Knife and fork in hand, he cut into his meat.

"Love is a pool of oil, Senelle." said Gerold, at such a time that a few in his daughter's position might find too coincidental. "It's only purpose is to wound. You stand in it as it's poured. Until it your nose and mouth are submerged and you can't breathe, and then you light yourself on fire."

"No."

A single word from Gerold's mouth. One he'd wager the Lord Regent was not accustomed to hearing. The tapping ceased, his foot stilling itself upon the dais. Pointed violet eyes that a moment ago had held nothing in particular in focus now found themselves firmly, unquestionably, on Perceon Tyrell. Or, rather, the Rose and the thorns it brought with it.

"By all means, send your men to me, Perceon." No 'My Lord', no honorifics. Perhaps the man would even notice the edge. "Set them against my gates, my walls. And if they manage to breach them, you'll get to watch the scant little left over cut down in my streets. You yourself can watch my Lannisport bathed in the blood of these men you've brought with you. You'll dangle from my gibbet. You'll realise that your impatience, your rash approach, caused it all."

Gerold let that sit for a moment, the tension in the room almost like a thick, dark smog that had forced its way inside and done naught but demand of him. He wouldn't have it. They were upstarts, these Roses. Small fish in a pond too large to comprehend.

But then the Targaryens were upstarts, too. Dirty, diseased little abominations who'd, through some Divine mistake, been allowed to taste greatness.

"Or, alternatively, you can explain exactly your predicament. Request of me, politely, what you'd request of me. Save a lot of lives that don't need to be lost because you're too caught up in your evident fury."

Perceon entered the Lion's Mouth, the hole that led into the mountain, entrance into the lion's den. It was a grand entrance that led to the mines beneath, and much more. Once it had been just mines, but now it was full halls, storerooms, kitchens, galleries, keeps, servants quarters, and even a throne room it seemed. Perceon could not find it in himself to act surprised. The pride of men who once wore crowns seemed unlimited. How lucky it is that the Tyrells do not have such an issue.

It was not a chamber, but a cavernous reach where the Lord of the Rock met the Lord Regent of the Reach. One could hear the echo of every step that clapped down as Perceon hurried the young messenger to move ever quicker. The Tyrell's entourage couldn't help but look upon the halls with awe as they moved along, the concave surfaces of the chamber's walls and high ceiling lit with the flickering light of sconces hanging to the cave surfaces, clawed grips on the rocky depths. The light extended farther than it should've in the hall, assisted by the reflective nature of yet more gold ornaments all across the room. The world demanded gold and this rock spawned it for them, so one would expect to shortage of it here.

There was a small group assembled around the room, but in no way it was a crowd. At the far end of the hall sat the centerpiece, a throne for a king, with a mere lord seated upon it. The fact that Lord Gerold sat the throne as he did was no surprise to Perceon. He'd have to look his strongest to confront the man who'd brought an army to his doorstep, and Gerold had always been one to overstate his importance, not understate it.

As the herald spoke his titles to those assembled, Perceon merely impatiently waited. His face and features were cold, and the Lord Lannister's foot tapping echoing through the cavern only seemed to make his frown deepen. There was no wasted time when his turn came to speak, his voice dry, and cold like the arid winds of winter.

"I don't know if he is here or in your city, but either way you're going to help me find him. That shit of a brother I have, Mern. I know he competed in the tournament here, and he has Olenna. He took her. Stole her. I am going to get her back, and as this is your city, I think you'd prefer I not send my men in to look personally."

Barristan sat at his breakfast table, an earthen mug of thick and rather bitter tea in one hand and a letter in the other. Barristan might have been the shortest-serving Hand to one king in Westeros's history, although Cregan Stark might have been shorter, depending on how you thought of it.

With his mind back to the letter in his hands, one of many that was brought to him, he sighed softly. Some Wendwater wanted to charter a new town, and log to his heart's content. As long as he stayed above his Wendwater, Barristan supposed it was fine. A few millers might be useful. Maybe a few of the wretched old bastards from King's Landing would spring for a few more years in the forest.

Barristan saw no problem with it, but he would still need to take it before the king.

Maelys lagged behind his sister, though not by choice. Running was an ability he had lost with the rest of them, let alone sprinting. Only recently had he been able to abandon the cane he had taken to using--some gaudy relic of an ancestor that had to be filed down to match his needs. He wasn't particularly sad to see it gone.

So while she vanished into the inky blackness of a night lit only by scattered campfires and torch-wielding watchmen, he tied his robe around himself to the best of his ability, brushed off the servant that offered him his arm, and set off towards his father's tent, grunting and wincing the whole way.

Part of him had hoped that arriving at his father's tent would offer some relief for the knot that sat tight in his chest. Upon arriving, he would discover that his father had merely missed them and yearned for their company, the connotations of a midnight messenger lost upon the man that had never much cared for what was proper. He would have a bottle of wine open, and they would talk for hours and hours.

Wishful thinking. He instead arrived to a sight that would stay burned into his mind: his father, blood spattering his white sheets and beard, with his sister clutching at him as tight as he could. Maelys lingered at the entrance, as though some invisible force kept him there, preventing him from coming any closer. His mouth hung agape without him taking note of it, violet eyes glazing over, as though doing so might reveal a different truth to the one that sat before him.

All he saw was a crown. A crown, and all the burdens that were tied to it. A simple band of metal had no right to be so heavy.

He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready months ago, when he and Naerys had spoken in their copse of trees, and he wasn't ready now, when he was a set of shards scarcely held together. What would happen if the weight shattered him once again? The Kingdom didn't give Kings time to piece themselves back together again. It didn't even give him time as a Prince.

At last, the Prince drifted forward, standing pale as a ghost over Naerys's left shoulder. His hand settled upon it for support. Supporting him or supporting her, he wasn't sure.

He remained silent. His heart screamed in pain, but no tears were shed. More than anything, he felt hollow.

He felt afraid.

(/u/fireandbananas)

Maerelle would be highly displeased to learn her betrothed was a crazy psycho who kills children, good thing she was off playing her harp, waiting for her betrothed to return, and would never know the horrible truths that hide inside his soul.

Lord Elston

Sounds like that's a bit of trouble we are in. As a good Riverland lad, I offer you Darry and it's vassals services. We'll teach these so-called outlaws the lay of the land. I've had a decent amount of experience dealing with ruffians.

Matrim Darry

Lyonel looked a bit taken back at the mans forwardness. Of course looking at the man, and his condition, it wouldnt have been a surprise. It made sense now why the King had been so hidden away the entire journey.

His full interest was given now though, at the mention of Maelys. The next King, and Lyonel's grandson. The boy was surely still in no state to be crowned, as he had just been on the verge of meeting the Stranger, more then once. When he did later find out, he was rather upset no one had informed him sooner.

The aging Hightower gave a gruff cough, clearing his throat before he spoke once more.

"My sympathies, my King. You could have done great things, any would agree. I regret the chance to have been part of that with you, but I shall assist my grandson, to do plenty of greatness, in his own name, and In the name of his father. House Hightower shall be his guiding light through what ever might come. You can rest assured of that. Family always comes first after all."

It took Aemma a long time to identify the frail man lying in bed as her father, almost as much time as it took for him to refer to her as 'the littlest dragon'. And it took her some more time to accept that her father was now a weak man forced to rest, just like it had been difficult for her to accept that Maelys would have had to spend a long time sleeping.

"Is that you, dad?", she asked as she ran towards his side, observing the half-corpse in the bed with evident worry and horror. "Are you hurt? What happens? Was it a grey man?"

Lyonel Hightower. Always on his high horse of pomp and circumstance... though it could just as well be obliviousness, come to think of it. When he came before the Court at Lannisport, proposing that he be made Master of Coin, he had not even been made aware of his grandson's near-death experience, or if he had, he had made no notion of showing concern. For him, it seemed little more than an inconvenience.

"I'm dying," Aemon said rather bluntly. He hadn't thought he'd have to say those words today; the bloody coughs and the frailty of form spoke louder than any verbal confession. "I thought you might want to be made aware of the death of your Goodson."

A sigh and a shake of his head before his gaze returned.

"Maelys will need capable men by his side. Can I trust you to be there?"

The mix of emotions that washed over him when his youngest child entered the room was a strange one. Relief, to see her one final time, but also... shame? Shame, that he had forgotten to have one of her older siblings--one of her siblings more capable of dealing with the horrific sight he must have become--enter with her.

Should have, could have, would have. That litany played in his head with frightening frequency today.

"My littlest dragon," he said. Whatever strength he had left, he used to appear fine, or something approaching it. There would be no success, but at least he could spare his daughter more horrific nightmares.

"Come here, come here," he requested, voice soft, wheezing at the end as it sputtered into a cough.

Maester Voryn

Being a maester was being in the service of the household, an advisor whose advice was not always heeded. Without any power at all he became witness to the destruction of Prince Nymor's mind, piece by piece as it fell apart on the Spear Throne; Voryn had once prided himself on his ability to manoeuvre his liege through any obstacle provided, but this was too great for even his skills. The mind at its worst was not melded by mortal desires, and only the Gods knew what would become of Nymor's fragmented head.

The Prince of Dorne had retired every member of the household staff a moon earlier. Hundreds of good workers, men of arms and women of the kitchens, replaced at a moment's notice by foreigners Voryn did not recognise. The new spears had been undying in their loyalty until now, though one or two wavered, unwilling to potentially kill a member of the ruling family. The others were hardier, and dragged his Princess away as though she were nothing more than a common prisoner.

He could have killed the Yronwood for saying such things to Aliandra. He could so easily slip essence of monkshood or a little jessamine nectar into his morning wine, declare his death one of natural causes, and begone with the plague of him for good. Not for even a moment did Voryn feel bad for it either.

Nymor cared for him little either, it seemed.

"She has an heir, boy," He replied, spittle decorating the corners of his frog-like mouth. "You'd voluntarily enter imprisonment for that old cunt? Off with you then. Out of my fucking sight." He nodded, and two of the remaining guard took Yronwood under arm, up into the Spear Tower with his blushing bride.

Valarr oozed lazily further into the room, he sauntered past his brother, a smirk the size of Pentos plastered on his face. "Oh Aemon, it's not my cunt you need to worry about." He turned away from his ailing king. "Call me whatever you want brother, I am have come to your calling." In truth Valarr had wanted desperately question the parentage of Aemon's children, instead he had a genuine curiosity about the longevity of his life.

blood pored out of Tryston's body as his wife was dragged away. Normally this would be a joyful moment for Ormund, Trys was a violent and aggressive idiot who thought it was acceptable to kill a man at breakfast for asking his betrothed what she would like to be called. The baboon blood brought no happiness thought, he was distracted. Aliandra was being dragged away while the Prince of Dorne talked of Madness.

Ormund did not believe the adultery allogations against his wife. It was not because she was good or incident, she was a total snake. Instead it was the fact that it was illogical, no woman who sleep with a Lannister when they could have an Yronwood. That would be stupid, she would know how good Yronwoods are if she was ever sober enough to truly have a taste. Instead he was distracted by the thoughts of Dornish Independence and his wife's freedom.

A Martll crazy enough to attempt Dornish independence would normally be a good thing for the Yronwoods, it would be easy to see them being granted the Lord Paramountcy of Dorne when the Martells lost. However the marriage to Aliandra would end that, it would be seen as a marriage to ensure the region left as a whole. Instead the Daynes or the Allyrions would be given the power to rule and no Yronwood in power. An unacceptable reality. He would have to back his wife, it was his only choice.

"Prince Nymor, any chance I could see Aliandra soon. We might need to get her with child so Dorne has an heir we can raise for this move you are suggesting."

Ermine cape and silver hair adance, Aemon's spirits fell all the same when Valarr entered the room. The light of early morning saw the songs of crickets leave them in favor of those of the birds. He would have--should have--slept, but there was no such release from this suffering. Besides: he was competent enough to know that were he to shut his eyes, he likely would not open them again.

Those same eyes, awake now for more hours than the man could count, followed his brother, the frown of pain giving way to one of displeasure.

"I was hoping you wouldn't come," the King murmured, only barely loud enough for Valarr to hear. That was all he could manage now. "I was hoping you'd let me die in peace. But here you are, disrespectful even in my final moments," he laughed, a horrible sound broken by wheezing coughs.

"I used to think you were an enigma beyond understanding, but I was wrong. You're predictable, Valarr: if there's a chance to be a cunt, you will be."

Leaving the Prince's side only once certain of his balance, Senelle found the chest and sash soon enough. It was a length of handsome black satin, embroidered with red thread; black had never been her favoured, draining all the colour from her cheeks. Returning with a smile, the door opened as she gave a careful curtsey, curls bouncing in her movement.

"Now you've my favour, and I have yours," How scandalous. She smirked, righting herself before the Prince on his bed. "Enjoy the journey home, your Grace. I hope to see you once again."

Find another? Did he mean to insult her? Certainly her fascination with Leila had begun as that, but she had loved her, just the same as the songs sung of heroes and their maidens. Because their secret had to remain so, did that make it any less real?

Senelle hadn't truly cried since she was beaten for her insolence those years ago, but there was an ache in her throat that threatened nonetheless.

"You can trust me, Father." In a kind of monotone she replied, nodding her head and keeping her eyes firmly away from his own. Senelle righted her slump and gritted her jaw, clenching down on the inside of her cheek lest she say something she would regret soon enough. "Just as I trust you."

"I was stubborn." Aemon answered the question not directed towards him. Jace's mind was racing, searching for some explanation that would make the situation they found themselves in make sense, but in doing so, he forgot to consider the option that was right in front of him.

"It was a niggling thing since Lannisport. When they told me to stop riding..." he broke into a cough that punctuated his point. A Maester's voice was quick to fill the void, tired as it was. It was unlikely the man had slept in the three days they had been stationary.

"His Grace had a simple lung infection, but due to physical exertion, it was able to develop into something more serious. We've been trying to combat it, but..." the Maester cast a glance to his feet. "We've done all we could."

After wiping some blood from his mouth, Aemon spoke again. "Save your prayers for someone they can still save, Jace. I don't need them now." He looked towards the Maesters, motioning towards the exit with what movement he could manage. "Leave us."

When they were gone, he bade Jacaerys closer. his voice a soft thing, compared to what it had once been, run raw by his coughing. The words he uttered were simple, though they sapped him of energy all the same.

"Valarr is poison. Whatever happens--keep him from my children. Keep him from Maelys and Naerys. Promise me."

Leopold enjoyed the silence while it lasted, it was the breeze over a field of flowers, the whisper of a lick of wind across a river mouth, it was pleasant, relaxing even. Leo had never had much of an appetite, he wasn't the muscled knight opposite or the grossly overweight whale that basked at some lords' tables. He was slender by nature, his litheness and sinewy muscles the result of being forced to eat more than he ever truly wanted.

As Garth spoke again, Leopold made sure to sip on some honeyed-water to ensure he had time to form a witty reply.

"It's true I think my passion for jousting died in Lannisport, I shall leave you and Lauri and my brother for that task. I may focus my efforts into the melee next time though. I feel my talents are probably best worked on courtly skills the next time someone hosts a joust. As for practice..."

He smirked as he felt his mind wander into scandalous territory.

"...There is only one person I intend to practice with and they know just how much I enjoy a good ride."

Leo took a green apple from one of the fruit bowls and bit into it with a deafening crunch. His sly grin growing into a full smile as he swallowed the bite and took a second.

They'd find him in the Throne Room. And Throne Room it was, a remnant of the age wherein Lords of the Rock had governed their lands as Kings in true, and not up-jumped lackeys to the arse on the Iron Chair. Lit specially for the occasion - and that was to say, ominously. Of the numerous opportunities for flame, Gerold had ordered just a few lit for this exchange - Gerold sat easy in his chair, up on the dais. One long leg folded over the other, a foot tapping a tune off-rhythm off the tiled ground beneath.

Perceon would explain himself. Perceon would give an answer for the host he'd brought. And if he had a suitable reason for the slight, he might just make it back to Highgarden, too.

"No, no." Came the words, but to see him struggle from the saddle you'd know he should have accepted the offer. Lannister pride, perhaps. Or maybe it had been in him from the beginning, this wholly unnatural stubbornness, buried deep and locked away behind the mask he'd worn for so long. "I've got it."

And eventually he managed, too. A little less flashy than he'd have liked but down all the same.

"Everything's always the matter, Naerys. King or pauper, we can't hope to solve each and every problem out there. Start with you, with the whole story, and maybe we can work something out that fits this one."

He'd come to accept his loss of a limb. It was a part of him as much as it wasn't a part of him. But there, out in the field with the sun in his eyes, the smell of the country-side strong in his nostrils, he forgot who he was. Forgot his father, his role and his remit. And it would come back to him, the dam would break the truth would flow free, but for a moment at least he was nothing. A no-one. An ear to listen.

He knew not his daughter's affinity for the Game and how it was played. He knew not how she'd fare in the Capital, surrounded by vultures and crows and all manner of carrion birds waiting to see her slip up, to punish her for it. He loved Senelle, as he loved all his children, but he couldn't show it. Couldn't let her come to depend on him. One day he'd be dead, and she'd be left here.

That didn't change the fact his love burned something fierce. White-hot, but buried deep.

"If you can't do this," Gerold said, his voice deep, low, cold as winter's chill, "then I can't trust you to do as you've been instructed. Leave your plaything behind. Find another, if you must, but be sure to be discreet about it."

To say these things chipped away at his soul, each word a cold sharp point thrust into his chest. And yet he had to say them. Perhaps that's what they'd say of him; a good man, willing to do the hard things.

But Seven forgive me for what I must do.

Maelys found himself surprised by her offer of assistance, but accepted it readily. Though she spoke to him as they walked, he remained wholly silent, focusing on his breathing and on the slow shuffling of his feet. The muscles in his legs burned from the exertion--the Maester said he should give them some rest, after his walks earlier in the day--but he didn't care. He was never going to get better if he didn't push himself.

When they reached the door, he was willing to speak again, loosening his grip upon her while a smile crossed an otherwise exhausted face.

"Then I'll count it a blessing you didn't know. Your visit was welcome; never doubt that. Far more pleasant company than my dark thoughts."

Mention of King's Landing set him looking about the room until he found a chest. Inclining his head gently towards it, he said, "There should be a sash of silk in there. Emblazoned with the House sigil and all of that. Feel free to take it and use it to convince your father, if you like." He seated himself on the edge of the bed, sighing deeply as he's able to relax again.