Blood of Dragons

“Praise the Seven!” Baelor says, for what may be a hundredth time, eyes bright and his smile fervent as he see the ships—borne upon a glorious wind ordained by the gods, he’s said—approach. Ropes are cast, and longshoremen seize them to make the two ships fast to the docks. There’s cheering, when Ser Alyn Velaryon can be seen waiting for the ramp to be lowered, yet Oakenfist does not seem to be in a celebrating mood. Nor, for that matter, do many others.

The black mourning worn by all the court make of them a finely-feathered flock of crows in the chill wind. The veils of Naerys’s ladies blow on the breeze, fluttering around their faces. And when finally the ships cast ropes to shore, the foremost of those ladies dutifully joins in the cheering, though it is subdued. But Reyna Saltcliffe, like so many others, is merely searching faces, her anxiety clear in the pallor of her face and the faint crease between her brows, for no one knows for sure who comes home and who has fallen behind and been left on the sands.

No smiles indeed. As the Black Dread is tied up, a great bustle can be seen on deck as men ready, finally, to set foot on a friendly shore again. There is Ardon Tyrell, Lord Protector of High Garden, looking more weary than glad; his good-brother the Iron Serpent, a grim presence in black at his side; Dalton Florent, Lord Tarly, Corren Meadows, Balian Blackwood—all waiting for the gangplank to be lowered.

And just as noticeable are the faces that are missing there. Among those of the court gathered behind the Targaryens are many highborn ladies, and more than one of them scans the decks anxiously, eyes restless, lips set in thin, pale lines.

Ser Anders Dondarrion the red-haired, tall Knight is also clad in black, his stern face looking out onto the oncoming ships. His eyes swivel over the people aboard, obviously looking for someone.

Just behind the Just Maid, a gallaes strokes its oars, bringing it swiftly up the Blackwater Rush. Those who were present know it to be the same gift presented to the Stormbreaker upon his wedding to the Lady Lyrissa Hightower, by the late King Daeron.

At its prow, a massive figure in black and gold can be seen beside a slender female form bedecked in greys and crimson, cloaked in gold. For it is Sarmion Baratheon and the self same maid he married being brought to their home in King’s Landing after the long separation during the war.

In the wake of those greater ships, it ships its oars and is brought to dock. Then, the gangplank lowers and the puissant couple moves to leave the heaving deck for the first time since Tarth. All can see the swell in Lyrissa’s belly, despite the cunningly crafted dress of grey silk she wears.

The heir to Storm’s end is at the edge o the railing. His armor looks war scarred, but bright and polished as if on the tournament ground. His is also clean shaven for the first time in months, his face a bit red and raw from it. Around his right arm is a swath of black, paying grief and homage to the dead King. His pale eyes look out and about the gathered faces on the dock, looking as if he is searching for someone.

The gangplanks lower, and Baelor moves. Helped off his horse, as the Hand is, he walks forward, flanked by Ser Jaesin Lannister and old Ser Aleyn Florent, while Ser Halbert continues to hold the standard aloft. And with him, one more person: not Daena, no, but the High Septon. Aged, aided by two of the Most Devout as he totters forward, the High Septon has the crystal crown upon his head, and the costliest and heaviest of vestments.

There’s a silence that descends on the crowd, in their wake, as Ser Alyn Velaryon—the master of ships—descends and is the first of the lords and knights to set foot upon the dock of King’s Landing.

The morass of people presses against Ser Myles Hightower, Lord Lorent’s youngest son, where he loiters on the docks in expectation of the ships’ arrival. A push here, a shove there—Myles lays hold of the wrist of an urchin who had made for his coinpurse. The knight backhands the child gruffly and sends him scurrying away into the crowd.

Myles pulls at the black armband he wears as a token of mourning to loosen it, as though it were a bit tight. The gaunt frame he returned to the city with seems to have filled out somewhat, though he still looks haggard. For all that he is dressed well and his eyes eagerly roam over the disembarking faces.

One of the ladies near Reyna who is taller by a head tugs on her arm and then points, bending to murmur into her ear. Reyna, abandoning dignity, uses the taller woman to steady herself on as she rises onto her toes and finds first her brother and then her husband with her eyes. She falls back onto her feet and smiles with genuine relief. Now there is only waiting for the men to start coming to shore.

Tancred’s face falls with a bit of disappointment as he does not spy anyone in the crowd that is too familiar to him. No Sanya, Mother who would of made the journey surely if she could of. Most important though to the young heir, no Obany. He pushes off the ships railing, and takes his place among the knights. He yields his spot to a few of them eager to disembark. No sense in letting his dejection stand in the way of their happy reunion.

The heir to Crakehall takes a step forward , followed by several guards and knights in his colors- veterans,than managed to survive the bloody battles of the rebellion. A long cloak of wolf fur protects Burton from splashes of sea water. His stern features are motionless, his arms crossed. A precious amulet,decorated with rubies, hanging from his neck, doesn’t seem to correspond very well with with his black doublet and jackboots-a sign of mourning.His expression is pale ,and there is pain and tiredness in the gaze of his only eye.

Slowly, and then more swiftly, the lords and captains of the Reach and Riverlands descend the gangplank from the Black Dread. Here and there, smiles can be seen among them as wives and kin are glimosed in the waiting crowd; the smiles broaden and spread to the others as they set foot on the docks. They might be returning in defeat, and with their old king dead, but they are, finally, home.

First among them, Ser Dagur and Ardon Tyrell reach the bottom; the former has been scanning the docks as swiftly as any of the others. And when his gaze finds his wife among Naerys’ ladies, the set of his mouth seems to ease somewhat.

Then, they are bowing before the new king. “Your grace,” says the Lord Protector. “The Seven’s blessing on your reign. We have returned beyond all hope.”

Not all knights are first in line to exit the ships, or even to see the people waiting on the docks of the harbor. One knight is near the back of the nobility that wait to stream down from the Black Dread. Ser Ethos Mertyns stands with his young squire, Halyn Grimm, and he also stands with a couple of other soldiers around him that are not of the Stormlands. But then, why is a Stormlord on the Black Dread at all when it’s a Reach and Riverlands ship?

He waits with a faint scowl upon his face, pale gaze moving over the swarming crowds and familiar shoreline. “We’re back lad.” He says blandly after a while.

As lords and captains arrive on the dock, they’re there before the young king: pale, thin almost to the point of emaciation, a seven-sided crystal hanging upon a simple leather thong and the plainest of garments, white robes whose embroidery are the only things to separate them from a common septon’s. There’s not even a crown upon his head, merely a plain silver circlet. But when he greets them, it’s as a king.

Oakenfist kneels, head bowed, and others of his following follow suit—they are his vassals, sworn as they are to Dragonstone—and starts, “The Seven bless you, your grace. Your brother—it was the saddest—”

Reyna strives to meet her husband’s eyes, but there is too much confusion. And when the King turns to the High Septon, she kneels with the other ladies around her, all in expectation of a prayer.

“What’d he say?” a soldier still on the deck, as many are, jostling to try and make their way down, asks a neighbor. The wind carries the boy’s words away, and it’s only as others begin to kneel as eyes turn to the High Septon that others proceed to do the same, all through the hundreds in the crowd.

A frown appears on the face of the DOndarrion knight when he takes in the scenery and the words of the king and the subsequent actions of the High Septon. His face speaks of barely suppressed rage (again) and then, finally, he also bends a knee and kneels down on it,

Tancred finds himself next to Ethos. He is moving stiffly, and with a slight limp as there are a number of deep bruises, perhaps some fractures, that have yet to heal fully. “I think the only thing we are missing is a raging thunderstorm like that that hammer Storm’s End during the autumn and rain so think we could drown, eh cousin?”

Among those watching the disembarkment of the Westerosi soliders is Joleta Gargalen. She looks on with a carefully neutral expression, looking to see if a certain Mertyns knight is among the survivors. Her face is still dappled with the fading bruises, courtesy of the raging mob not long ago, and she walks with the aid of a crutch, deferring to a badly sprained ankle. Her dark eyes scan the ships, brows furrowing at all of the chaos and confusion. “I cannot see who is where,” she mutters to Obany Darklyn, who is near her. But she does finally get a glimpse of her husband when the masses begin kneeling. With a sigh, she kneels painfully as well. Bloody bother! The Dornishwoman, not unmindful of the danger, is surrounded by a number of her husband’s men, just in case King’s Landing isn’t done with rioting.

Burton Crakehall is already kneeled and praying fervently. His lips are moving,and his eye closed. He thanks the Warrior for protecting him in many battles, and begs the Father to punish the murderer of King Daeron severely and justly. His cloak suddenly falls off his massive shoulders,but one of Crakehall men-also on his knees-manages to catch it. Burton doesn’t seem to notice it and keeps praying-loudly and passionately.

The Reachlords and Riverlords all kneel, those on the docks and those on deck as well, and the common soldiers with them. There is almost silence now, save for the crying of gulls, the waves slapping against the docks and the ships’ creaking.

Rosalind Buckler is with the ladies around the youngest Targaryen princess, Elaena. She spots her husband, Ser Endros among the Stormlanders and her eyes close briefly in thankfulness. She kneels with the other attendants of Princess Elaena.

The High Septon pauses a moment, and then carefully raises his hands skyward. He looks unsteady, and so frail that he might blow away in one of these gusts. Yet when he speaks, there’s a surprising strength to his voice. “May the Father look down from the heavens, and lay his blessing upon you!” he begins, and the crowd bows its head to hear his prayer as it runs through each of the Seven—even unto the Stranger—before he is done.

And even the king knelt, pious, hands clasped about the crystal on its thong. He stands first among all the others, and he moves then to help his loyal men to their feet. To Ser Ardon Tyrell he comes, and taking his hand he helps him up. “Your courage will not be forgotten, my lord of Highgarden,” the boy-king says, and then the commander of his City Watch is helped next. “Nor yours, Ser Dagur. We have had need of you, to help bring peace to my city.”

And then he moves on, to Oakenfist, to the Tully heir, and on and on, choosing the great and the mighty ... and sometimes, curiously, the very lowest: a page here, a hedge knight there, offering a word, a benediction, as he works on towards the galleas on which the Stormbreaker has arrived.

Kneeling beside Joleta, Obany Darklyn sneaks a few glances through the mass of people around her, though she’s not able to see much due to her size and the sheer number of bodies around her. She lets out a breath and bows her head again, letting the sounds of the strangely quiet port wash over her. She has carefully gathered the many skirts of her gown up so that they don’t brush against the dirty ground, and Obany busies herself with making sure they don’t get wrinkled as well.

Ser Myles, never much of one for the Faith, nevertheless kneels with the rest. He keeps his head up though, and scans the crowd. “Hm,” he mutters as his eyes fall on the Stormbreaker’s galleas. Then the king goes about his work, and Ser Myles starts angling his way towards the returnees, picking his way through the crowd.

Reyna rises with the rest, and there is pride on her face when her own brother is singled out first by the King for his praise, her husband second. Now a murmuring starts among the crowd again, counting who is here, and who not. For herself, Reyna looks eager to dispense with formalities, her smile now very genuine and unforced.

Tancred comes down the gang plank next, moving slowly, stiffly. Battered, but not broken he touches the docks, and breaths in slowly and whispers so only those about him can hear. “Home, or clsoe to it in any regards.” Tancred then goes down stiffly to one knee, a pained expression on his face as he does, and pays homage to the King.

Ethos continues lingering at the back, a look of seeming disinterest on his face as the prayers are done and then he’s escorted down to the docks by the guards. The knight has not shaved in a week or so and has a bit of an untidy look to him, but nothing outright offensive as far as appearances go. He presses a hand on his squire’s shoulder and leans down to murmur in his ear.

Joleta gets slowly back to her feet, brushing dust off of her sandsilk, then goes back to scanning the men disembarking from the ship. She definitely sees Ethos now and isn’t surprised that he leaves from the ship that came from Salt Shore. “So there he is.” she murmurs to Obany.

Both the Lord Protector and the Iron Serpent bow their heads in acknowledgement as the king raises them. Then, he has moved on, and the other lords and captains come to their feet and the bustle starts aboard the ship as well as a stream of men begins to disembark. And while some on the docks to turn to help with their ordering, others move swiftly to seek out kin.

The smile that breaks out upon Ardon Tyrell’s face when he sees his sister banishes his unwonted gravity—at least momentarily. He pushes through the crowd swiftly to her to kiss her soundly on both cheeks: “You are a sight for sore eyes, sweet sister! And looking well too. Where is—”

He breaks off, glancing over a shoulder at the Iron Serpent waiting half-a-dozen steps behind, then smiles again and steps aside: “Ah, pardon my manners. All yours, ser.”

Ruffling out her skirts and smoothing them down as she stands, Obany looks to where Joleta is looking, and soon finds Tancred instead of Ethos. She smiles softly, “Yes… there he is.” Her eyes flick back over to Joleta and note her expression, and she keeps looking ‘till she finds Ethos, “Mm… he looks a bit… unaffected,” she murmurs to Joleta, glancing over at her again.

The little king helps the great knight, Ser Sarmion Baratheon, to his feet, with suitable words of pious greeting. And then, turning, he says to all those who remain kneeling, “Rise, my brothers in the gods, and go in peace! You will find no inn shall turn you away, with tents to keep you dry and warm at the tourney grounds and in the the yard of the Red Keep!” And as men rise, he adds, “And my lords, you will find such pavilions as we could find you, and such rooms as we have in the Red Keep, and in our manses throughout the city. Be welcome to them.”

The crowd rises up and there’s a scattering of cheers, here and there, and someone calls, “Three cheers for his grace, King Baelor!” And the cheers are taken up, in a ragged sort of way—there’s too many tired, injured men in front of them, and too much grief behind, for it to be easy. Even Baelor does not seem to take pleasure in the cheers, as he and his Hand move to rejoin the chief captains and lords. Horses are brought forward.

“We had news from Salt Shore, just the other day,” Prince Viserys tells Ser Dagur. “A fine thought you and the others had, to hold onto Salt Shore, despite a siege. If Ser Ardon’s message is heeded, supply from the Arbor and Oldtown should keep it in our hands.”

“You are bad, Ardon!” Reyna cries, though she lets him kiss her and even embraces him in return. She turns to Dagur then, but the Hand is there with the King, and she curbs her excitement. “My lord,” she says instead of a wilder greeting, and makes him a pretty curtsy, smiling.

Anders raises back up and when the cheering starts, a hint of disgust crosses his smile but then is quickly guarded behind a neutral expression. His eyes flicker towards the Mertyn’s wife and then on to the ship fixing upon the Mertyn. But today is not the day for this, so his eyes continue to look for whatever the where searching for.

Distracted as he is, waiting for Ardon to finish greeting Reyna, it takes the Iron Serpent a moment to realise that Viserys is talking to him; then he turns: “My prince. So they held, then. It was a gamble, but we broke Manfryd Qorgyle’s strength, so there was reason to hope. Blackmont will probably return swiftly enough to siege them but they can hold out as long as needed if they are supplied by sea.”

He glances aside and his gaze chances upon Ethos; he watches the Mertyns knight a moment before saying, “And…there’s a matter that will wait until you have more time. But best you know of it now, at least.” Whatever follows is a brief, swift exchange between both of them that is too low to be overheard.

Then, the Iron Serpent’s wife is there, and he is breaking off, turning to her.

Tancred rises slowly, a soft groan of pain he can’t repress as he rises. Tancred moves away to allow others to move on. Home, a warm bed, a blazing hearth, hot food. All await him. He waits though, seeing his men disembark. Fourteen of them, Fourteen out of the forty that rose with Tancred. The thought still chills him when he thinks upon it. As they come he tells each of them the Baratheon manner is their home till they can return to Storm’s End. He tells one man to find them horses, and they will all leave together. It is only then that Tancred turns to scan the crowd one last time, to see if hope beyond hope there might be one face in the crowd above others.

Bouncing a bit with the general excitement, and not to mention a good bit over seeing Tancred in one piece, Obany can’t help but grin, “... Gods, I’m glad it’s over…” She tries to get a peek of Tancred again, but she’s a bit too small to see around the much larger men of Joleta’s guard that happen to be in her way. She leans this way and that, to try and get a glimpse.

But of course, it’s not over. Not for the hostages at any rate. But Joleta doesn’t say this aloud, letting her friend enjoy the moment. “Ah, there is Ser Tancred.” She nods in the Baratheon heir’s direction. She also notes the exchange between the Prince Viserys, Ardon Tyrell and the Iron Serpent, but she is too far away to hear what is said.

Mertyns straightens from speaking with his squire, lengthy instructions. The boy actually looks a bit wary by it, but the knight’s hand slips away from his shoulder. He searches now, seeking. When he spots the face he desires, he moves in that direction with a purposeful stride, the guards dogging his steps but he ignores them.

Ethos reaches where the one brave Dornishwoman stands beside the Darklyn woman. “My lady…” The knight greets his wife, eyes squeezing closed for a moment but in a quiet, but rather polite tone.

Burton Crakehall stands up and watches the King leave.Then he keeps silence for a minute or two, his powerful neck slightly craned ,learly considering something. Then Burton casts the crowd a look-he seems to be searching for somebody,among the courtiers and noblemen. As he doesn’t find what he seeks,the heir to Crakehall shrugs and mutters to himself “Ah,well,she definitely wouldn’t have come,even if she could….I should bring the children to the Kings Landing as soon as possible” Making this mysterious remark,he turns to Tymon the Brigand and orders him to control the disembarkement of his group-of its remains.

Viserys listens to Dagur’s remarks, and his grim expression turns into a frown as his violet eyes turn to glance at Ser Ethos. His bushy brows lower ominously… but he says nothing more on it, just nods to the knight. “We will speak later, ser,” he tells Saltcliffe, before moving on to rejoin the king. Baelor moves through the crowd, allowing common men and knights alike to reach out and touch him, as if there’s a blessing in it. He helps the High Septon through the crowd as well, lending him a shoulder to rest one hand upon, while the Most Devout trail behind. The High Septon, worn out after his great blessing, mumbles blessing after blessing on the crowd, occasionally pausing to move his hand to touch a child’s head as he mutters a prayer.

The wind gusts and whirls, banners whip and crack, and in the distance, clouds grow darker, thicker. A fresh storm’s coming from the narrow sea.

Reyna waits with more grace than patience for the Hand to finish with Dagur, then she puts out her hands almost shyly. “You are well come, my lord. Your children are waiting.”

Rosalind Buckler greets the returning Ser Endros warmly. Their exchange of words is soft and swift, but after Rosalind is given permission by the Princess Elaena, the couple depart for the Red Keep.

It is only that little exchange for Joleta to realize that something is very wrong. Her eyes widen, then flick briefly to the Grimm boy at Ethos’s side, then back to her husband. “Ser Ethos,” she murmurs. “Welcome back to King’s Landing.” There is a level of caution to her tone, as if aware that the waters are murky and she wishes to tread carefully.

Tancred spies his cousin and breathes a sigh of relief. The man lives, and that is enough for Tancred at the omen. He presses forward and his voice is filled with relief. “Ethos! By the Seven you live! I had…” Tancred was about to say more, but stops, silent, as he finally spies what he had hoped to find here this day. He stands there, and his voice is barely a whisper. “Obany…”

Sensing the sudden tenseness of her friend and her husband there next to her, Obany looks between the two of them. However, before she can attempt to disseminate further, the Baratheon heir approaches, and her attention is divided. As one would imagine, she wears Tancred’s favorite style on her, and Obany beams up at him, color coming to her cheeks. “Ser Tancred.”

The Iron Serpent listens as Viserys speaks; he glances more than once at his wife, but his closed expression reveals nothing. Then, the Hand is taking his leave and Dagur nods and steps away, finally turning to her.

And taking her hands, he raises them to his lips in a gesture that, although it lacks a court gallant’s polish entirely, is still startlingly courtly coming from him: “My lady. I had thought…you are well? And the children?”

Obviously the Dondarrion hasn’t found whom or what he was looking for. AFter a few more glances around, ostensibly sparing out the area of Lady Joleta and Ser Ethos, the Knight starts to headb ack for the Keep with long strides.

“Very well, as you see,” Reyna assures him, cheeks pink with joy and the cool wind. “They are growing apace, fine and strong, all of them. What had you thought?” She smiles, her eyes looking him up and down, looking for signs of injury. “The Stranger loves you still, my lord.”

“My lady, there are many things I wish to speak with you upon, but now is not the time.” Ethos responds in a low voice, lifting a hand to run through his hair. There’s a distracted appearance on his face, his eyes drifting around, focusing on Obany for a moment. There’s a nod in greeting. “My lady.” He greets in a similar tone that Joleta received.

As Tancred joins them, Ethos turns to look at the calling of his name. “Cousin!” A cheery smile. “Of course I live. Why wouldn’t I?” He asks with a smirk, then waves a hand in dismissal as he sees the Baratheon’s eyes go to Obany. Mertyns turns back to regard his wife. “You look harmed. What happened?”

Tancred moves forward, more of a shuffle as he limps forward. His face is set to hide the pain as much as he can, but not even Wraiths from the Icewall itself will keep him from Obany. He pulls Obany into an embrace, and to the seven hells who is looking on. He cups her chin, and kisses her.

“As you say, ser.” Joleta replies carefully, gaze flicking to the guards that flank her husband. Then, “Ser Tancred. Glad I am, that you are returned in one piece.” She chuckles faintly as he openly kisses Obany in front of everyone, bemused. Then with a drawl, she replies to Ethos’s question. “Your countrymen decided to riot again and tried to kill us once more.”

“Many things. Nothing that bears repeating. And I am fine.”

The ironman smiles as he sees Reyna looking him over and it eases the grim air about him again: “Charred black by the desert, as you can see. But unharmed.” Still holding her hands, he half-turns to look over the men of the Reach as they disembark and the smile fades: “A rich for him this time…the Stranger.”

“What bastard would dare to harm my lady wife?” Ethos questions, eyes narrowing as his voice lifts in anger. The shifts in mood are rather abrupt, sharp changes. “I hired protection for you!” He glares upon the sellswords that he employed to guard over the Dornishwoman.

This sudden shift is not lost upon Joleta and she files this away for later consideration. “Prince Aegon, to be exact.” She notes, “But to call him that would be an insult to bastards everywhere.” She shakes her head. “We can speak of it later. I would like to get out of this crowd, in case they take it in their heads to try to kill me a third time.”

More of the ships dock, slowly trailing in, from the swiftest of the galleys to the most sedate of the cogs, two dozen ships and more that carry a remnant of the king’s army. Of course, thousands more are about Yronwood, but only the gods know what will become of them, and neither Princes Viserys nor King Baelor seems inclined to make mention of the fact. Not when peace, not war, seems to be more on their mind.

As the royal party begins to mount, Viserys can be seen conferring with Baelor, and there are looks cast at certain individuals—the Lord Protector of the Reach and his good brother, Ser Sarmion Baratheon, Ser Ethos Mertyns, Ser Bryce Caron—as they discuss matters. In the end, it’s left to Viserys to announce their destination to those who inquire: “There is a feast prepared at the Red Keep, and we shall ride there presently. There will be bread and beer in the yards for the soldiers, and his High Holiness has every sept distributing more bread to the commons.”

Reyna looks beyond her husband and her brother, beyond her own relief and her own smile fades. “So we have heard. Such awful tales…” she breaks off and shakes her head. “There is much to tell and time to tell it in. I… will you go with me to the Keep? I have duties to the feast, and you can wash yourself in our rooms there.”

She glances toward Ethos when he raises his voice and sighs. “So very much to tell. You have your work cut out for you protecting the Dornish here. Such irony.”

Taken completely by surprise, Obany squeaks for a moment, though she doesn’t seem to protest for long as she embraces Tancred in return. After a long, much-needed kiss, she breaks the kiss naturally, her cheeks as red as the scarlet in her gown. “... Ser Tancred…” she whispers, and then glances over to Joleta and Ethos, “Please, ser. Take my friend from here, and it would seem that you have some things to discuss alone as well. Not that you need my suggestion to do so. Though please, be careful of the wrap I’ve applied to her ankle.” She smiles as that, her own wounds from that day all but healed.

Tancred holds his forehead against Obany’s, holding it there for a second or two with his eyes closed till he does recall where he is at. He hears Joletta’s words, and frowns, though to be honest, it was expected when word of the King’s death and the manner it happened. He turns to his cousin. “To the keep then cousin, and compare and swap tales with one another?”

“Prince Aegon?” Ethos repeats, and that sobers the ire of the knight a bit. There’s still a dark expression on his face, but he only nods at her request. “Come, we will go now. There are things you must hear. I have been in contact with your family.” His blue eyes study Obany and Tancred, there’s a long pause as his eyes go unfocused for a moment with deeper thoughts, “Thank you for your care of my wife. I’m glad she had friends to aid her.” Then he nods to the Baratheon, “Yes, cousin.”

The ironman follows his wife’s gaze to Ethos and the lines of his face harden subtly; he beckons and a Reach man-at-arms comes over. Swift instructions send him to The Mertyns knight, there to say something to him and his guards both.

Then, he turns back to Reyna: “Not yet, I fear. Go with Ardon. I will have to see to the men first. The wounded, the—”

He breaks off as a woman’s stifled cry cuts through the hubbub; in one corner of the docks, a common woman sobs, facing two soldiers who have sought her out. One of them hesitantly places a comforting hand on her shoulder.

The Iron Serpent watches silently, then turns back to his wife. He weighs her hands, looking down at them, then lets her go. “Go with Ardon, my lady,” he repeats. “I will see you at the feast.”

“Yes, my lord,” Reyna says, looking disappointed, but resigned. As Dagur leaves her, she turns to take Ardon’s arm and with him joins the crush of nobles returning to the Keep.

Ethos turns as one of Saltcliffe’s guards comes over to speak with him. A look of irritation flashes across his features, but then he snorts. “Of course. I might try to run away from -justice-.” He replies, then looks to the others around him with sarcasm in his words. “My wife and I will be retiring to my quarters tonight, cousin. Acting in the interest of what’s best for our people, I’ve offended some self-made commanders with my actions. Do enjoy the feast, we won’t be attending.”

Tancred frowns, and gives the men guarding his cousin a hard stare. “So be it. Not you fault, and I am sure you have your own private reunion this evening. We shall call upon you on the marrow?”

Joleta’s gaze moves to the Saltcliffe guards, then over to where the Iron Serpent has departed. “Ser Tancred, welcome home again. Lady Obany, I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.” She speaks slowly, once again having that feeling of walking into murky waters. Gathering her crutch, she prepares for the slow trek back to the Keep.

Joleta leaves with Ser Ethos and the now considerable retinue of guards.

Watching Ethos and Joleta leave, Obany looks back to Tancred afterwards, her cheeks still flushed a good bit. “... Well, ser, where will we be going?”

Tancred offers an arm to her. “To the Keep. I must put in an appearance there as father’s heir, as much as I wish I could return to the mansion and lock myself away.” He lets his eyes speak the rest of what he desires.

With a polite laugh, Obany slips her arm through his, “I do hope my manner of dress is suitable for this occasion, ser. I hoped it would please you.” She glances around the quickly thinning crowd of the port, then towards the Red Keep, “Shall we?”

Red Keep: Old Keep