” she clutched at him, eyes wet with tears. “He can do something. He could marry, have a Tore of his own.”

Come morning, Tore woke the entire family before dawn. He spoke to his daughters about their intent to pay for Tore’s education, so he could one day work like Chayle. But Tore was still young and weak, so they’d have to take care of him. Chayle would be taking him as an apprentice for the time, so he’d have work to do. Tansy, who had grown tired of taking care of him, was the first to smile and to declare she’d be making as many quilts as it’d take to pay for him. Though she did mention she expected for Tore to gift her a silk dress once he was paid in silver.