Valyrian Steel: A Game of Thrones Mod AAR
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The waiting before a battle can be a time for conversations both mundane and odd, and there are bits of both I think above.
Andrian appears to be a nicely complex fellow, and pious in his own way despite his handicaps and self-doubt. At the very least, despite his self-stated baser motives, he seems to have a certain genuine nobility of spirit that shines through in adversity. And perhaps, in its own little way, being held accountable to playing the part of the wise, shepherding septon is meant to be some sort of catharsis provided by the Seven to temper his shallow motives...
That being said, were he and Dermot ever to meet, I'm sure they'd find one another kindred spirits
That being said, were he and Dermot ever to meet, I'm sure they'd find one another kindred spirits
Down to earth Septons are the best Septons.
In time he might become very wise. (Or die from a venereal disease.)
In time he might become very wise. (Or die from a venereal disease.)
Hm? Are you referring to Rhaekar and Rhaena finally meeting? I think I misunderstand your question.
Fear not guys, this will be the last "milling around the camp" post. Just had a bit more to cover before the big battle.
Next post...things will get more interesting.
Andrian appears to be a nicely complex fellow, and pious in his own way despite his handicaps and self-doubt. At the very least, despite his self-stated baser motives, he seems to have a certain genuine nobility of spirit that shines through in adversity. And perhaps, in its own little way, being held accountable to playing the part of the wise, shepherding septon is meant to be some sort of catharsis provided by the Seven to temper his shallow motives...
That being said, were he and Dermot ever to meet, I'm sure they'd find one another kindred spirits
O lawdy. An utterly debased maester on one side, with a somewhat debased septon on the other. Then again, I have a feeling that, at some point, Dermot's deep, deep levels of depravity would start making Andrian reconsider his own faults.
Is this really the future I've chosen...?
Knowing the world of George R.R. Martin, probably the latter. Or die a horrible death. It seems like all the great spiritual fathers of Westeros turn out to be creepy old men or get killed off...
...as seen with the reveal of Grand Maester Pycelle's lewdness, or the sad fate of Maester Luwin after the Boltons take Winterfell.
Chapter 5
Rhaena
“LOOSE!”
The trebuchet restraints were let go. At once, the arm swung upward, and the flaming stone with it. From every artillery piece on the hill, one by one, the balls of fire went flying through the air, like great comets soaring through the night sky. As they neared the ground, their collective glows lit up the ground beneath. At once, they revealed the reflections of armor, of blades, of shields, of the ends of spears and the pointed ends of arrows. For a moment, all of this sparkled across the ground like the stars upon the sea. Then the flaming stones came right down on the walls, or over and into the city. Loud crashes, one after the other, as the stones hit home. There were screams and cries of agony, heard even over the din of battle. Sparks flew from buildings behind the walls. Already fires were breaking out across sporadic parts of the city, sending light up into the sky.
“LOOSE!”
Another volley from the trebuchet. More of the flaming projectiles surged forward, over the melee near the Dragon Gate, and down onto the city again for a similar effect as before. Flaming bodies fell over the ramparts, flailing about madly as they were consumed.
Rhaena stood there some distance from the line of trebuchet, her sister beside her. Baela had been assigned to guard her, least anything bad should happen. Her dragon, Moondancer, rested not too far away, staring at the battle with a quiet wonder. Baela herself was seated on a large stone, a sword in her hand. She had it pointed towards the ground, and was spinning it absentmindedly. As another volley of rocks flew towards the city, Baela glanced up and watched them fly over the wall and into the fire behind it.
“The Seven help the man who lays under that,” came Baela’s words.
Rhaena glanced towards her sister. “Those are the men seeking to kill our mother.”
Baela frowned, then turned her head away. “The Seven help them.”
“LOOSE!”
Moondancer glanced over at the machines, which seemed to make dragon-like roars each time the arms were loosed and the slings slung their deadly load. The dragon studied them a few seconds longer before resting its head back on the ground. Baela stood now and walked over, placing a hand on the dragon’s head. She patted it a few times, then extended both arms and wrapped them around the beast’s muzzle.
Her eyes still on the scene, Rhaena clutched her hands together. Down in the open plain, she could see the thousands of soldiers surging forward towards the Dragon Gate. It had been breached some time ago, but the fighting continued. Archers hidden behind wooden planks fired up at the walls, from which enemy archers fired back. A volley struck the ramparts, and she saw men sent sprawling up into the air. Some of them were already covered in flames. Stones from the wall tumbled about, falling on besiegers. An archer tumbled off the wall when a loose stone gave way; he was pierced in midair by a spear below.
Over Blackwater Bay, a familiar sight appeared. Rhaena’s eyes lit up, and she felt her heart skip a beat. It was her father, Daemon, riding atop his dragon Caraxes. The huge, red beast floated over the waters, then rose up over the city itself. Daemon directed it along the wall, avoiding pot shots from cocky archers below. It went to the very Red Keep itself, where Caraxes lifted up its legs and planted itself right atop the Tower of the Hand. Even at night, Rhaena could see the dim view of arrows flying up towards Caraxes. The dragon breathed in deep, and then, with a mighty cry, let loose a flame down below. The bright flame lit up the sides of the tower, and the structures nearby as well, ending the dimness of the night. All at once, Caraxes ceased his fire breath, and the arrows flew up no more.
Another cry rose, from deep within the city itself. Rhaena knew immediately where it must be, and turned her eyes to Rhaenys’s Hill. There, coming from the Dragonpit high atop the hill, came a dragon she immediately recognized as Dreamfyre. That would mean Helaena Targaryen was present. The she-dragon let out another roar, and then leaped from the hill. Immediately it took wing, and swung down over the wall. Its wind send many of the men below, including some of the defenders on the wall, onto their backsides. The dragon curved and rose up high into the air. It turned and began to descend towards the Red Keep. Rhaena knew then Helaena meant to duel with her father.
Suddenly another roar erupted across the sky, like thunder peeling over the clouds. A gust of wind flew past the scene, and Rhaena felt her hair and her skirt flutter like capes. At once she recognized the massive dragon that had flown above her, its bronze scales glowing from the fire below like tiny embers padded across the beast’s belly. It was Vermithor, and riding on him would be Hugh Hammer. Vermithor flew quickly towards Dreamfyre, and caught up with her within moments. Helaena and her mount both seemed to realize they were being pursued, but turned too late. Vermithor bit down on one of Dreamfyre’s wings. The dragon let out a scream, but turned and clawed at its attacker. The scratch did nothing to Vermithor, who swung its head, Dreamfyre still in its muzzle, and sent the enemy beast spiraling through the air.
For a moment, it seemed like Dreamfyre would tumble towards the city. All at once, the she-dragon sprung back up and was once again aloft. It turned and spewed flames at the Hammer. Vermithor ducked below, then spiraled about the attack. It brought up a claw and struck down, striking across Dreamfyre’s face. The dragon was blinded, and roared in rage as it began to frantically flap through the air. Vermithor bit down on the she-dragon’s neck and twisted. A crack was heard, just as loud as the dragon’s roar. Hugh Hammer’s mount spun in midair and tossed Dreamfyre down a second time. This time, the she-dragon continued to tumble towards the ground. It struck the walls, crushing oblivious defenders underneath. It rolled onto the ground, landing near their own lines. Several soldiers surged forward, swords and spears pointed. Amazingly enough Helaena managed to climb up from under the beast. At once she threw down her weapon and yielded.
Down at the Dragon Gate, more men were surging onto the city. These carried the banners of Goldengrove, which they hung aloft over the walls, to the cheers of men below. Some of the walls had been damaged enough to permit men to climb over the rubble and into the city. At the other end of the wall, near the shore, another detachment of levies was surging down Rosby Road toward the Iron Gate. Still more were pushing towards the Old Gate. While Rhaena watched this scene, a thought occurred to her. I have not seen the standard of my betrothed. Where is he? Has he already fallen? Has he turned craven and removed his banners from the field?
Another roar from nearby. Over the city, Hugh Hammer could be seen glancing about atop Vermithor. Suddenly, a great beast surged down from the smoke clouds above, and rammed its head against the dragon. Vermithor tumbled down, recovered, and furiously flapped its wings to regain altitude. Rhaena gasped at the sight. With the fire below casting a haunting glow over his golden scales, she at once recognized Sunfyre. This could only mean it was Aegon himself entering the fray.
Vermithor cast flame up at his attacker. Sunfyre ducked away, and returned in kind. Vermithor was blasted, and gave a cry of anger as it flew out range. Sunfyre now pressed the attack, surging down. It made to bite Hugh’s dragon on the tail, but Vermithor swung it away at the last moment. It curved and permitted gravity to pull it down on its attacker. As the two dragons fell, Vermithor bit, chomped, and chewed through Sunfyre’s side. Sunfyre howled in pain and began to strike at Vermithor’s legs and membrane. All at once, both dragons, and their riders, disappeared amid the buildings of King’s Landing.
Rhaena took a few steps forward. She heard her sister beckoning her to stay on the hill, as if she expected Rhaena to run into the fight. Of course, Rhaena kept on the hill, and had no intention of leaving – but the outcome of this fight had become very important to her.
There was a roar, and Vermithor rose up from the wreckage. Hugh was still atop him, and looking about frantically from one side of his mount to the other. He slapped his thigh and balled his hand into a fist. Rhaena realized that he was looking for something, and frustrated at not finding it. Was it Aegon? Had he lost him? Was Aegon dead? Or had he escaped?
“LOOSE!”
The cry of the trebuchet captain snapped Rhaena out of her stupor. The flaming projectiles struck the wall again, this time closer to the Old Gate and Iron Gate. In the distance, at the Red Keep, Caraxes was hopping about from rampart to rampart. He would stop, look down, and breath fire onto the ground below. He would hop some distance over, and repeat the attack again. Down at the wall, the Iron Gate had been broken through, and the soldiers were already surging in.
The fighting continued well into the night, and silence only came when the morning dawned.
Baela refused to let her sister step foot in the city, as the sight come morning was horrendous enough. Smoke rose from patches within the city, and though the battle hadn’t destroyed all of King’s Landing, much of it was nonetheless burned to the ground. Rhaena walked down into the open field between the trebuchet line and the wall, which was as far as Baela would let her go. Even from that distance, a rancid smell filled her nostrils, and made her stomach – which had not yet had breakfast – churn. She didn’t need to ask to know what it was: the smell of burnt flesh. Burnt from the fires of the attacking dragons, and from the fiery projectiles of their artillery.
And those dragons, Rhaena thought, as she recalled the events of the previous night, what a dance they had!
“What in the seven hells are you two doing here?” came a voice.
Baela and Rhaena turned. Their father was there. Rhaena gasped and ran to him at once, immediately wrapping her arms around his waist. He stank of sulfur, mixed with the smell of leather and burnt flesh. The latter smell she would never have imagined becoming familiar with. “Father! You are safe!”
“Of course I am safe,” he said. He took her by the arms and pushed her away, rather more forcefully than Rhaena expected. “What are you two doing here? You should be away from the city.”
“Rhaena was curious,” Baela said.
Daemon narrowed his eyes at Rhaena’s sister. “As the one in charge of keeping watch over her, you should have known better. Do you know how dangerous the city is right now? We are still attempting to restore order. Be thankful the gold cloak rank and file turned to our side at the last minute. They remember me as their true master.”
Of course they do, Rhaena thought, they know and love you… and I love you. Why do you treat me this way? She was unsure whether or not to say it, even if out of pride, for her father seemed much more irritated than usual. She had many other questions to ask, and so, to her relief, it was Baela who spoke in her stead. “Who have we apprehended?” Rhaena could see the hurt in her twin’s eyes from their father’s critique, even if she did her best to keep it under. By all means, Baela had fulfilled her duty in protecting her sister.
“Helaena is captured, and in our dungeons.” Daemon flicked some of his silver hair back. It had dark splotches over its strands, most likely from the smoke. “And Aegon has been wounded, and cornered in a section of the city.” Rhaena and Baela exchanged glances. Aegon, the usurper? The false king? He was there, in King’s Landing, on the verge of capture? Daemon continued, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “He is not so strong without his dragon, that little runt. The Hammer has robbed him of his teeth, and he will be yielding soon enough – especially after he discovers we have his wife in chains.”
Another thought flickered in Rhaena’s mind. She smiled a little, and softly asked, “What of my betrothed? Where is he?”
Daemon raised an eyebrow. Then he grinned. “Ah. The Unicorn Prince. Yes, he is here. I am surprised you did not know. Could you not see King’s Landing from where you were?”
“I could, but only you and your dragon.”
“Ah. Well, Rhaekar led a group of his men clung to my dragon’s tail and departed after I landed on the Keep. After I made short work of the buggers in the courtyard, he killed off the rest, and secured the throne room.”
Rhaena blinked. Her lord husband-to-be had been carried into the Red Keep itself and entered in to fight off, practically alone, the men inside? Surely not. And yet...her father would not lie about something like that. “May I see him? To finally meet him?”
Daemon’s voice rose. “No. He is assisting with putting down the rabble in the city. Besides, you will have plenty of time to meet him after your wedding.” Daemon shot his eyes towards Baela. “Make certain your sister stays far from the city.” Without another word, he turned and began to walk away, toward the charred walls of King’s Landing.
Are you talking about her desire to get in on the fight, or her "Lustful" trait?
Speaking gameplay-wise, it was quite obvious going in that this was going to be an epic battle. It's clear this war will still be called the "Dance of the Dragons."
Would you expect any less from him?
He earned the RED KEEP. (DURR HURR HURR HURR ahem...)
Who says her fire must have only one ...outputAre you talking about her desire to get in on the fight, or her "Lustful" trait?
Who says her fire must have only one ...output
Or in one case... input.
Maybe...
Daemon should know better than to upbraid his daughters like that -- after all, they seem to take after him
Daemon should know better than to upbraid his daughters like that -- after all, they seem to take after him
A good thing, or a bad thing? I will let the readers decide.
As well as the first few years of the Seven Kingdoms' history.
Chapter 6
Rhaekar
Rhaekar had never before attended a coronation, and yet there he was, in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, observing the coronation of Queen Rhaenyra, first of her name, of the House Targaryen. She was the first queen to sit on the Iron Throne, to Rhaekar’s memory of history. She was truly a beautiful woman, even if it was clear she had been somewhat worn recently by war. Her back was arched, her chest out, her hands gingerly placed so that her fingers avoided all blades that stuck out from the armrest. Rhaekar had heard that the throne was an intimidating sight, and uncomfortable as anything to be seated upon – and now he could see that for certain. A sovereign who wasn’t careful would be sliced to pieces, and so it didn’t surprise him legends had come about of less than perfect monarchs who were “judged” by the Throne.
Various other lords were in the hall. There were the other lord paramounts, and many of their own nobles and courts. He could not help but notice that Jason Lannister of the Westerlands was missing – though it did not surprise him; the situation the Six Kingdoms were in at this moment was not a pleasant one. Of greater interest to Rhaekar was his betrothed wife, whom he was to marry some time after the coronation – shortly after the start of the new year, in fact. He saw her with the other Targaryens, right beside her twin sister. It was an amusing sight, as the two girls could not have been so similar and so different all at once. Their faces and hair were very similar, but it was in their manner of dress that they differed. There was Baela, with armor befitting a dragonrider, and Rhaena beside her, wearing a lovely gown that clung to her developing form. She still looked so young, although she was obviously becoming a woman. Rhaekar pondered if, being sixteen name days her senior, she might not be altogether repulsed by him.
After the coronation came the feast, held in the Queen’s Ballroom. Rhaenyra had apparently prepared a fifty course meal, which was certainly impressive. Rhaekar sat with many others from Duskendale, including his commanders, Septon Andrian, Annara and Ser Jon Darklyn, and a few others. At the end of the ballroom sat the queen herself, along with her consort Daemon, and their many children, including Rhaena and Baela. Rhaekar glanced Rhaena’s way, and noticed the girl looking at him. The two of them stared, eye-to-eye, before Rhaena turned her gaze away.
“My lord?”
Rhaekar turned. Ser Jon was speaking to him. “Yes? What is it?”
“There was something I wished to discuss with you a moment.”
“Is it of great importance?”
“Well, not especially...but it has been on my mind for some time now.”
Rhaekar held up his goblet and moved it in a circle. The contents swirled about inside. “Go ahead.”
“It is just...I worry about growing older, and I have no children. I wish to ask your lordship’s permission to marry.”
Rhaekar chuckled. “This is the important matter you had to discuss with me?”
Annara glanced at the two men. Jon Darklyn blushed. “Yes, it is just, I am not certain if you had in mind-”
“Ser Jon, do you need to ask my permission to use the privy?”
“No, my lord.”
“And you certainly do not need to ask my permission to breathe, I hope.”
“N-no, my lord.”
“Then why should you ask my permission to marry?” Rhaekar sipped the wine. “Find a girl, perhaps a girl in this room, and ask for her hand. Or perhaps you can just find company for your bed tonight. I care not – your duty belongs to me, but your soul is your own.”
Annara looked away. A second later, so did Ser Jon. “Y-yes, my lord.”
“Very good.” Rhaekar sipped his wine, then put the goblet down. Arbor gold. It had been some time since he had tasted it. Even after the liquid had gone down his throat, it left a lovely taste on the coat of his tongue. He would have to seek some shipments of it to arrive at the Dun Fort. He felt some of it stained on his mouth. He opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue, and ran the moist muscle along his upper lip, feeling the wine mix with his saliva. As his tongue rolled back into his mouth, he glanced back at the Targaryen table. Rhaena was looking at him, her lips parted, and her eyes wide. When she saw that he had caught her staring, her lips turned pink and she held up her goblet in an effort to hide her face.
Seven hells, I feel like this is an awkward wedding night, Rhaekar thought. It didn’t feel right, then. He had to part himself away from this room. He leaned over to Ser Jon and whispered, “I need some time alone. I shall return. Do not let them take my plate.”
“Yes, my lord. Are you well?”
“Oh yes. My bowels and I must debate a while.”
Rhaekar stood up and stepped away. He passed by the Baratheons, and saw Lord Paramount Borros Baratheon himself. The man wore a mask that covered most of his face – disfigured in battle, or so Rhaekar had heard. Now the man had bent the knee to Rhaenyra, and his repentance had been accepted. No doubt the Targaryen queen saw his disfigurement as fitting penance from the Seven for rising up against his sovereign and siding with the Usurper. A little later on, he passed by House Arryn and their retainers, and saw Jeyne the Maid, with her husband Jaime Weygall.
Speaking of the Usurper, Rhaekar pondered for a moment if he should visit him in the dungeons. His wife was kept in the black cells, while Aegon had been kept in the second level, where the noble prisoners were kept. Why Rhaenyra had chosen it this way – with the Usurper in better conditions, and his wife in worse – Rhaekar wasn’t sure. No doubt Daemon had some hand in this, as it came across as the special brand of cruelty for which he was known.
Instead of heading to the dungeons, Rhaekar decided to make his way towards the Godswood. He had no love for the Godswood in particular – in fact, he found it downright insane that the Northmen worshiped trees. The septons at least had some sense to their religion: you could not see the Seven, so you could not destroy them and prove their faith utter uselessness. The Northmen? The Andals had burned down many of the weirdwoods of old, and proven just how useful those “old gods” truly were. How powerful can a god be if a simple spark can defeat him? All the same, the Godswood would be a peaceful place for Rhaekar to be alone with his thoughts, to hear the rustling of the trees and the bubbling of the Blackwater Rush. It would be a welcome refreshment after the din of noise that was the Queen’s Ballroom. Most of the inhabitants of the Red Keep were there, eating, and chatting, and laughing.
He was surprised, therefore, to find that he was not the only one to have gone to the Godswood. A young woman sat there, in front of the heart tree, its giant face looking down at her as if the tree, too, were surprised to see her there. She wore armor that clung to her body, though it was thick enough to hide her form. All the same, there was no mistaking, by the softness of her face and the curve of her hips, that she was a woman. When she looked up and met Rhaekar’s gaze, he recognized her at once: Nettles, the young wife of Hugh the Hammer.
“Well met, Lord Rhaekar Valzyren,” she said. Half her mouth curled up. “Or should I refer to you ‘Rhaekar the Rash,’ as they call you now?”
Rhaekar chuckled at that. He had been dubbed that after the battle, due to a rumor that it had been his idea to scale the walls of the Red Keep. It had been a last minute decision, and some thought he was tempting the Seven with how well they could protect him. “Rhaekar will do. Or Rhaekar the Rash. I really do not care. It is a much better name than ‘the Unicorn Prince.’”
Nettles laughed. Her hand lifted up, revealing a bottle with her fingers clutched around the neck. “Would you like to join me for a drink? I convinced one of the scullery boys to give me some of their spiced rum.”
“I shall not protest.” Rhaekar walked over and took a spot beside Nettles. The tree was so large that there was enough room for both of them to sit comfortably, with plenty of space between them. Rhaekar rested an arm on a great root beside him as he took the bottle from the dragonrider.
“Poor boy,” Nettles said. “I think he may have fancied me. That may be the only reason I have this.”
“Do not tell me you played with him.”
Nettles chuckled. “Oh no. I would not want the Hammer’s wrath to come down on a child.”
“Is that why you are out here in the Godswood?”
Nettles frowned, then turned her face away. Some of the dark curls from her head fell over her face. “When he is in his cups, he is worse than when he is in his armor. He is not in his cups often, but...”
Rhaekar nodded, then sipped from the bottle. He could still taste some of the Arbor gold on his tongue, and cursed it for that. He was not tasting the spiced rum in a “pure” sense. Still, it did taste good, being much softer than some of the harder liquor available back in the Queen’s Ballroom.
“I suppose I should congratulate you on your appointment,” Nettles added.
Rhaekar raised his eyebrows. He’d nearly forgotten about that during the celebrations. Rhaenyra had appointed him one of the commanders of the Iron Throne, in return for his loyalty during the war and his assistance with the capture of King’s Landing. “Thank you, my lady.”
“It means you will be quite busy.”
Rhaekar sipped from the bottle, then handed it back to her. “You know the state of things. Jason Lannister seeks independence, as does Lord Owen Fossoway and Lord Ormund Hightower. They are not very happy with Aegon losing the war, and apparently think they can face the wrath of the dragons all by themselves.” He shook his head, his silver hair dancing about the sides of his face. “The Others take them. Here we should be celebrating the quick end of the war, and they only want to prolong it.”
Nettles smirked, then took her own swig of rum. “The Hightowers are a proud bunch. They’d sooner be hung than proven wrong. I imagine you will be marching out soon?”
“Soon.” Rhaekar held up a hand and waved a finger. “But first, I must be married.”
“Oh yes, to that Targaryen girl.”
“Yes, her. Rhaena is her name. An agreeable girl, or so I have heard. She is certainly very beautiful.”
Nettles chuckled. “Do you know why they were so eager to hand her over to you?”
Rhaekar turned and raised an eyebrow. He was about to say it was done to solidify his loyalty to the Targaryens during a tumultuous time in the war, but he had a feeling Nettles knew something else. For that reason, he held his tongue, and awaited her explanation.
“Did they tell you that her dragon died shortly after it was born, while her sister’s grew healthy?” Nettles drank from the bottle, then wiped her lip with her slender hand. “When you are given a dragon egg at birth, and the dragon in it dies, it is seen as bad luck, and in ill omen for your life.”
Rhaekar smirked. “Fancy legends those Targaryens have.” He turned his face away. “And no, I did not know that.”
“In other words,” Nettles continued, her grin only growing all the wider, “nobody else could have possibly desired to marry her, save for those with political purposes – such as yourself.”
Rhaekar snatched the bottle and brought it to his lips. He made two generous gulps before plopping it back on the grass. “She has another dragon egg.”
“We shall see if this dragon survives.” The dragonrider lifted up the bottle, swigging the contents.
Rhaekar frowned.
Nettles tilted her head, and gently put the bottle back onto her lap. “I hope I did not ruin the joy of your approaching marriage.”
“No, you did not.” He held out his hand. Nettles silently handed the bottle over, and Rhaekar took another few generous gulps. When the bottle left his lips, he let out a loud gasp.
“Still, there is much to be said for bedding a Targaryen. And you certainly received one of the better looking ones. I just would not get on her father’s bad side.”
Rhaekar handed the bottle back. “As far as I know, her father has no issue with me.”
“Best see it continues that way.” She giggled, then patted the bottle twice on the ground. “Speaking of which, I think you should return to the feast, least you draw suspicion. Right now it is a dangerous time to draw suspicion.”
That much, Rhaekar knew for certain. There were rumors that Queen Rhaenyra had something in store for Aegon the Usurper. Meanwhile, Ser Tyland Lannister had been made Lord Commander of the Queensguard after Ser Criston Cole, the so-called “Kingmaker” had been thrown in the dungeon; Tyland’s duty lasted only a day before word was received of the Westerlands’ revolt, after which he fled to Casterly Rock. Now Arryk Cargyll was Lord Commander of the Queensguard. Point was, any hint of a rebellious heart, and it was certain to lead one towards the chopping block.
“Thank you for the warning.” Rhaekar stood up, then brushed his hands over his bum to get any traces of grass from it.
“Incidentally,” Nettles added, “I may be heading out on the march myself. Possibly to deal with the Fossoways.”
Rhaekar nodded to her. “Perhaps we shall cross paths again.”
Nettles smiled. “It would be a delight. You have been a marvelous drinking partner.”
