Elia couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of the monstrous man holding a doll.
Her mirth grew even more when the man blushed.
Talana and Ashara would be devastated when they learned a doll had managed a feat neither of their feminine wiles could.
…
The Dornish Princess ended the man’s silent suffering and took the proffered doll and parchment, breaking the seal bearing the warring dragons of Aelor.
Ah, just who I was thinking of.
The Prince’s writing was physically narrow but emotionally broad, able to convey a broad range of emotions with mere words if he so chose.
Rhaegar was the true poet of course, able to bend words into marvelous arrangements.
His poetry and singing was what she had loved most about him.
But while Aelor couldn’t carry a tune, his writing, despite being only half as poetic as his brother’s, certainly reminded her of Rhaegar.
..
Elia,
This may come as a surprise to you, but I have a new doll for your daughter.
I found it in the chambers I commandeered at Drakesgrave.
I suppose it belonged to one of the Musgood girls, but it belongs to Rhaenys Targaryen now.
Call it dishonorable thievery if you will, but I’m sure your daughter won’t see it that way.
I know Ser Manfred has you well taken care of, but I worry for you and your children’s safety, as well as my mother and Viserys.
Keep Aegon and Rhaenys close to you.
This war is the greatest threat to the Targaryen dynasty since Daemon Blackfyre and Bittersteel, and I fear more lives will be lost during its course than even the Redgrass Field claimed.
I beg you to remember that Ser Manfred is your bodyguard; please, for the sake of the Seven, let him guard you.
I killed a boy today.
He was a squire, no older than thirteen.
It wasn’t even a true battle, just a skirmish trying to throw me off of Robert Baratheon’s true force.
He thrust a spear at me, hoping to gain fame as the slayer of the Dragon of Duskendale I suppose.
Before I even knew what I was doing, I cut his throat.
A boy, one not even old enough to have felt a woman’s touch.
Now all he’ll ever feel is the embrace of cold clay.
I didn’t feel a damn thing after I killed him.
No remorse, no sadness for the death of one so young.
That is what terrifies me.
Give my niece and nephew a hug from me.
I pray that I’ll be able to do it myself someday soon.
And I pray that the Aelor Targaryen that returns to King’s Landing, if one even does, is at least a tiny bit similar to the one that left.
Aelor..
Elia didn’t know whether to smile at his gift or frown at his words.
Aelor’s care for his niece and nephew had always been touching, and it didn’t surprise her at all that Aelor would even use a war to find more dolls for Rhaenys’ already impressive collection.
Then again, his statements about feeling changed worried her.
Elia knew men changed in war, but this…this seemed something more.
Elia didn’t want Aelor to turn away from the good man he was at heart.
The Dornishwoman presented the doll to her daughter, a lump forming in her throat at her delighted squeals.
Elia pulled her into a hug, the lump growing larger as Rhaenys threw her tiny arms around her mother’s neck.
It had been a long time since Elia Martell gave in to the need to cry.
The urge had been with her for months now, but she had never given in.
But when the first tear cut a trail down her coppery cheek, she couldn’t stop the dozens that followed.
…
The Lions of Lannister were on the move.
Ser Loren Lannister didn’t consider himself a true lion.
No, he was more of a domesticated cat, lazy and capable of only so much harm.
In truth, even that was a stretch; he’d never harmed a fly, despite his knighthood.
One should equate him to a kitten.
Yes, a plump, harmless kitten.
Many men would be ashamed of themselves if that was how others—and even they themselves—looked on them.
Loren, however, knew it was the truth, and since he was happy in such a life, he saw no shame in fully accepting it.
Tywin Lannister didn’t know the first thing about Loren, and the latter was more than okay with that.
The Lannister patriarch was cunning and ruthless; Loren was at best an average mind, and he hated death and everything involved with it.
Sure, Loren looked the part of Lannister, sporting shaggy blond hair and emerald green eyes in a well sculpted face, but Loren was several stone overweight due to his excessive drinking and gluttony, squandering whatever blessings his prestigious bloodline had granted him.
No, Tywin Lannister wouldn’t like him.
Best to remain anonymous.
Besides, retaining anonymity wasn’t hard for a Lannisport Lannister.
There were hundreds of them after all, each one descended from a King.
Some claimed to trace their ancestry back to the last King of the Rock, a different, more lion-like Loren.
Others claimed it all the way back at Lann the Clever, the first Lannister King.
Loren didn’t know where the hell he came from, and he didn’t care.
His ancestors couldn’t buy him a drink.
The army of the West had been camped at Casterly Rock for…well, Loren didn’t actually know.
He’d been drunk most— all— of the time.
They’d abruptly packed up and started marching after… he didn’t actually know why they had moved out either.
Or how long they had been gone.
Or where the hell they were going.
Loren Lannister truly didn’t know much.
“Loren Lannister,” came the guttural voice of…piss, Loren really didn’t know much.
The man was a Lannister, at least he knew that, with golden lion heads for shoulder plates.
He grew his blond hair long, his face a permanent, scarred scowl.
Tall and lean, he looked the part of a warrior.
In other words, he looked the exact opposite of Loren.
If he were an envious man he’d be jealous, but of course it took effort to be bitter.
“That’s me,” Loren replied as he took another swig from his chalice of wine.
The warlike Lannister before him raised an eyebrow.
“Are you sure?”
War Lannister shook his head, permanent scowl deepening.
“Bloody shame.
You’re expected at the war council.”
Well that was a surprise.
Loren didn’t know the first thing about war.
Granted, he was a knight, but that had only happened during a particularly long episode of drinking with a few captains of the Lannisport City Watch.
A few bought drinks and well placed jokes and next thing Loren knew, he was Ser Loren Lannister of Lannisport.
“Me?”
War Lannister snorted.
“You.”
“Why in the seven hells would I be there?”
“Upon seeing you, I have no idea.
I doubt you’ll be much good.
Politically however it’s required you show up.
You’re the head of one of the Lannisport families.”
Oh, that explained it.
This was all a mistake.
Loren took another swig of wine, much more relaxed with the prospect of actually being expected to contribute to society out of the way.
“No, you have the wrong Lannister.
That’s my uncle Tybolt.”
“Tybolt is dead.”
“Oh.
Well then it’d be my cousin Lann.”
“He’s dead too.
Died just yesterday of a bloody cough.”
” Really.
Well then, how about Lancel or Luceon or…”
War Lannister cut him off.
“Enough.
My brother told me to fetch you .” Without further ceremony he reached down and seized Loren by the collar of his breastplate, pulling him to his feet before the Drunken Lion could react.
Unsure how to respond, Loren did the only thing he knew how to; he brought the chalice to his lips and drank.
War Lannister knocked it away, the goblet bouncing away and spilling all its glorious contents onto the ground.
“No more.
You’re drunk enough; if you come in still drinking my brother will have you walk all the way back to Lannisport.
From the look of you you could use it, but my opinion doesn’t matter.
Grab your sword.”
Distressed over his wine but even more wary of what this War Lannister might do if he didn’t obey, Loren fumbled around for the blade he couldn’t ever remember even so much as unsheathing.
Without a word War Lannister turned and walked out, Loren following for fear of not.