dryskies_btb
patreon
Ser Ciaphas of House Cain Ch.6
🕑 Added 2025-08-02 00:50:49 +0000 UTCLYONEL I: THE GRIEF-STRICKEN KING
“Even in the most trying of times, the gears of governance must continue to turn. Bureaucracy and recordkeeping and logistics and infrastructure, and yes, even corruption — all are necessary to the lives and societies we know. So, through grief and glory, strife and success, hardship and hard work, dutiful men turn the axles they have access to. This is what keeps the world whole and working.”
— Stefan Patroclus, Master and Chancellor of the Estate Imperium, Adeptus Administratum, in his advising memoirs, fully recorded and distributed through the Munitorum ranks in M38.887.
— Lord Lyonel Strong —
In the wake of tragedy, Lyonel arrived early. He could not afford to be lax in his duties, not now of all times. The realm wept. The royal family was cracked, deep to its core. King and Princess were inconsolable. But the men who ran the realm couldn’t give in to the grief that now suffused the capital.
He was in his office, his seat of power and law in the Red Keep, as soon as the sun rose. There, he began seeing to the paperwork and duties his position required of him. He looked up an obscure law, or two, or three. He scribbled down missives and directions with practiced efficiency. And he passed what judgment he could without elevating the tedious situations to the King’s attention, not to monopolize the power of law, but to ease a grieving man’s burdens.
There was a small council meeting scheduled for mid-morning. Much could be done beforehand, and he would see it done on his own if he could. Every decision he wrote and passed down for underlings to carry out was made in the crown’s name. And so, each was weighed carefully before setting ink to parchment. He would sooner resign than take advantage of the authority invested in him.
Lord Lyonel Strong was King Viserys’s man through and through, faithful to the crown and the Targaryen dynasty. The slightly younger man was a friend, too. And so, Lyonel aimed to soothe some of his liege’s pains in the only way he could. He saw to the laws of the realm and the rule of them over smallfolk and nobles alike.
The queen’s passing was a terrible, terrible thing. A shattering of the royal family. The first tribulation of the new king’s reign. Already, Lyonel suspected it had broken something vital in the King and the Princess. The loss of a wife, of a mother, of a familial lynchpin would be felt long after the memories of the realm faded.
Even Prince Daemon showed his grief. In his own… unique way, at least. Daemon was, as always, a dangerous enigma. But Lyonel swore he could see the hurt his bravado hid, even if few others thought similarly to him. Daemon had been close to his goodsister, after all, for she was the last of kin in a court that now lacked for Targaryens.
‘Thirteen children of the Good King and Good Queen,’ Lyonel lamented at times. ‘Thirteen princes and princesses of the blood, all meeting tragic ends eventually. Oh, what the realm could’ve been…’
Queen Aemma was a special soul, essential to the new king’s reign. Gentle, dutiful, and loved by all. She maintained certain charities throughout King’s Landing (motherhouses, kitchens, and shoemakers employed by royal coin, most uniquely), not to the level of the Good Queen Alysanne, her predecessor, but enough that the common city folk would certainly feel her absence. She also kept a subtle rule over the court’s ladies, a gentle and demure counterpart to Viserys’s personable rule over the lords. And of course, none could question her commitment to his crown, not when she died trying to bring him a male heir of his blood.
To be certain, her loss was a heavy one. And with the death of Prince Baelon only a day later, the realm was left without a queen or an heir. A cruel, cruel situation from every direction one looked.
The royal family’s strife didn’t end there, however. Barely a week past, Lord Otto came to the King with words he claimed Prince Daemon had declared for the whole city to hear.
‘Heir for a day!’ Spoken with revelry, Otto said. Spoken without care or consideration for grief and mourning, he claimed. Spoken as a covetous, mocking thing from an unworthy prince, he insisted.
Knowing Otto’s many grudges against the Prince, Lyonel had his doubts as to the holistic truth of his report. He knew what he’d seen in the Prince. Lyonel didn’t doubt the setting — a brothel was certainly a strange place to mourn — or that the words were said — Daemon didn’t deny them, either — but he did remain skeptical that the claimed toast was one of complete and covetous celebration.
In all likelihood, Lyonel did believe that the Prince had been mourning in his own way. An awful way, spoken out of turn, no doubt, but still just mourning without any true ill intention in his words. Then, his lapse was purposefully misunderstood and twisted to Otto’s advantage.
Nonetheless, the results remained. Daemon was immediately confronted by the King for his words. And when the proud fool prince gave only a half-hearted explanation and excuse in his hungover state, Viserys stomped his foot down hard. Daemon was exiled and removed from his heirship. Princess Rhaenyra was installed in his place, elevated as heir of the Iron Throne. The lords of the realm, many already present for the Heir’s Tourney, swore their oaths before her barely a few days later.
There was precedent for it, the King choosing his heir for himself. King Jaehaerys did so with Prince Baelon, Viserys’s father. And Lyonel couldn’t deny that Daemon was a… contested heir, in the first place. Controversial. Loved or hated, with few, if any, who fell in between those extremes. Lord Otto was far from the only one to clash with the former heir.
As much as Lyonel may claim to see more in the Prince than what Daemon outwardly showed the world, he didn’t feel any particular desire to back the proud fool to the hilt. The King had made his will known on the matter. And the King’s will was absolute. Always.
Pushed to the limit of patience by his brother, Princess Rhaenyra was the King’s only option. She could be made into a great heir, Lyonel was certain. Young enough that she could still be taught, old enough to have already developed a spine, and already riding a dragon to defend her newfound claim. The future was no longer so certain, but neither was it completely lost.
But most importantly to Lyonel, the King’s will must be upheld. Without that constant, that assurance, the realm was lost to uncertainty, to chaos… Viserys proclaimed Rhaenyra his heir, and until he directly decided otherwise, it would be so.
If Lyonel had his most pragmatic way, the King would marry again. Lady Laena, perhaps, to unite the two existing claims to the throne? Of course, he would also insist that the King claim a second dragon for himself after the legendary Balerion. Any of the royal beasts (even the Cannibal, twisted as that development would be…) would secure the legitimacy of his crown forevermore.
But it wasn’t his place to dictate the world to the King. He was an advisor, yes, an agent of his crown, not a puppet-mummer. The King would do as the King did. As his loyal council, it was their job to make his will into reality.
After hours already at work, Lyonel stood from his desk. He collected the notes and research he’d had prepared for the day’s meeting, lamented the missed opportunity to break fast with his children, and set out for the small council chamber.
With a dead queen, a new heir, and a grieving king, the agenda for the meeting wasn’t quite set. But certain matters had a tendency to make themselves known regardless.
Lord Otto would inevitably bring up Prince Daemon somehow. Even after his victory, the undeniably competent man couldn’t leave well enough alone when it came to Daemon.
Lord Corlys would do the same for the Stepstones. A concern, to be certain. But also one marred by the Lord of the Tides’s self-interest. It led to him being unfairly dismissed on the matter more often than not.
Lord Lyman Beesbury would remain usefully, comfortingly constant with his focus on coinly matters and nothing else. He was a reliable and quiet man, but where his talents lay, he certainly excelled.
Grand Maester Mellos was Otto’s man. Competent enough, Lyonel supposed, but hardly worthy of his ‘Grand’ title. But Lyonel had forged a few links at the Citadel. He knew that the world of higher knowledge was far from immune to the trappings of politics.
Ser Ryam Redwyne was quickly and visibly approaching the end of his life. It was expected, but unfortunate. Lyonel readily remembered the knight he’d once been, once breaking thirty lances in the greatest joust of his generation. While he still had life in him, perhaps Ser Ryam would focus on raising a suggestion for his successor as Lord Commander of the King’s Guard.
Lord Ronnel Connington would continue to be… utterly useless as Master of Whispers. Just completely incompetent. Only his status as a prominent lord of the Stormlands kept him in his position. Otherwise, the man couldn’t hear a whisper if it was shouted at him.
And for this meeting, Lyonel had his own matter to bring before the Crown and Council. An atrocity to set right. A story that had burned in the back of his mind since he heard it. It was entirely within his remit to raise such a concern. The rule of law was the only way forward in this case. And after looking into it more closely, after confirming its truth, Lyonel’s suggested course of action was set in his mind.
Lyonel should’ve been the first to arrive in the small council chamber. He usually was, with Corlys and Otto going back and forth for second place. But today, he found a Kingsguard already standing guard at the door. He nodded a brief greeting to Ser Clement Crabb and was let into the chamber.
Within, he found the King, and only the King, sitting at the table. The mid-morning light from the chamber’s windows illuminated him, but Lyonel still got the queer impression that he was sitting alone in the dark, not even noticing the light upon him. There was a distance to his very being, and Viserys didn’t even look up to acknowledge Lyonel’s entrance.
“Your Grace…” Lyonel greeted softly to avoid disturbing or spooking him. “How long-…?”
Slowly, all too slowly, the King seemed to come back to reality, “… Hmm? Lyonel? Ah, I suppose it’s nearly time, then…”
“Yes, Your Grace, the meeting shall begin shortly,” Lyonel replied.
Viserys just sighed, “Duties… Duties must.”
The man he came across there was more hollow than Lyonel had ever seen him before. There was a soul-deep pain to him, a wound that hadn’t even begun to heal. It’d been barely more than a week since the queen’s tragedy, and Lyonel could still clearly see how low it had brought Viserys.
“Viserys,” Lyonel abandoned titles to ask his friend outright. “How long have you been sitting here?”
Viserys blinked, and even that seemed to be a struggle, “How… long…? If you’re here… Hours? It must be. It was dark when I arrived. Sleep escaped me for most of the night. And when it didn’t… I wished it had. I… couldn’t remain within the royal quarters…”
“I understand,” Lyonel nodded.
“Do you?” The King’s utterly blank expression as he asked that question would’ve been worrying to most.
Lyonel almost snorted, but retained enough tact to abstain. Instead, he spoke gently, “Viserys. My friend. I’ve been married thrice and claim Harrenhal as a seat. I’m no stranger to ghosts in my bed.”
“Oh,” Viserys blinked again, signs of life only now returning to him, heavy with grief as they were. “Does it… Does it ever get easier?”
Lyonel simply shook his head, “Not for my first wife, nor my second, even if I loved her less dearly. But we carry on, for everything and everyone they left behind. Friends, family, children; we carry on because we must.”
“Gods, Rhaenyra…” Viserys leaned away from the table to slump back in his small council throne. “Aemma’s daughter… My daughter… My heir. I’ve all but thrown her to the vultures and forgotten about her, haven’t I?”
Lyonel didn’t nod, but he certainly agreed, “As you say, Viserys: your heir. Many will seek to take advantage of her new position. Curry favor, or entangle her in their schemes, or most pressingly of all, strive for her hand. I do not have to tell you how cutthroat the court can be. She cannot be left to sink or swim on her own.”
Finally, a bit of determination and spirit sparked in Viserys’s eyes, “You’re right. She’s a Dragon, but even Dragons aren’t invincible when suddenly thrown into strange lands.”
“A new perspective and approach are needed for a new situation,” Lyonel advised. “If she is to be your heir, she must be raised as such from now on. Tutors and lessons, more than what she was expected to need as a princess. Responsibilities to test her resolve. And chances to exercise her initiative, so the realm sees her, not merely a woman.”
“I-…” Viserys hesitated. “I’m asking so much of her, so quickly…”
“She is your daughter, always,” Lyonel said. “Now, you must make her your heir. It can be no one else, Viserys, lest she become a puppet to ambitious men who think their cocks give them more right to rule than royal blood and dragons.”
Life and Targaryen Fire ignited in Viserys’s eyes at the warning. He hissed, “Who would dare?”
“Many, unfortunately,” Lyonel was brutally blunt with that reality. “You know it just as I do. She will have to be perfect — unimpeachably so —, brutal, and benevolent, all at once. And some lords will still find flaws and make up reasons to hate her. It will be a nigh-impossible path she walks, but one you’ve already chosen for her.
“It is your duty, not just as a king, but as a father, to prepare her to stand tall over the realm.”
Viserys was quiet as he considered Lyonel’s words. Thoughts of the future took over from grief of the present for the first time in a week. Gradually, he sat straighter on his throne. The King Lyonel knew he could be came to the fore. Viserys favored him with a determined nod, and Lyonel knew his advice had been heard.
“You speak true, my lord. True to certain dreadful realities that I needed to hear,” Viserys said. “Rhaenyra’s path will not be simple. But Aemma would curse me every night from the afterlife if I left our daughter to rot, unprepared for the crown that will rest upon her brow. For her memory, for all she sacrificed, Rhaenyra will be queen. And she will be the best of our line. Lyonel, my lord, my friend… I ask that you never let me forget that vow.”
Lyonel gave a solemn nod, “Your will be done, My King.”
The King seemed more settled after their short conversation. His bearing was still heavy with grief, yes, but it was heavy with resolve now, too. Lyonel was confident that the royal family would weather this tragedy.
And until that proved true, the wheel would continue to turn. A turning that began and ended at the small council. Now, Lyonel hoped, the King would be more present for the day’s duties, instead of simply going through the motions in pure grief. It would certainly make the appeal he planned to present more feasible if Viserys were aware enough to listen and give his approval.
Lyonel left the King with one last piece of advice to consider, “If I may, Viserys, you might look into securing Rhaenyra a mentor that none can dispute. The Queen Who Never Was. Namely, Rhaenys, not Corlys. Go to her directly, and it will be an offer of peace, of righting past wrongs, and of influence she herself can wield, not an avenue for the Sea Snake’s legendary ambition. Have her alone, the Queen Who Never Was, prepare the Queen Who Will Be.”
“It would be a bold statement…” Viserys hesitated.
“But a fruitful one,” Lyonel replied. “No one in the realm can deny that there has never been a woman more prepared for queenship than Princess Rhaenys. And if you pointedly distance the offer from Corlys — if you make it to Rhaenys Targaryen, not Rhaenys Velaryon — it can become an internal matter of the royal family, not one of Velaryon grasping.”
Slowly, Viserys nodded, “It’s an intriguing idea, I must admit. I will consider it carefully, I promise you that.”
Lyonel nodded, but didn’t say anything more. He knew he’d have to raise the subject again in private after Viserys had had a chance to turn it over in his mind if he wanted such an honestly prudent proposal to bear any fruit. Viserys wouldn’t easily decide for himself, and if Otto got wind of the proposal, he’d be quick to shoot it down to preserve his own influence over the throne’s heir.
It didn’t take long for the rest of the small council to join them. All were surprised to see the King already seated at the head of the table. Viserys tended to run a bit late for such meetings, and the lords of the small council were used to having that time to prepare or perhaps verbally spar in Otto and Corlys’s case. Still, greetings were given, seats were taken, and Viserys waved the council session into effect.
“Your Grace,” Lord Otto began in a rather predictable fashion. “There has been no more news of Prince Daemon. He remains, it seems, on Dragonstone.”
Lyonel mastered a snort. One could tell the time by how regularly Otto brought up his rival.
“If there’s no news, why speak of it, why speak of him, at all, Lord Otto?” Viserys asked, his tone deceptively curious.
The replying question visibly took everyone but Lyonel off guard. They were likely expecting the same broken king they’d been working around for the past week. A grunt, at most. But now, there was a fire lit beneath Viserys. Lyonel had helped stoke the embers into open flames. The small council would adjust, as they always did, but they’d have to do so quickly, indeed, to avoid running headfirst into a more active ruler.
“I… simply aim to keep the crown informed on matters so close to the heart, Your Grace,” Otto was always going to be one of the ones to adjust most quickly.
Viserys waved, “Leave Daemon on that barren rock for now. If he wishes to shame himself with whores rather than return to his rightful wife, that is his poor decision to make.”
“And Lady Rhea’s relief, I suspect,” Corlys quipped. He was testing the waters like the experienced sailor he was. The returning life in Viserys’s eyes — was it the calm after a storm, or just before another?
But Viserys just sighed. Clearly, the fire lit beneath him didn’t fully extend to dealing with his brother. Lyonel couldn’t blame the King for that.
“Yes, his Royce marriage has long vexed my brother. I don’t understand it, but then, I don’t understand much about Daemon, at times. Dragonstone is the best place for him, for the time being. If he eventually makes himself a problem, we shall deal with him as one. But truly, even after what he’s done, I don’t think it will come to that.”
Still, that last caveat seemed to satisfy Otto’s grudge. He nodded, “Very well. I shall keep my ears open to matters concerning the Prince, Your Grace, and keep you informed as soon as I learn of them.”
“Would such duties not fall under my position?” Ronnel Connington asked.
“Indeed,” Otto didn’t dismiss the incompetent man, but he clearly wanted to. “I and this council will be relying on you going forward, Lord Ronnel. As always, my lord.”
He wouldn’t. No one would. The ‘Master’ of Whispers was a novice, in truth. Each small council member had their own, much more effective sources of information. Ronnel simply wasn’t good enough at his job to run the realm off his word alone. Alas, the Conningtons were a powerful house, and the Stormlands needed representation on the small council. For now, he stayed.
“If Your Grace is concerned about the Prince’s idle hands, I’m certain I could find a use for him,” Corlys raised a suggestion. “A dragon flying over the shipping lanes of the Stepstones would be a statement that cannot be ignored.”
“Refrain yourself, Lord Corlys,” Otto said. “Now is not the time to spark a war.”
Corlys scoffed, “I would hardly be the one to spark it.”
“No, just escalate it, in the wake of tragedy,” Viserys shook his head. “I’d politely ask that you don’t do so, my lord.”
Corlys nodded, slow and deliberate, to show the King’s words had been heard, “As you say, My King. But this isn’t a matter we can ignore forever. The pirates of the Stepstones spit in the face of Westeros. And the lords of the Narrow Sea are quite ready to spit right back.”
“They wouldn’t dare drag the crown into a costly and ill-advised war on their own,” Otto stated.
Corlys raised a lone eyebrow, “Are you so sure about that, Lord Otto? When they lose ships and coin and authority? When a daughter of Westeros has been stolen away to Lys? Even as we now speak, Johanna Swann must be going through hardships we can hardly imagine!”
There it was, Lyonel tensed, the sticking point. Johanna Swann, a Stormlander lady of good standing, had been abducted by pirates and was still held as a pleasure slave in Lys. And the crown did nothing. Perhaps Lord Corlys cared about the atrocity on its own merit. But even if he didn’t, he wasn’t above using it to further his ambitions.
In the case of Johanna Swann, Lyonel had to agree with the Sea Snake. Something must be done, or Westerosi sovereignty would be left to be trampled over by any who cared to try.
“Your Grace,” Lyonel said. “Lord Corlys speaks sense. Even if we do not go to war in the Stepstones, honor, justice, and even clear-cut morality demand at least some action on Lady Swann’s behalf.”
“Sending an ambassador to negotiate would be much less expensive than throwing the realm into war,” Lord Lyman Beesbury advised.
“And lower ourselves to negotiate with pirates?!” Corlys almost spat. “No, we should take back the lady by righteous and undeniable force!”
Viserys rubbed his brow in both thought and exhaustion, “War or disgrace? Are there no other options?”
“We could send agents to steal her back without causing nearly as much conflict as a fleet or army would,” Lyonel suggested.
“A lone knight or even a knightly party could hardly enter Lys and leave alive,” Otto shook his head rather patronizingly.
“Then, send no knights,” Lyonel retorted bluntly. “There are many men who stand on the fringes of the law. Pragmatic men who could very easily find themselves loyal to royal coin and who would stop at little to see the job done.”
“You would have us trust, what? Cutthroats and cutpurses?” Otto asked skeptically.
“Trust? No,” Lyonel answered. “Buy their loyalty? Yes. They’d be disposable that way, too. It’s much easier to deny a bit of coin changing hands than deny a good ser of the realm acting on the crown’s behalf, should the Triarchy dare to ask hypocritical questions.”
The room fell quiet as they all considered his idea. Corlys seemed rather fond and amused by it, chuckling, “There is some appealing irony to it. The pirates of the Stepstones claim to act alone, but we all know they only continue to exist with the support of the Triarchy. Why should we not turn the same situation to our advantage? Such a… cold war… can be played from both sides, can it not?”
Viserys nodded, “I shall take your idea into consideration, my lord.”
By Otto’s frown, the Hand wasn’t completely won over, but he still held his tongue. Mellos would follow him, and Lyonel didn’t expect either of them to support his idea behind closed doors. Lyman seemed to prefer the idea, if only for the economic appeal of spending a little to gain quite a lot. Ronnel was still blinking slowly, trying to wrap his head around the idea that should’ve been raised by him.
No decision would be reached quickly, Lyonel suspected. So instead of futilely lingering as Corlys might’ve liked, he brought up the matter he’d prepared for the day.
“My lords, Your Grace,” Lyonel began. “I have something else of note to bring to the council’s attention. I’m sure we all still recall the surprising champion of the melee from a week past?”
At that, a few honest smiles broke across the others’ faces, Viserys chiefly among them, “Ser Ciaphas! Yes! How have he and his lady been settling in King’s Landing?”
“Rather well, I should think,” Corlys chuckled. “The Princess seems to have taken a liking to him. Laenor and Laena have spoken of him fondly, as well. An intriguing man, from what they’ve shared. A man of adventure and experience. I look forward to hearing his stories firsthand.”
“He’s been proving himself perfectly worthy of the knighthood you granted him, Your Grace,” Otto reported, his smile very small, but there. “My Alicent has said that he and Lady Amberley are good company to keep, even during times of grief.”
“I find myself most interested in that sword of his!” Ronnel exclaimed. “Roaring and able to match Lady Forlorn, what a blade!”
‘Yet you haven’t taken the time to actually investigate it and inform the crown,’ Lyonel thought, but pointedly didn’t say about the last comment.
Instead, he simply nodded to the council, “I’m sure their plight is still fresh in our minds, then. A house in exile, one of my own countrymen, even. Yet both the lady and her man exemplify nobility.
“Oh, yes, I was impressed by her bearing,” Viserys noted in agreement. “Dooming them to keep their exiled fate would be a stain on the realm, no?”
“I would still caution against any hasty solutions, Your Grace,” Otto said. “We must not slight any of our preexisting lords. I know of none who would give up their holdings for a tragic tale.”
“You know of one, Lord Otto,” Lyonel stated firmly. “I offered then, in the royal box, and the scar the damned Hoares left on the Riverlands with their exile lingered on my mind. I found myself following through. Then, committing. I stand by my previous proposal, my lords, Your Grace. To restore an exiled house of my own countrymen, I would gladly pay the price by myself.”
Viserys smiled widely, “You are a good and just man, Lyonel. I am proud to call you a friend and advisor.”
“Your Grace…” Mellos said hesitantly. “I know of no ‘House Vail’ in the Riverlands past.”
“That is to be expected,” Lyonel nodded, undeterred. “The Hoares must’ve hated them greatly, for any memory of them was almost completely wiped from the records.”
“My lord, you must admit that is a stretch of the imagination. I recall no-…” Mellos pressed on.
“Read for yourself,” Lyonel simply said.
He placed a tome on the table. ‘Rivers Past’ by one Maester Jarvas. A complete history of the Riverlands as the Citadel knew it. One of the few sources that escaped what must’ve been an extensive Hoare purge. Within, a whole, half-torn page was dedicated to House Vail.
Then, he placed another piece of history on the table, the one to seal the truth in his mind. It was no tome, just a single scroll — a decree of Hoare conquest, signed and sealed by the lords of the Riverlands. His house’s seal was on it, along with the seals of Tully, Blackwood, Bracken, Mallister, and many others. And among them, the two-headed eagle of House Vail could be seen, the very same that the Lady Amberley bore as a gold-chained sigil, down to its one eye opened and the other closed.
With a furrowed brow, Mellos examined the presented evidence. He would find nothing to dispute, just as Lyonel had. An aged tome like ‘Rivers Past’ was impossible to forge. Likewise, the seal on the scrolled decree matched the others beside it in age and grandeur. Together, they presented an undeniable truth: House Vail existed, and had been driven out of the Riverlands even after submitting to the Ironborn scourges.
“This… I… stand corrected, my lord, Your Grace,” Mellos slowly admitted. “Alone, I might’ve dismissed either source, but with confirmation twofold…?”
“I hold no ill will toward our melee champion and his lady. It’s simply my duty to ensure the crown doesn’t err in such a delicate matter,” Otto conceded with a small smile. “We must remain vigilant, of course, but it is good to be proven wrong in this case.”
“Wonderful!” Viserys clapped once, likely happy for the easy win after the complicated knot of the Stepstones, his now-tense familial relationship with Daemon, and the soul-shattering tragedy of the queen.
“It’s decided, then! You have my leave and approval, Lord Lyonel. Have Ser Ciaphas and Lady Amberley formally present their plea before the Iron Throne. The realm should see and hear both their plight and our decision, of course, but feel more than free to square away all the details between yourselves ahead of time.”
“It will be done, My King,” Lyonel gave a shallow, seated bow. “This disgrace will be put to rights. I plan to offer them a holding east of the God’s Eye. Old Gods know Harrenhal is already more than enough for a single house to claim.”
That dry statement got a few chuckles before Corlys asked, “And what of this holding you’ll be granting them, Lord Lyonel?”
“It sits on a rise off the shore of the God’s Eye, a herald and welcome to each day’s dawn upon the Old Gods’ most sacred site,” Lyonel described.
“The castle itself is rather stately for the little use it sees nowadays. A sizable keep, good and sturdy towers, and yellow-tiled roofs that glint like gold in the morning light, all built atop strong, raised stones that serve as both the castle’s walls and its foundation. Until now, it’s lain forgotten in favor of Harrenhal, but it remains the eastern bastion of the God’s Eye.
“Furthermore, I intend to give them the lands running east from there until they reach those of House Mooton. House Vail has suffered in exile for too long. Now, they will reclaim all that they’ve lost.”
“It sounds like a venerable fortress, only right for the restoration of a venerable house,” Viserys expressed his approval. “Its name, my lord?”
“Dawnsgrace,” Lyonel said — restoration, renewal, and resolve in his heart. “It will welcome new light to the God’s Eye once more.”
IIIII
Bonus Pics (sauce below)
Comments
William Kirk
Your really killing it with the writing right now. I don't really know the right words for it, but the dialog just screams 'game of thrones', as compared to your other works tones.
Handyandy
How fortunate that a house named Vail happened to use the aquila as their sigil. Almost suspiciously lucky that these documents existed and that Lord Strong found them. Light work for an inquisitor I'd imagine.
