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The Golden Sun and the Silver Moon [m]

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Offline Reigning King

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“Let’s try one more.” The Ruling Prince of Dorne said to the students who sat across from their teacher in the Grand Library.  He had been at it with them all afternoon, posing questions to which they knew not the answer and shaming them with his disappointing stare for not divining the correct response from thin air.  The Prince who was young enough in age but withered in body made notes as he lectured the young women in his company, creating lists for the Maester with whom they each met individually twice a week.  “Let’s say it has been a particularly dry season and many of our Dornish strongholds are low on grain.  We have stores here, here and here.” Doran said, gesturing to the different points on the map of Dorne laid out on the table.  “Which do you choose and why?”

“High Hermitage.” Princess Arianne answered.  “The Daynes are loyal to House Martell and they are too generous to use the circumstance for political leverage.”

“And Aeranys, what do you think?” Doran asked, turning his attention to the other young woman in his company.  He listened patiently as she gave her reply, though really, it didn’t truly matter what she said at all.  “You’re both wrong.” He told them.

“The best course of action would be to arrange a trade with Myr across the Narrow Sea.  They supply the granaries for most of the Free Cities and take payment in gold, of which we have much.” As he spoke, Doran leaned back in his chair, wincing ever so slightly at the ache in his knotted joints.  “Better that our vassals are indebted to us, and not the other way around.”

“So then it’s another trick question.” Arianne said, frustration furrowing her brow. 

“Why do you say that?” Prince Doran asked his daughter, patient and doting in spite of the way she glared at him.

“Well, because you didn’t name Myr as a choice.” She replied incredulously. 

“Even with a sword to your neck, there is a third choice beyond fight or die.”  The Ruling Prince of Dorne told his daughter sagely, his eyes sliding to his new daughter-by-law in turn.  “There’s always another choice.”

Just as Princess Arianne huffed, rolling her eyes and looking like she just might say something clever or cruel, the doors to the Grand Library opened.  It was a Knight who walked in, her hair pulled back and her leathers shined clean.  With a smile on her face and humble bow she said, “I apologize for my lateness.  I hope I have not kept you waiting for too long.”

“Nonsense, Dame Natari.” Prince Doran said, waving a dismissive hand as he looked to his own man, who stepped up beside him.   “You’re exactly on time.” He explained as he struggled to rise from his chair.  With his weight resting using his cane and a gentle hand from Areo Hotah under his arm, he found his tired feet as he said, “besides, I’m sure the girls understand that as Master at Arms, you have more important matters to attend.”

“Of course, my Prince.” Dame Natari replied courteously as she reached around Princess Aeranys to collect the tomes laid out before her upon the table.  No matter how much the Dornish wed woman insisted that she could carry her own books, Dame Natari would not hear a word of it. 

“You are dismissed for today.” Prince Doran told the young women across the table from him.  “I’m afraid I will not be joining you for supper, though I’m sure I will see you both on the morrow.”

Princess Arianne offered her father only a tight-lipped smile before seizing Princess Aeranys by the hand and dragging her off along with her, interrupting whatever niceties the polite young lady might have offered to the Ruling Prince of Dorne.  Dame Natari offered another humble bow before following the girls out of the Library and into the corridor.  It took barely a moment for Arianne to begin her prattleling, her arm looped with Princess Aeranys’ as they walked.  She complained about her father and his lessons, which was nothing new.  However, it was when the young Dornish girl suggested a stroll in the Water Gardens that Dame Natari deigned to interrupt. 

“First, you might like to return to your chambers.” She suggested, her eyes finding those of the fair-haired foreign Princess.  “Princess Elia has left you a gift.”

“More wedding presents!” Arianne squealed excitedly.  “We should go see.”

“We?” Dame Natari repeated.  “They are gifts for Princess Aeranys, not you.”

“I know that.” Arianne returned with a proud pout.  “But you don’t mind if I come along, right Aeranys?”  There was hardly a point of her even asking, because of course the kind hearted Princess would say ‘yes’ to her new little sister.  As expected, Arianne continued to babble away in Aeranys’ ear about this or that, with Natari taking little note of their conversation.  She was very unlike her brother in that regard, who saw and heard everything.  Instead, Dame Natari retreated into her own thoughts, giving the girls the semblance of privacy they were so rarely privy to.  As they neared chambers that had once belonged to Lady Mellario, the young women fell silent as all three tuned a listening ear to the sound of a distant squabble.  The raised voices were coming from Princess Aeranys’ own rooms. 

“What are the chances I could convince you to wait here?” Dame Natari asked, her eyes sliding sideways to Princess Aeranys, as she shifted the books she carried from one arm to the next so as to place a ready hand at the hilt of her sword.  The violet-eyed beauty gave her answer, with a high chin and a stern gaze as she brushed past Dame Natari and straight into her rooms and whatever was taking place within.  With a sigh, Natari followed after the girl she had promised to protect, muttering, “yeah, that’s what I thought…” under her breath as she went.   

“Stop it!  You shouldn’t even be here.” One voice hissed. 

“I just want to see it,” another voice quipped back dismissively. 

“It’s not yours.” The first voice snapped in return, this time her sweet tone fell serious. 

“And why should it be hers?” The other voice spat back, humming to herself as the sound of her melody moved farther away and into the rooms. 

“I’m not kidding, put it back!” That serious voice snarled. 

“Oh, shut up!”

Princess Aeranys entered her chambers with Princess Arianne and Dame Natari fast upon her heels.  Her pretty eyes landed upon the sight of the lady in her service, Lady Allyria of Starfall, being shoved to the floor by another girl who held a jeweled necklace up to herself before a mirror.  Allyria grunted as she fell, fast to jump back up to her feet with an angry look in her knitted brow.  As the dark haired beauty before the mirror sneered at Allyria, and the Dayne girl started towards her in turn, a sharp voice cut into the room.   It was not Dame Natari who strode past Princess Aeranys, staring down the girl who had entered her chambers so brazenly.  Rather, it was the Princess of Dorne, Arianne Martell. 

“Arika!” She shouted.  Both girls froze, looking to the one who addressed them.  With all the calm cadence of her father Arianne stepped towards the girls and silently held out her hand.  Arika bowed her head and placed the necklace in her waiting palm.  There was a flicker, only the briefest of a glimpse into the malice in her eyes before she turned to the Princess in whose rooms she stood, naught but honey upon her sweet, forked tongue.

“I’m so sorry, Princess Aeranys,” she said as she bowed her head demurely.  “I thought it might be nice to lay your presents out for you, I only meant to…”

“Thank you, Arika.” Dame Natari said, halting the treacherous maiden and her lies before they could pass her lips.  “I’m sure Lady Ellaria and the girls will be missing your help.”

“Of course,” Arika replied, though not without a certain bite in her carefully chosen words.  “Good day to you, Princess.”

“I swear I was gone for only a second…” Allyria started, her gaze flicking between the two Princesses in her presence.

“It’s not your fault.” Princess Arianne said as she looked at the necklace in her hands with a forlorn fondness.  The moment that the doors shut behind Arika Sand, it seemed as if a spell had been lifted and once more the ladies around Aeranys became the cheerful, smiling women that she knew them to be.  “Come see,” she said to Princess Aeranys, beckoning her forward as she carried the necklace to the velvet case which housed even more sparkling treasures.  “I was wondering when you would get these…” she pondered out loud. 

“They’re from Elia,” Allyria explained as she skipped to Aeranys side and handed her the letter that had accompanied her gifts. 

Lady Mellario left all her treasures behind when she returned to Norvos.  These, she set aside for the woman who would marry her son.  They belong to you now.

P.S. The rubies were always Mors’ favourite.
Your friend, Elia

“They were my mother’s…” Princess Arianne said thoughtfully.  “She had so many, I don’t recognize all of them.  I remember this one, though.” Turning to Princess Aeranys she held out the necklace she had taken from the hands not meant to hold it.  It was a piece of gold, set with shimmering red rubies.  “Try it on.”

As the Targaryen born Princess took the delicate jewelry from her hands, a warm smile washed over Arianne’s young face.  “She didn’t wear this one a lot,” she said thoughtfully as she watched her sister-by-law bring the string of golden jewels to her slender neck.  “She left me all her favourites, the ones she wore the most,” she explained, fingers coming to touch upon the necklace she wore around her own neck, another piece from her mother’s collection.  “But she loved this one best.  Mors gave it to her.”  Arianne wasn’t looking at Aeranys as she spoke, but rather the necklace she had fastened behind her head that fell against her pale porcelain skin.  “It looks wonderful on you.” With a smile, Arianne took Aeranys by the shoulders and tugged her before the mirror so she could behold her own reflection. 

“Since Prince Doran will be absent from dinner this evening, perhaps you should join Princess Elia in the Water Gardens.”  Dame Natari suggested as she found a suitable place to set down the heavy texts that the Prince of Dorne had given for Princess Aeranys to read.  “It would be good to give your thanks in person.”

“Oh, yes!” Lady Allyria chimed in excitedly.  “Can we go?” She asked of the Princess she served. 

“Give my aunt my love.” Princess Arianne said as her hands slipped from her sister-by-law’s shoulders.

“You won’t come with us?” Allyria asked. 

“Not tonight,” the Dornish Princess told the youngest Dayne daughter patiently as she gathered her skirts and moved towards the door.  “I have to talk to Arika,” she said, turning her eyes to Dame Natari meaningfully. 

“Be careful,” the Knight told her as she swept from the room before turning back to the Princess and her Lady who stood before her still.  With a small smile upon her lips she said, “You should wear that tonight,” Dame Natari told the Targaryen born Princess, gesturing to the shimmering jewels that hung about her neck.  “I expect it would please Princess Elia to see you honouring Mors’ mother.”

King Kade - Reigning from the North

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Offline Reigning King

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The fortress of Storm’s End towered high in the sky as the small host of Martell forces encroached upon the war camp set about it’s perimeter.  A party rode out to meet them, Lord Mace Tyrell and his two eldest sons, Willas and Garland, at the lead of the approaching horses.  The High Lords stopped before one another, the representatives of the Reach dismounting to bow before the heir to the Iron Throne, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.  It was a farcical ceremony and the Dragon Prince himself struggled to keep the disdain from his face as he waved his loyal subjects to standing straight once more.  They made their formal addresses, swearing their fealty over again and validating their positions with words since they had not the physical bounty of their victories to lay before the Targaryen Prince’s feet.  This much came easy for Rhaegar, locking his snarling fangs behind a pleasant face for the sake of formality.  Yet, when his eyes slid to the Golden Fang beside him, he couldn’t help the tickle that set the corners of his mouth twitching.  There, plain as Dornish sun in the depths of the deserts, was all the impatience and contempt that Prince Rhaegar felt but could not reveal, painted in blatant, bold strokes across his boyish face.

“Please, your Grace, allow me to prepare a table and tent for you and your men.  You must be tired after your journey.”  Lord Mace Tyrell offered, eyes wide with the promise of praise. 

For a moment, Prince Rhaegar only watched the dotting Lord in silence before once more his stormy, indigo eyes fell back upon the dark haired boy at his side.  Lifting his chin and tilting his head, Prince Rhaegar asked, “what do you think, Prince Mors?”  When pale brown eyes flicked his way, he could see the young man register at once both the unspoken invitation and challenge woven into each word.  “Fancy a warm meal and a feather pillow?”

“I’m not hungry,” the Golden Fang replied, his gaze turning back to the Lord of Highgarden. 

“Quite right.” Prince Rhaegar returned approvingly, the smile touching upon his lips more brightly now.  “Gather your commanders, Lord Tyrell.” He told the portly High Lord who bowed so humbly before him.  “I will hold council presently.”

Every formality was extended to Prince Rhaegar and his Martell host as they made their way through the Tyrell war camp.  Soldiers halted in their stride and bowed deeply to the inheriting Targaryen son, casting sideways glances as the Golden Fang and the entourage of Stormlanders who accompanied him.  Their horses were taken for tending, an area of the camp sectioned off for the humble Martell numbers who followed them.  Before long, the two Princes were led into the council tent, the seat at the head of the table that had been the place of Lord Mace Tyrell was now reserved for Prince Rhaegar.  The Golden Fang sat beside the heir to the Iron Throne, his uncle, the Red Viper seated at his opposite shoulder.  Though he had prepared himself for it, Prince Mors made no effort to talk over Prince Rhaegar.  In fact, not only did the Golden Fang passively permit the Targaryen born commander to maintain full control over the council’s proceedings, he looked wholly disinterested and even bored from the outset. 

“And you are certain you can trust these Stormlanders, your Grace?” Lord Mace Tyrell asked the Prince, to whose father he had sworn fealty. 

“Dorne can offer them protection from the pirates that raid their coasts.” Prince Rhaegar pointed out, and again, Prince Mors remained silent and unmoving.  The Targaryen Prince slid his gaze to his Dornish ally, taking note of his casual posture and his wandering gaze.  He was watching.  He was watching everyone and everything.  For the briefest moment, Prince Rhaegar let himself get caught up wondering what exactly the young Dornishman saw. “I trust that they want full bellies and safe families, as do we all.”

“But is this plan truly the most prudent?” The Lord of Highgarden pressed, comfortably speaking out against the Stormlanders since they had not been given a place in Lord Tyrell’s tent nor a seat at his table.  “The risk…”

“It is better than doing nothing.” Prince Mors spoke up, the first time since entering the war camp of green soldiers plucked fresh from the bosom of the Reach.  With those words, the Dornish Prince made an unceremonious exit, followed swiftly by his shadow, the Knight, Ser Devran Toyne.  The Red Viper and accompanying Dornish representatives stayed until the conclusion of council proceedings, but offered little by way of decorum upon their departure, taking their cues from the boy who would be the next Ruling Prince of Dorne.  When Prince Rhaegar went looking for the elusive young Dornishman, he found him in the same place he had been for the past several nights.  The snake had slithered to the edge of the camp, where he waded through the swampy marshes of the Stormlands.  Ser Devran stood upon solid ground, a wine barrel, seemingly filled with something other than wine, beside him.  He bowed shallowly to Prince Rhaegar as he approached but said nothing.  Quiet and unreadable, just like his liege. 

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” Prince Mors called from where he stood knee-deep in the bog.  The silver-haired man who reached for the barrel at Ser Devran’s side paused, pulling his hand away from the hissing lid.  “Most of them are poisonous.” He elaborated further as he sloshed his way back towards higher, drier ground. 

“How do you feed them?” Prince Rhaegar asked. 

“If they get hungry, they’ll eat each other.” The Golden Fang answered with a shrug.

“Does my sister know about you?” The heir to the Iron Throne asked.  “About this?”

“If you mean the snakes, then yes.” Mors answered breathily, mud dripping from his boots and breeches as he climbed from the muck, a simple canvas satchel writhing against his hip.  He approached the barrel and Ser Devran took a cautious step back which Prince Rhaegar mirrored in good measure.  Lifting the lid as horned heads rose, an ominous chorus of murderous hissing and rattling echoed across the bog.  Without care but at least some fleeting respect, Prince Mors poured even more unwelcome additions into the already brimming barrel of horror. 

“What’s your secret?” Prince Rhaegar asked. 

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.” He answered in a tone that was lighter and more friendly than the usual. 

“Was she afraid, my sister?”

That question gave the young Dornishman pause as he lifted his gaze to the indigo hues that watched him in careful consideration.  “I don’t know,” he answered honestly.  “You tell me, is your sister afraid of snakes?” He asked.

“I don’t know.” Prince Rhaegar admitted in return. 

“What does she like?” He asked next, closing the lid on the barrel once more and tipping it onto its side.  He had spent the past several nights collecting the creatures who slipped unseen through the marshes of the Stormlands.  This particular barrel was one of three which he had amassed and toted along with him during their march. 

“What do you mean?” He volleyed back in return. 

“Did she enjoy riding? Did she keep a pet?” Prince Mors clarified. 

“No, my parents never let her learn to ride and punished her when she tried to teach herself.”  The eldest Targaryen son explained to his brother by law.  “I suppose she would sneak scraps to the scullery cats in the kitchens when she thought she could get away with it.” Prince Rhaegar mused, his eyes drifting, lost in a memory. 

“Oh,” Mors said back flatly. 

“What is it?”

"My sister told me to get yours a cat."

"What did you give her instead?"

“I gave her a bird.”

“Did she like it?”

“I don’t know.” Mors hadn’t meant to make a joke, but Prince Rhaegar laughed all the same.  “I don’t really know her.” He admitted in the next breath and the dragon stilled his laughing lips. 

“That is to be expected.” He told the Dornish Prince, his mouth set into an unforgiving line that was unbecoming when compared to his smile.  “Only a dragon can weather dragonfire.”

“And monsters do not make mothers of maidens,” Mors said, making Prince Rhaegar’s gaze snap back to his like a whip cracked through the air as he added, “only meals.”  In the silence that followed the Dornish Prince wiped the mud from his clothes and rinsed the jeweled rings on his long fingers in the murky marsh waters.  He turned his back to the crowned Prince careless for the way that he leered at him, heedless of the fact that his Knight returned enough leering in kind for the both of them. 

“Maybe I’ll hire a horse master to teach her.” Prince Mors mused, brushing his wet hands against the dry parts of his tunic. 

“She would like that.” Prince Rhaegar said with a nod.  As Ser Devran stepped up beside his liege and the Dornish Prince began to kick at the barrel of snakes, rolling it along the rocky terrain, the heir to the Iron Throne found himself falling into step beside them.  Their language was unspoken and subtle, much in the way Rhaegar himself was with his own men.  Unfortunately, Jon and Arthur were both otherwise indisposed with more pressing duties.  This left the dragon with few options by way of trusted council.  “Tell me what you think of Lord Tyrell.”

“I think he’s a lazy coward.” Prince Mors answered quickly and easily.  Direct and to the point.  It was something the Targaryen son had come to appreciate about the snake at his side. 

“I agree.” Prince Rhaegar concurred. 

“He will try to steal your glory, your Grace.” The boyish Dornishman said in an even, wizened voice that did not match his young age.  “Do not let him.”

When morning came, Lord Mace Tyrell was decidedly absent from the party that waited just beyond the reach of a wandering arrow before the gates of Storm’s End.  Prince Rhaegar stood proud and sparkling in his plate and mail, the sun reflecting off the rubies fixed upon his breast in the image of a roaring dragon.  He was joined by the two Princes of Dorne and Lord Manwoody along with a handful of honest hardworking Stormlanders who had been unwittingly roped into the schemes of greater men.  They made them wait for a good long while before at last the gates of Storms End parted only enough to allow a party of burly dark haired men past, led by Lord Steffon Baratheon himself.  They stopped a breath apart from one another, registering first their own bannermen among the collective that stood shoulder to shoulder with the Dornish snakes that flanked the crowned Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen.  Mors had never met the High Lord of the Stormlands, but he had heard enough stories.  He looked just how he expected him to, standing a head taller than the other men with broad shoulders and a beard as black and as coarse as the rocky shores of Shipbreaker Bay.  He listened first, not bothering to let any pleasantries touch upon his sharp featured face.  When he did speak, it was with a rich timber.  Years spent shouting orders across the docks of ships and breathing in salt-stained air making his throat hoarse yet his voice was no less commanding. 

“Bullshit.” He growled.  “You stand with these men and not your own?” Lord Baratheon demanded of the Storm-born men who stood across from him. 

“They offer us safety, a way out of this war.” One man spoke up, proud and brave in spite of the way the Lord of Storm’s End dwarfed him in every perceivable way. 

“It’s not our fight.” Another chimed in.  “It’s not worth dying over a family squabble.”

“A family squabble…” Lord Baratheon repeated, a scoff upon his voice at the words.  “What makes you think the pirate Lords will answer to a Dornish boy?”

“I crowned the pirate King,” Prince Mors spoke up, his tone gentle and placating.  “The new one, anyway.”

“And the old one?” Lord Steffon asked next. 

“I gave him to a friend.” The Golden Fang replied.  “What’s left of him is still with her now, on the Island of Estermont.” At those words, a chill seemed to creep along the spines of the Storm Lords, all eyes fixed on the young Dornishman before them.  Mors didn’t have to look to his uncle to know that the Red Viper was smiling from ear to ear. 

“You burned my home to the ground.” One man said, practically shaking with quiet rage.  “You murdered my son, my steward…”

Ah, so this was Lord Estermont.  Good to put a face to a name. 

“And your people abducted my sister,” Prince Rhaegar snarled in return. 

“One girl, one life.” Lord Steffon cut in, his words a roar, his head rearing.  “The Dornish slaughtered hundreds that day.”

“So you agree?” Prince Mors interrupted.  “One life is not equal to a hundred.” Silence fell over the Storm Lords then, glances exchanged by the men who stood at Lord Steffon Baratheon’s back.  “His Grace has not requested the surrender of your people, my Lord.” Mors pointed out.  “Just you.”

“I can give them what you cannot,” Prince Rhaegar observed, matching the Dornish Prince beside him and speaking in subdued, soft tones.  “I will let them all go home.  Your son will inherit your seat,” he said, gesturing to the dark haired young man who stood at the Storm Lord’s side.  Stannis Baratheon, his eldest.  “And you will answer for your treason.”

“Treason?” Lord Baratheon parroted with a laugh.  “My people are loyal to their liege.” He croaked. 

“No.” Prince Mors corrected, gently shaking his head like a scolding Septa.  “Your people are hungry and afraid… of me.”

“They don’t even know you’re here.” Lord Steffon returned coolly. 

“Will you keep his secret for him?” Prince Mors asked one of the Storm Lords standing with the High Lord to whom they swore hollow oaths upon bent knees.  “Will you let your people starve?” He asked another.  “It’s Lord Steffon, or it’s everyone.  Your friends, your children, every living soul in that fortress.” The Golden Fang watched the moral dilemma before them settle into the proud bones of the dark haired men who stood by their liege.  “I wonder, will your people be willing to die for you, when they learn you wouldn’t die for them?”

“You’re in the Stormlands, boy.” Lord Steffon sneered, using that word again, the one Mors hated.  He had taken Lord Gerold Dayne’s left pinkie finger for the slight.  Lord Steffon would pay with his life.  “My people can not be cowed with fear like sheep.”

“I think you’ll find that they can.” Prince Oberyn said, still smiling that terrible smile.  With a casual grace, he stepped apart from the negotiating parties and waved his arms over his head.  In answer, a chorus of commands echoed in the shadows behind Prince Rhaegar and his Dornish alleys.   Before the Storm Lords could react, the deafening crack of catapults being loosed smothered their rising voices.  One barrel crashed against the walls of the fortress, spilling snakes, some dead but most still wriggling, along the gates of Storms End.  Two made it over the wall, and the screams that sounded from within came in the heartbeats that followed. 

“You’re a monster!” Lord Estermont seethed as he drew the blade on his hip from its sheath.  Before the steel could even catch the shimmer of the shining morning sun, Prince Mors was upon him, driving a dagger through the bottom of his chin, the tip emerging from one of his round brown eyes.  The once great, now dead, Lord Estermont fell into the dirt beneath their feet, gasping as he drowned in his own blood.  Even as the Storm Lords turned from the Targaryen Prince and his party, the Golden Fang kept his eyes on the Lord at his feet until he gagged on his final breath and fell still. 

“You have until sundown!” The Red Viper shouted, his voice thundering behind the Storm Lords and chasing them back to their gates. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Someone said from behind Prince Mors, who turned to face one of several representatives of the Stormland villages.  “It’s dishonourable to kill a man in negotiations.”

“He drew first steel.” Prince Mors answered casually, cleaning the blood from his blade.  “I was just faster.”

“He was right,” said another.  “You are a monster.”

“As you say.” The Golden Fang conceded with a humble nod.  “My people know what I am, and they love me all the same.” He explained as he tucked his dagger away within the folds of his tunics, no longer clean but now splattered with Lord Estermont’s blood.  “Do you know why?” He asked.  “Because I would die for them.” Taking a step towards the man who addressed him, he placed a hand upon his shoulder.  “You’re one of those people now.” He explained.  “You’ll find it is very useful, having a monster for a friend.” At his last word, his yellow eyes found the indigo ones that watched him.  Patting the Stormlanders on the shoulder and bowing shallowly to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Golden Fang left to find his Knight and maybe some fresh tunics while he was at it.

Prince Mors Nymeros Martell sat beneath the shade of an oak tree as the afternoon sun beat down upon the silver head of the man who paced before him.  Ser Devran lounged beside him, their shoulders slumped together as he pulled an apple from the bag beside him, cutting it in half before handing his Prince the larger piece.  Though Mors might have appeared to be disinterested, if not a little bored, with what the Targaryen royal said as he fussed, he was listening.  Unlike Prince Rhaegar, the Golden Fang had the privilege of knowing precisely what was taking place behind the walls of Storm’s End.  He had seen the ships during their march, he knew the stories that the people of Greenstone had shared with their countrymen, shaking in the quiet of the night.  The moment they saw the snakes, they would know the Golden Fang had come for them and they would panic.  All they were waiting for now, was for the larger group to cut down the smaller.  The mob would deliver Lord Steffon to them in time. 

“And if it doesn’t work?” Prince Rhaegar asked, turning to face the two quiet, stoic men who had become his chief commanders and confidants. 

“Then, you give me and my men leave to do what we do best.” Prince Mors answered easily. 

“How would you even get inside?” The Dragon Prince pressed further. 

“I’m already inside.” Prince Mors replied confidently, taking another bite from the apple he brought to his lips. 

The sun had barely fallen low enough in the sky to call it evening, before the gates of Storm’s End opened and Lord Steffon Baratheon was delivered to the Targaryen Prince in the same fashion as his ancestor before him.  Naked, gagged and chained, they threw the High Lord of the Stormlands to the dragon.  As Prince Rhaegar drew his blade, and cleaved the Storm Lord’s head from his shoulders, Mors smiled.  In fact, even the Golden Fang himself failed to notice the ship that slipped into Shipbreaker’s Bay as Lord Steffon Baratheon died. 
« Last Edit: April 03, 2021, 09:28:49 PM by Reigning King »

King Kade - Reigning from the North

Character limits kill my vibe...