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Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper by DeadlyMaelstrom711

TV » Game of Thrones Rated: M, English, Drama & Romance, [OC, Sansa S.] Daenerys T., Jon S., Words: 859k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Apr 16, 2018 Updated: Feb 11, 2020 2,418Chapter 88: Trouble in the East

Near the ruins of Old Valyria…

Scouring the ruins of the once-great civilization of the Valyrian Freehold, Jon Connington traded occasional glances of his surroundings. Valyria was once the mightiest empire in the world before its destruction 400 years ago in a catastrophic volcanic event known as the Doom which utterly wiped out the capital city of Old Valyria and the Valyrian Peninsula's surrounding colonies as well as almost all their dragons in a single day. Every recorded history and knowledge was lost that day.

Although the ruins remained albeit with slight crumbling eroding stones, the former Lord of Griffon's Roost knew he mustn't remain lingering about in the territory for much longer. The ruins of Valyria had become overgrown and subsumed by a nearby jungle which was an extent even greater than Harrenhal. Those who ventured into Old Valyria in the pursuit of seeking lost treasure were never seen or heard from ever again… and there were reported sightings of Stone Men dwelling in the area. As such, Jon—a seasoned combat veteran—knew he had to be extremely careful.

"Blasted pile of rubble," he grumbled under his breath.

A large bank of fog began rolling in the more he ventured inward. Brushing branches out of his way, Jon approached his destined location where he was to supposedly meet with an old contact of his. Connington heard rustling noises and brought his hand to his side, grasping the handle of his blade; but a sound emanating from above momentarily breaks his concentration.

*RRROOOOOOOAAAAAAA!*

Jon looked up and, to his surprise, noticed Daenerys' missing dragon Drogon flying overhead. Massive and majestic, Drogon's unexpected appearance enraptured Connington.

"There you are. Black and red scales with red-black wings," he mused. "Traveling north by northeast; Daenerys will no doubt be pleased to know you were here…"

"Only you won't be the one reporting back to her."

Turning around to respond to the intruder, Jon was surprised to see none other than the disgraced Ser Jorah Mormont appearing from out beneath the underbrush; no longer did the exiled Northmen lord wear steal and leather armor made for combat, but Jorah's attire consisted of a tattered yellow shirt, blue neck scarf, drawstring pants, six braided leather arm wraps and a grayish-brown waistcoat.

"Jorah Mormont."

"Jon Connington."

Both men sized each other up; they hadn't seen each other in about two years after Connington revealed Jorah to be a spy for the Usurper Robert Baratheon to Daenerys and a traitor the Targaryen cause back in Astapor—a revelation that not only caused the exiled Westerosi to not only lose the Dragon Queen's favor but also to be banished from her service. Since then, Jorah searched endlessly for a way to regain his khaleesi's favor.

"I half expected to find Black Balaq or Duck, but not you. Never thought I'd find you here near the Smoking Sea surrounding the ruins of Valyria."

Jorah stood tall and firm. "And I had not expected to see you here as well, but I haven't forgotten how you shamed me the way you did."

"And for that you blame me for your own doing? If so then you are even more deluded than I thought, Mormont. Fitting that you meet your end here," he scoffed as he unsheathed in sword.

Sensing danger, Jorah unsheathed his blade in preparations for a fight. Both veterans eyed each other, one measuring the other… the griffon of Griffon's Roost and the bear of Bear Island readied themselves for battle.

"You'll find I'm not that easy to take down," Mormont retorted.

And within that moment, both Jon and Jorah lunged forth. Trading blow after blow, steel clashed and dashed violently; the griffon and the bear were both equally seasoned veterans in their own right, neither one landing a decisive blow on the other. As Ser Jorah thrusted his blade forward, Connington sidestepped and swung around but Mormont ducked before dropping to his knees to strike at Jon's feet. Connington dodged by jumping over it. Both disgraced Westerosi exiles reverted back to square one with their blades drawn and pointed at each other.

"You're pretty good in a fight, Mormont," Jon complimented dryly. "But what you have is still not enough to best me."

"And yet here I stand, Connington."

"Ah yes, the words of House Mormont; one that speaks of perseverance and difficulties that shape the men and women of Bear Island in times of hardship."

"It also symbolizes our unwavering dedication to our allies and loved ones," Jorah explained.

"How ironic considering you spied on Daenerys for the Usurper."

Jorah frowned. "I severed all ties as soon as I saw her walk through the flames unharmed! I came to believe in her then… as I've come to believe in her now. And if that means I have to carve my way back to our khaleesi's side, then I'll fight to the end!"

"A fierce foe, a faithful friend," Jon recited his house motto. "You've had your chance to be a faithful servant of House Targaryen and you chose to waste it by not saying not being honest with yourself!"

Resuming the fight, Connington and Mormont battled fiercely in the fog, muddy terrain and near steamy streams. Steel strained against steel, both men strained against each other's constant pressuring—neither of them giving any ground. Jon and Jorah were nearly as experienced as the other and were just as aged.

*SPLASH!*

Perking up their ears at the sound of loud splashing, Connington and Mormont ceased their duel and broke off to see ripples in the water as several humanoid silhouettes dropped down before vanishing; both men's senses were on high alert.

"What was that?"

"Shh! I saw something move."

"Check the water—"

As both veterans remained on guard trying to search through the fog, numerous assailants leapt out of the water and lunged at their targets; the men attacking looked as if their skin was dead, hard and cracked like stone.

"*Haaauuf! Haaah!*"

"Stone Men! Don't let them touch you!" Jorah called out.

Jon smacked one aside with the back of his pommel. "Defensive formation! Get behind me!" he shouted.

Often shunned from society, people severely afflicted with greyscale are exiled from their homelands to the ruins of cities in Essos, particularly Old Valyria, at the first sign of the disease. As such, greyscale has caused its victims to become witless and lumbering, generally passive if left undisturbed, though further onset of the disease leads to madness and increased risk of provocation. Physical contact with Stone Men bears a high risk of contracting greyscale, so they are treated with great caution. What the victims do with their final months of years, no one knows and no one wants to find out.

"*Snaarl! Grraugh!"*

"Back, you mindless beasts!" Connington roared, thrusting his longsword through one of their hearts.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, back-to-back… the former combatants now cooperate with each other in a desperate fight for survival as more Stone Men came pouring from the water and undergrowth, wails shivering through the fog—faint and high. Outnumbered, Jon and Jorah moved from the swamps to the upper hills in the pursuit of gaining the high ground. The Stone Men occasionally tripped and stumbled over each other during the chase up the hill, but they still kept on coming.

Mormont raised his longsword and shoved away another stone man, watching the greyscale humanoid slide down the hill and into the fog below.

*"Gaauh! Huuuaaa!*"

"Gah! They're everywhere!"

"We can't stay here! Fall back!"

Jorah felled another stone man, bringing his blade down on the shoulder but gets stuck in the ribcage as a third moved towards him—only a mere inches away. Connington held the flat end of his sword to keep him at bay before driving a dagger into its eye. Spotting a nearby paddle long since abandoned by pirates or treasure hunters, Mormont picked it up swung his pole, slamming it into another stone man's chest and watched as it sent him tumbling down the hill into the river where he sank at once.

Connington drove another creature backwards as soon as his feet felt the terrain transition from steep hill to a flat surface, indicating that both men had reached the top. When the stone men moved aft, Connington blocked the way as Mormont flashed his blade, a spark flying where the steel bit into the stone man's calcified grey flesh and kicked the limb aside. Together the griffon and bear forced the creatures down the hill and into the black waters of the Rhoyne. By then, both were worn out and sought to catch their breaths.

"Seven fucking hells," Jon panted faintly. "Never… *huff!* coming back here *huff!* again!"

Jorah was already on one knee. "Did… *huff!* did any of them touch you?"

"Why should you be concerned?"

"If any of us contracted greyscale, then we'd meet the same fate as those sods."

Jon looked up, noticing the sun beginning to set. "Best find someplace a lot safer than here, Mormont. I'd rather kill you here and call it a day, but Valyria is not fit as a battle arena for any combatant."

"The feeling is mutual," Jorah grumbled.

"Just to be clear: this does not make us allies. The Dragon Queen will not see you again."

"Well guess what, Connington? That's no longer up to you."

"Oh?" Jon raised an eyebrow daringly. "And why is that?"

Jorah looks at Jon's arm and points. "Look."

The once Lord of Griffon's Roost and Hand of the King glanced down and shrugged off his wolfskin cloak, slipped his mail shirt off over his head, settled on a camp stool, and peeled the glove from his right hand. The nail on his middle finger had turned as black as jet, he saw, and the grey had crept up almost to the first knuckle. The tip of his ring finger had begun to darken too, and when he touched it with the point of his dagger, he felt nothing.

"You've been infected," he said simply.

"A slow death," Jon murmured. 'I still have time. One year, perhaps, maybe two or five if I'm lucky. Some stone men live for ten. Hopefully that'll be more than enough time to cross the Narrow Sea, to see my home Griffin's Roost again. To end the Usurper's line for good and all, and put my dearest friend Rhaegar's sister upon the Iron Throne.' Connington glanced at Jorah in a near similar fashion. "The same could be said of you. Lift up your sleeve."

Jorah's brow lowered and he frowned, but begrudgingly pulled up his sleeve and expressed a mix of surprise and horror. Mormont examines his arm and notices the beginnings of greyscale on his wrist. After a moment, both the griffon and bear looked at one another.

"Seems we'll both end up sharing the same fate."

Jon shook his head. "Not if I had anything to say about it."

Before Ser Jorah could respond, Connington quickly approached and hit Mormont in the back of the head with the paddle the bear had just thrown down, rendering him unconscious. Jon looked down at the motionless Mormont, before reaching into his pelt and unveiling a long rope.

"You'll be coming with me back to Meereen, Mormont. Daenerys Targaryen will decide your fate… We'll see whether or not she'll forgive you and take us both back home. I owe my cherished friend that much."

As Jon slung the unconscious Jorah onto a raft, he felt somewhat somber.

"I've no plans on wasting more years living in exile," he grumbled as he took out a small knife and pressed it against his flesh. "And I have no intention of losing myself to this disease."

In Meereen…

Strolling through the streets of Meereen, Queens Saqnizza Dhardu and Daenerys Targaryen were in the middle of a heated argument of ideology.

"You plan on letting your people butcher each other for sport? Where slaves fought other slaves to the death?" Daenerys accused.

Saqnizza angrily waived her finger. "Free men fight free men, Daenerys Stormborn," she corrected her. "Look around you: none of us are in chains, no longer slaves. The Great Pit of Daznak will be open again in accordance to the traditional start of the fighting season."

"I do not respect this tradition of human cockfighting."

"Of course you don't because you don't even bother to understand us! I will not allow a foreign outsider to dictate the terms of what the people of Meereen should or shouldn't do nor should the pitfighters be left to fend for themselves, left out in the cold on the streets if not forgotten about."

"You were sold into slavery, Saqnizza, forced to fight to the death for the amusement of the masters, and you're defending the fighting pits?"

"I didn't get to be the so-called 'revolutionary leader of a slave rebellion' without getting my hands bloody," she retorted. "Every martial prowess I learned I learned at the fighting pits. Our children and their descendants will train there and become Meereen's greatest defenders."

Daenerys frowned. "An army of child fighters."

"Don't you even think about going there! You want to know how to rule? Sometimes we have to compromise whether we like it or not. And you will remember this: you're a guest in someone else's home. One wrong misstep, and you and your followers will find yourselves out on the streets."

The Dragon Queen was vocally opposed to the reopening of Meereen's fighting pits, but no matter how much she protested it was ultimately Saqnizza's decision to make. As the Unsullied and Meereenese City Guard patrolled the streets, there still remained a deal of mistrust lingering between them.

"I say open the fighting pits," suggested Daario.

Saqnizza blinked in surprise and Daenerys stared at him.

"What?"

"My mother was a whore, I told you that," he explained. "So one day when I was 12, she sold me to a slaver she fucked the night before. I wasn't big, but I was quick. And I loved to fight. So they sold me to a man in Tolos who trained fighters for the pits. I had my first match when I was 16. I'm only here because of those pits."

A long pause hovered between them.

"And you remember you all live in my home as guests by my leave?" Saqnizza asked. "That we haven't asked anything should you agree to uphold the agreement we've made?"

Daario nodded. "You're the Queen. Meereen knows who leads them," he turns to Daenerys, "and who makes thousands of enemies across the world. As soon as they see weaknesses, they'll attack."

"That's why I have the Unsullied assist the Meereenese City Guard in patrolling the streets," Daenerys points out.

"Anyone with a chest full of gold can buy an army of Unsullied. You're not the Mother of Unsullied. You're the Mother of Dragons."

Saqnizza glared at him. "And need I remind you both that one of your dragons attacked our livestock and murdered helpless children? My people's children?"

Daenerys frowned; she hadn't forgotten the memory of what had occurred last year. A farmer Goatherd approached Queen Saqnizza about Daenerys' dragon Drogon and carried a bundle of small bones charred on the ends. And a little skull. A child's remains. Daenerys remembered how mournfully Goathered wept for the loss of his daughter as Missandei translated his language to her. She had also remembered the next day how explicitly furious Saqnizza was with Daenerys as soon as the rebel queen discovered of the incident… and the threat.

"You've got a lot of nerve thinking your beasts can do whatever they want in my city!" she yelled at her with such heat. "This is my home, not yours! If you can't keep your savage beasts under control, then I'll have every Meereen storm the catacombs and slaughter them for every innocent blood they've spilled!"

It didn't take long for Daenerys Targaryen to feel threatened or intimidated, but what other options did she have? She couldn't find Drogon and had no idea where he was, but with tears in her eyes she had to confine the other two Rhaegal and Viserion to the catacombs. They've grown larger and powerful, but Daenerys still thought of them as her children even as she snapped collars around their necks whilst they fed on goats.

Nor had she forgotten as she closed the catacomb double doors Rhaegal and Viserion realized something was wrong and cried out to their 'mother' for help.

That did little to ease tensions. But…

"AAaaah!"

Saqnizza, Daenerys and Daario turned their heads to the scream as the city bells began ringing. Instinctively, the rebel queen turned to her guests.

"Get back to the pyramid," she told them. "We'll talk more later."

As Daario escorted a confused Daenerys back to her guest quarters in the Great Pyramid, Saqnizza unsheathed her twin daggers from her waist and rushed off to investigate. The Unsullied, Meereenese City Guards alike all rushed to the area where they find dead soldiers and a few prostitutes in a nearby alley.

"Skoros sepār massitas kesīr (What just happened here)?" the rebel Queen asked them.

One of the guards shook his head. "Īlon ȳdra daor gīmigon, ñuha dāria. (We don't know, my Queen)."

A freedman witness spoke up. "Pōnta're kesīr! (They're here!)" he told them. "Jaelzi naejot dīnagon iā collar arlī va ñuha ȳrgos! (They want to put a collar back on my neck!)"

"Qilōni iksis trying naejot dīnagon iā collar va aōha ȳrgos? (Who is trying to put a collar on your neck?)"

"Pōnta brōzagon pōntāla se Trēsi hen Jazdanī. (They call themselves the Sons of the Harpy)."

Saqnizza furrowed her brow and gripped her daggers tightly. The only evidence they managed to find was a gold mask with horned faces resembling harpies. Another scream in the distance breaks their attention, attracting some Unsullied marching to investigate. Hearing more chaos erupting throughout the streets, Saqnizza calls for her guards.

"Va nyke! Mīsagon se ābra! (On me! Protect the civilians!)" she hollered.

A prostitute nearby gestures them in a direction where Queen Saqnizza and the Unsullied run into. When they are out of view, she stops her act and wipes the tears away. The Unsullied enter a corridor, expecting to catch the sons. Instead, they themselves are ambushed from every direction by Sons of the Harpy.

"Ziry iksos iā nykeā! (It's a trap!)" Saqnizza realized. "Tolvys, ivīlībagon aōha ābrar! Ivīlībagon iā dāez Mīrīn! (Everyone, fight for your lives! Fight for a free Meereen!)"

"Syt Mīrīn! (For Meereen!)"

After a tense few moments, a fight breaks out. During the fight, one of the Unsullied's helmet is knocked off, and is revealed to be Grey Worm. Another fight breaks out elsewhere. The two Unsullied there are killed almost immediately. Saqnizza takes out her fair share of assassins, though not without receiving her share of wounds and remaining outnumbered. Grey Worm is badly injured, and with his party killed, also badly outnumbered.

Fighting with every ounce of strength and willpower, Saqnizza and Grey Worm continue holding off the Sons of the Harpy and are able to kill several them, but are both seriously injured in the process.

"Gaah!" the rebel Queen screams in pain as one of the Sons of the Harpy assailant plunges a dagger into her back before another impales her through the gut.

Her strength leaving her, Saqnizza drops her twin daggers. Before the Sons of the Harpy could finish her deliver the final blow, Grey Worm slays the remaining assassins as they release their grip on the rebel Queen. Slumping to the ground, Grey Worm crawls his way up to the fallen Saqnizza and shakes her to look for signs of life before passing out of exhaustion. Surrounded by piles of the dead Sons of the Harpy, city guard and Unsullied, the following morning would usher in a new stage of chaos… and the loss of a revolutionary icon among the former slaves-turned-freed men.

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Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper by DeadlyMaelstrom711

In Dorne…

Taking a private stroll through the Water Gardens, King Daveth I Baratheon had longed to steady his nerves and calm himself down in the wake of what could possibly be described as a breach of protocol if not a breach of trust. Earlier, one of his own Kingsguard Ariyana Dayne had admitted to spying on him on behalf of House Martell; despite Prince Doran's attempt of explanation, Prince Oberyn and his paramour Ellaria Sand had pissed him off and caused him to storm out. The Young Stag knew he had to better control himself, but the thought of being deceived again was too much for him to handle.

Leaning against the wall, Daveth chose to do his breathing exercises: slow inhales through the nose, slow exhales out the mouth. Keeping two fingers pressed against his wrist, the Young Stag checked his pulse so it'd remain steady.

"The house that puts family first will always defeat the house that puts the whims and wishes of its sons and daughters first. A good man does everything in his power to better his family's position – regardless of his own selfish desires," a voice rang through his mind.

"No matter who you are, no matter how strong you are, sooner or later, you'll face circumstances beyond your control, my son. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground."

Daveth shook his head, trying to rid himself of past ghosts—those no longer with him. Feeling himself tense up, he curled his left hand into a ball and smacked the side of the building.

"Seems what my wife said about you is true, after all. You are a good lad."

"No… no, Ned, I'm really not," he quietly told himself.

"Brother!" a feminine voice called out to him. "Brother, wait!"

Turning his head, Daveth saw his younger sister Myrcella chasing after him—her delicate hands lifting the front of her dress so as to not trip over herself. Following close alongside her was Prince Trystane Martell; both of them had departed from the meeting chambers and sought him out.

"Your Grace," Trystane panted.

Myrcella huffed and straightened her hair. "Brother, come back with us please."

"I asked to be left alone."

Both Trystane and Myrcella were briefly taken aback by Daveth's bluntness, but it was Myrcella who quickly recomposed herself.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but it's a request I will not obey," she told him. "The Queen has been very specific on what you've been gone through during these last few years. Because of that, I cannot in good conscience leave you alone."

"Oh? You think you understand exactly what I've been through?"

"Ever since Lannisport, yes. You're my brother, so of course I'd notice when something bothers you," she paused momentarily. "I also heard about what Joff did. The riots, all those innocent children…"

Daveth knew what Myrcella was referring to. "He paid for his crimes."

"What of the Greyjoys? You destroyed the Iron Islands."

Normally the Young Stag would find that particular mention of House Greyjoy to trigger harsh, unforgiving flashbacks of his troubled youth—but much to his surprise felt nothing at all. He wasn't fond of it, but neither did he back down.

"I don't deny it," he told her, "but not all the Greyjoys are gone. Yara is spending the rest of her days locked up at Deepwood Motte, and Theon… well, he had the courtesy of working against his father's wishes from the beginning."

"What did you do with him?"

"He bent the knee, swore an oath of fealty to the Iron Throne and is now a loyal bannerman of House Stark. I've named him Lord of the Iron Islands and Lord Reaper of Pyke."

"But the Iron Islands are—"

"The name alone suits our purposes far more than that useless barren wasteland. I gave the Greyjoys a second chance at redemption; they will not get a third."

"And mother?" she asked daringly.

Daveth felt his jaw clench a bit at the mention of their mother Queen Dowager Cersei Lannister. 'You are no son of mine' still stung him and had relived each experience of her treachery in his sleep over and over again before doing what needed to be done… albeit it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You didn't see what she did, Myrcella," he told her. "Our mother… she's done things I was incapable of imagining."

"But why execute her?"

"You think I wanted that to happen? I never wished our mother ill, I never did! All I wanted was the truth. If she hadn't been so foolish as to demand a trial by seven in the first place, then she wouldn't have sealed her own fate. What's worse is the revelation knowing that she only used us all for her own egotistical agenda—a symbolism of the ego!" He calmed himself down. "I'm tired of it all, Myrcella. The lies, backstabbing… all whole lot of it. I'm tired of it all. It's all I've had to deal with for four years. Four years!"

Trystane said nothing, but listened.

"Fighting two wars back-to-back, outmaneuvering power-hungry sycophants at every corner… It's all I've ever done since you left home," he continued.

"Yet that doesn't mean you have to shoulder every burden by yourself!" Myrcella suggested.

"The path laid before you will always remain a constant struggle, and every day you will face obstacles. Yes, you may stumble or even stray from the path… but there are still people out there who care for you; who want to help you."

'Oh, Lord Arryn…' Daveth's face somewhat softened.

Detecting her eldest brother's mental exhaustion and the stress of the world weighing him down, Myrcella approached and embraced Daveth in a nurturing hug. The Young Stag stiffened, but relented at his sister's touch. Trystane felt a sense of sibling comfort, much to his envy considering his mother left Dorne without providing a sibling for him to become acquainted with.

"Well, well… isn't this precious?" a rough voice called out.

Breaking the concentration, Daveth immediately looked over his shoulder and pushed Myrcella away from him. Turning around, the Young Stag noticed fifteen individuals donning the Dornish attire with a pack of dogs. Sensing danger, Daveth stepped in front of Myrcella and placed a protective arm across between them.

"Neither of these men are from Dorne," Trystane observed.

"No, they're not," Myrcella agreed.

The leader unveiled the golden balaclava off of his face, revealing his identity. A scar along his right face, bushy beard and dark brown (albeit slightly greying) hair smoothed back, the Young Stag recognized him from the Second Greyjoy Rebellion as well as the distinct medallion embroidered beneath his disguise.

"A red man upside-down on an x-shaped white cross over a black field," he observed. "The flayed man of House Bolton. Always was a bit too gruesome for my taste."

"Very observant of you, Oathkeeper," he bitterly grimaced, his yellow teeth clenched.

Daveth looked serious. "Locke."

"Surprised to see me?"

Trystane looked at the King. "Your Grace, you know this man?" he asked.

The Young Stag nodded. "He was one of Lord Roose Bolton's men-at-arms. During the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, he unfortunately disgraced himself when he and his men terrorized Winterfell's denizens and tried to lie about it. Last I heard he was rotting in some bygone cell beneath the Dreadfort."

"I lost everything because of you!" Locke snarled angrily. "Now everyone in the North wants my head!"

"You have only yourself to blame for your own misgivings. I know it, as does the entire North. You stand alone, Locke." He narrowed his eyes. "But it wasn't Lord Bolton who set you free, wasn't it? No, he's much too smart to risk anything that might jeopardize his house's standing. The dogs, how your men stink… I'm guessing that Ramsay not only released you from confinement but sent you here to stir up trouble, didn't he?"

Locke said nothing, but further furrowed his brows as the hounds began snarling. Myrcella backed away, more frightened of the animals bearing their teeth at them. Trystane Martell, however, gripped his rapier—ready to defend his betrothed.

"Who is this Ramsay?" he asked. "I've never heard of him."

"A bastard of the North, hence the surname Snow," Daveth explained. "He might appear to be cooperative on the outside, but one glance and you'll realize he's on a whole different level of psychotic sadism. Flaying people alive, torturing them, hunting them for sport after setting his hounds loose… He makes no secret of it all and takes great pleasure of inflicting pain onto others. Think of the worst moral tendencies you could possibly imagine."

Locke unsheathed his sword, as did his men. The dogs growled as Daveth stood his ground even as they slowly made their approach.

"Trystane," he whispered to him, "take my sister back inside. Warn your father. Go."

Trystane shook his head. "Not leaving you alone, Your Grace," he declined. "These assassins invaded Dorne so they're also House Martell's problem."

"Now is not the time for tomfoolery."

"You're not going anywhere," Locke declared. "And you," he turns to Myrcella, "you're coming with us, Princess."

Myrcella backed away again and felt herself pressing against the wall behind her. That was the last straw for the Young Stag. Unveiling a hidden dagger from his sleeve, Daveth stared down the Bastard's Boys and their hounds despite the danger.

"Come at my sister and I'll make the Rains of Castamere look like child's play," he warned threateningly.

"I will not be left with nothing again, Oathkeeper! Kill them all!"

"I've warned you."

"Rip him, girls!" Ben Bones ordered his dogs. "Rip him! Rip him!"

*"Woof! Woof! Woof!"*

One by one, the dogs lunged forth. Surprisingly none of them managed to get close enough as two of the Bastard's girls were cut down by the timely arrival of the Kingsguard Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ser Jaime Lannister.

"Oh no, you don't!" Ser Jaime exclaimed.

Lucius bashed another dog's head with his spiked mace. "Get back, you animals!" he proclaimed.

Daveth smiled confidently. "Your timing is impeccable," he remarked.

"Considering the noise your 'guests' were making, we knew there was trouble afoot," Jaime retorted.

"You shouldn't have gone off alone, Your Grace," Lucius scolded.

"We'll talk about it later. Here they come!"

Locke, Ben Bones, Yellow Dick, Damon Dance-for-Me, Luton, Sour Alyn, Skinner and Grunt all charged forth with their weapons drawn and unleashed their hounds for the next rush. Outnumbered, Daveth and the Kingsguard fought them off as best as they possibly could. Trystane tried to unsheathe his rapier, but was backhanded across the face by Locke, knocking him out.

"No!" Myrcella cried out.

"Stupid boy," he grumbled.

Lucius and Jaime fended off the hounds to fell Luton and Yellow Dick before returning their attention back to the dogs. The animals' jaws and teeth snapped within inches of the armor, ignoring the occasional kicks and backhands. Daveth, meanwhile, slashed his dagger at the Bastard's girls snouts but they were just as vicious as they were tenacious when promised fresh meet. One dog lunged upwards and snapped its jaws shut around the Young Stag's left arm.

*CRUNCH!*

"Gnaah!" Daveth hollered, the hound's teeth digging deep into his forearm and ripping at him.

Lucius turned to see the scene as two more hounds circled around the King, each trying to pull him down. "Protect the King!" he hollered.

Fighting to keep his balance, Daveth shook his arm to get the dog off of him but the vicious animal would not release its grip. Ser Lucuis arrived with mace in hand to smack two of them away from the King's legs before the Young Stag gripped his dagger and drove it deep near the base of animal's skull—ignoring the hounds quick yelp and twisted the blade, causing the Bastard's girl to release its grip.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Damon Dance-for-Me rushed to Myrcella with sword in hand. "You're coming with me," he said gripping the Princess by the wrist.

Myrcella struggled against his grip. "I don't want to! Let go of me!"

"I'm not asking," he pointed the tip of his blade at the young girl's throat.

"UNHAND HER THIS INSTANT!" Jaime screamed angrily, driving his blade through Damon Dance-for-Me's back before gripping the assassin's sword arm and threw him to the ground, thrusting his blade downward through the nape of his neck.

"Uncle!" Myrcella cried out, pointing to her brother.

Jaime looked as Daveth held his mangled left arm; his sleeve was soaked in blood, yet the Young Stag continued to fight. Locke looked rather smug.

"Not so confident now, aren't you, Oathkeeper?" he taunted.

Daveth glanced from side to side, noticing the dogs closing in on him and Locke's men attempting to separate Lucius and Jaime from Myrcella who cradled an unconscious Trystane.

"Haven't you learned by now?" he countered. "Victory in battle is not won through superior numbers."

"Please! Look at you! There's more of us than there is of you! You've lost!"

"Not quite!" a voice called out.

*WHOP-EESH!*

Before Locke could respond, a whip wraps around his wrist. Daveth, Lucius, Jaime and Myrcella glanced up to see reinforcements arriving. Locke fought against the whip.

"The fuck are you?" he demanded.

A tall muscular Dornishwoman, armed with a spear, pierced her blade through Sour Alyn and knocked him to the ground.

"I am Obara Sand, daughter of Oberyn Martell," she announced. "I fight for Dorne! Who do you fight for?"

"Fucking bitch!" he hollered before the whip on his wrist untangled before it slapped him across the face.

*WHOP-EESH!*

Nymeria Sand scored another direct hit as her half-sister Tyene Sand parried her twin blades and cut Ben Bones' arm before impaling one of them through the eye.

"Your method of fighting gets rather sloppy whenever you're angry," Nymeria pointed out. "That makes you more susceptible to making more mistakes and exposing your own weak points."

Locke felt a sting across his cheek as Olyvar Frey—carrying a huge leather baggage around his shoulder—rushed into the fray, crossing swords with Grunt before tossing him aside and rushing towards Daveth.

"Your Grace!" he called out. "Thank the Gods we made it here in time!"

Daveth, still lifting his mauled left arm up, was pleased. "I was wondering what took you so long."

"We got a bit sidetracked, but that traveling merchant who brought us here helped us identify these treasonous scumbags. Once we figured it out, we came rushing back as fast as we could!"

"Good lad. I'll be sure you're all rewarded for this."

Feeling his chances at revenge slipping away, Locke let loose. "JUST FUCKIN' KILL 'EM ALL!"

Dogs ran in every direction, snapping their jaws at whoever crossed their path. Obara twirled her spear around to keep the dogs at bay; Tyene and Olyvar worked together in unison to keep other hounds away from Trystane and Myrcella. Nearby, the sound of rapid footsteps approaching became more and more apparent as Daveth felt another dog sinking its teeth onto his shoulder.

"Nnagh! Stupid dog!" he cursed, charging backwards to slam the Bastard's girl into the wall.

The animal yelped, but refused to release its grip. Slamming the beast repeatedly against the wall again and again, Daveth felt its jaws tighten before driving his dagger into its skull—withdrawing quickly as the Bastard's girl finally released and slumped to the ground. His shoulder and left arm were bleeding, staining his attire.

"Your Grace! Are you all right?" Olyvar called out.

"Does it look like I'm all right?!" he retorted.

Reaching into his bag while kicking a dog away, Olyvar pulled out Stormbringer.

"Your Grace! Catch!"

Tossing Stormbringer into the air, Olyvar watched as Daveth reached out with his right arm to grasp his Valyrian steel sword's handle. Truly feeling as he if was ready for a fight, the Young Stag swung his blade—fending off three dogs before noticing Locke storming after Myrcella and Jaime in a blinding, frustrating fury.

Like a lion stalking its prey, Daveth gave chase—leaping towards Locke, brought his left arm around Locke's neck and throwing him to the ground, never minding he himself stumbled as well. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and arm, adrenaline rushing through his body, Daveth regained his balance… his gaze focused on Locke, like a predator stalking its prey.

"Brother!" Myrcella cried out.

"STAY AWAY FROM MY SISTER, YOU SON OF A BITCH!" he roared.

Locke got back to his feet and moved to defend himself from Daveth's onslaught; the Young Stag utilized one hand to rain down blow after blow. Locke kicked the Young Stag away before pressing the attack, steel clashing against one another before two dogs barked and snapped at his heels.

Daveth turned to fend them off, but Locke shoulder tackled the Young Stag against the nearest wall; viciously pounding at his mauled left forearm and shoulder. Daveth gritted his teeth and grabbed him, spinning him around before kneeing him and head-butting him.

"Fucking stag brat!" Locke cursed.

All Daveth saw was red after the stunt Locke just tried to pull, but blinked to normality once the footmen's stomping approached. Swarming in from all corners, a group of Dornish guards appeared and surrounded the assailants. A few of them managed to finish off the remaining Bastard's girls, each cussing the vicious nature of the hounds. Locke watched as the leader stepped forth, revealing Prince Doran's Norovoshi captain of the guard Aero Hotah approached with halberd in hand.

"Drop your weapons!" he bellowed.

Realizing that he was now all alone, Locke hollered. Daveth, meanwhile, despite his wounds on the left arm and shoulder, smirked in a smug manner.

"Not so confident now, aren't you, Locke?" he repeated his taunts. "Do not complain. You brought this on yourself. Take a good look: there are more of us than there is of you. You have lost."

Lashing out his frustrations, Locke turned towards Aero—but before he could get out a single swing of his sword, Aero spun his halberd and brought it down on Locke's neck, nearly decapitating him in the process. As blood spurt out, Aero got his halberd unstuck and watched as Locke slumped to the ground lifeless.

"Hmph! Not even a decent challenge," he scoffed. Aero approached Daveth, noticing a bloodied dagger, bloodied Stormbringer and of course, the Young Stag's bleeding mauled injuries. "For a half-lion, half-stag… you actually fight pretty well when your back's against the wall."

Obara, Nymeria, Tyene Sand and Olyvar Frey approached.

"Your Grace, we need to get those wounds of yours looked at," Olyvar pointed out. "The Martells should have a maester. Maybe he'll patch you up."

Daveth glanced at the unconscious Trystane. "Be sure to treat him first," he pointed at him. "And escort Princess Myrcella Baratheon back inside."

'Just like what Robert did with Barristan after the Battle of the Trident,' Lucius reminisced.

A dozen Dornish guards helped lift up Trystane, who mumbled something as he slowly regained consciousness. Myrcella looked between her betrothed and her brother.

"Don't worry. I'll be all right," he told her. "Go on. I'll catch up."

Myrcella escorted Trystane back inside, with the Sand Snakes keeping a close watch on them. Once out of sight, Aero Hotah looked at Olyvar.

"You took the weapons out of the storage," he told him.

Olyvar nodded. "I know I shouldn't have. Your roof, your rules. But… I had to protect the King. I'm his squire. It's my responsibility."

"Admirable," Lucius noted, "but that's the duty of the Kingsguard, child."

"Still, I'm sure this'll be a slight oversight that can be overlooked just this one time," Jaime mentioned. "We did, after all, helped keep those assassins off Prince Doran's son and His Grace in the process."

Aero looked unconvinced. "That'll be up to the Prince himself to decide. Inside now."

Wrapping Daveth's arm around his shoulder, Jaime glanced at his nephew as they proceeded to walk back inside one of the Water Gardens' main apartments near the Spear Tower.

"It never ends with you, doesn't it?" he asked.

Daveth shook his head, ignoring the burning stinging sensation in his left arm and shoulder. "I'm afraid it never does, uncle. Some peace and quiet would've been nice at least once in a while."

"Sadly not all of us can afford that luxury."

"That they cannot." He decided to change the subject. "You did well back there. With Myrcella."

Jaime blinked, yet shook his head as he recalled his earlier outburst. "UNHAND HER THIS INSTANT!" He shook his head again. 'Don't even think about it! Remember, she's your niece… not your daughter.'

"I know what you're thinking," Daveth interrupted his thoughts.

Jaime was getting wearier and shook his nephew's arm slightly, causing him to hiss.

"Oooh, you are going to pay for that one!"

"Promises, promises," he chuckled.

Jokes aside, both sought out House Martell's maester, Caleotte, and hoped he'd be decent enough to stitch the Young Stag's injuries sustained… and send a report back to King's Landing about the failed assassination attempt.

Chapter EndFanFiction

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Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper by DeadlyMaelstrom711

At Winterfell…

Arya Stark was feeling restless despite practicing her skills as a Water Dancer in Winterfell's main courtyard. Ser Rodrik and Theon were taking their sweet time at the northern most stronghold in the North, Last Hearth—once upon receiving a messenger raven informing them of Rickon Stark and Osha arriving at Lord Greatjon Umber's household. The new Lord of Karhold, Harald Karstark, was seemingly less than enthusiastic.

With the birth of her newborn nephew Eddard—Robb and Talisa's son, 'Little Ned' she affectionately called him, Arya was more motivated to keep practicing her skills… to protect her family despite her mother Catelyn forbidding her to do so.

"*huff, huff, huff!*" she panted. "Not yet. Just a little more…"

Balancing on her toes, Arya spun her body around twirling Needle in hand—moving gracefully through the mud; revolving through the motions of the Water Dance.

"Left!" she called, dancing around as she slashed and poked at a wooden dummy. "Right! Left, right, right! Lunge!"

Thrusting her small sword Needle forward, Arya pierced the practice target without breaking the tip.

"A girl keeps practicing," someone said.

Startled, Arya quickly spun around and pointed Needle at the person standing behind her. Much to her surprise, she recognized the man as Jaqen H'ghar; the mysterious assassin she met at King's Landing a long time ago had somehow managed to find his way to Winterfell undetected.

'How did he find me? How'd he get past the guard?' she thought. "What are you doing here?"

Jaqen, disguised as a Winterfell man-at-arms, found Arya's confusion quite amusing. "Waiting for you," he answered honestly.

Arya wasn't convinced. "How did you slip past the guards? Was it hard?"

"After all the things you have seen, this is your question? How a man trekked through miles of mountains, hills and snow is no harder than taking a new name, if you know the way."

"Look, I appreciate what you've done for my sister back at the capital. I haven't forgotten it, but…"

"But?"

Arya looked somewhat hesitant. "But I can take care of the rest. I can look out for my family on my own from now on."

"A girl tells herself that, but a man doubts that her skill alone will be enough," he countered.

"The hell do you know?" she hissed, trying to keep her voice down. "Syrio Forel trained me in the ways of the Water Dance, the former First Sword of Braavos himself, taught me everything he knew about fighting!"

Jaqen still looked amused. "Ah, a man knows the name. But has your dancing master teach a girl how to keep a family whole? The skills she obviously lacks?"

More and more, Arya was getting agitated and angry at the perceived insult.

"Ask yourself: what is a girl's most important thing she values most?" he asked.

"Family," she answered bluntly.

"A girl would do anything to protect them? Regardless of what societal restrictions are placed upon her?"

"Yes."

"And to do that a girl feels as if she must keep honing her skills in the Braavosi Water Dance?"

"Yes."

Jaqen approached, surprisingly calm in the face of danger, yet courteous. Turning his head away just momentarily, he lifted his hand upward and gripped his chin. Arya leaned her head sideways, curious as to what he was doing. To her shock and surprise, he extended his hand over his head and drastically changed his appearance. To Arya it looked as if Jaqen had ripped his own face off to reveal someone else. His cheeks grew fuller, his eyes closer; his nose hooked, a scar appeared on his right cheek where no scar had been before. And when he shook his head, his reddish-brown hair with a silver streak had drastically turned into a bluish hue and displayed an ugly facial expression with a large bump on the bridge of his nose.

"But what if a man told you that there was another way to better yourself when greater dangers arrive to threaten one's own kin, Arya Stark? Another way a girl can become more than what she is now?"

Arya still stood motionless, her brown eyes still wide before she backed away from him. "H-how did you do that?"

"A girl forgets a man's earlier words," he said quietly, revealing a shiny gold tooth. "It's no harder than taking a new name, if you know the way."

It didn't take long for Arya to understand what he was telling her. "You're… offering to train me?" she realized. "But I'm already a Water Dancer."

Jaqen chuckled. "To be a dancing master is a special thing, but to be a Faceless Man, that is something else entirely."

"A what?"

"The way it works, a girl goes to the Faceless Men and tells them who she wants killed, and we negotiate the price," he explained. "The more prominent the target, the more difficult they are to get to, the more dangerous for the assassin and the guild, the higher the price."

"You're… assassins? But assassins have no honor!"

Jaqen raised an eyebrow. "But a girl finds it honorable to employ the use of an assassin in the protection of a sister not once, not twice but three times when it suits her whims?" he countered, finding Arya's response hypocritical.

Arya bit her tongue. She bitterly lamented that Jaqen had a point in his statements; she did employ him to kill all three Kettleblack brothers back in King's Landing to protect her sister Queen Sansa from her mother-in-law Dowager Queen Cersei Lannister's cruel, vicious machinations. She signed with resignation.

"A man can offer you this."

"You can teach me how to be a Faceless Man?"

"The girl has many names on her lips. Those who mean to inflict harm on the ones she cares about, the names of those she yearns to safeguard."

'Robb, mother, Bran, Rickon, Jon, Sansa,' Arya's tomboy face switched from fierce to softened. 'Sansa, Little Ned, Lyonel, Cassanna…' While normally she would abundantly refuse outright, Arya thought of her niece and nephews; no matter how far away they were, she absolutely loved all three of them very much. "No one's ever safe for long," she spoke, "and with winter here, we'll need to look out for one another. You're sure you can teach me?"

Jaqen nodded. "A man has said. If you would learn, you must come with me."

Arya suddenly grew hesitant. "Where?"

"Far away, across the Narrow Sea to Braavos."

"But my family…"

"Will be none the wiser," he said, pressing a small coin into her palm. "Here."

Arya examined the strange form of currency. She hadn't seen anything like it before; it was square-shaped and made of iron, minted with the image of the Titan of Braavos on it. "What is it?"

"A coin of great value."

"What am I supposed to do with a coin?" she asked.

"Should you ever decide to take up on a man's offer, just present that coin to any man from Braavos and say these words to him—valar morghulis (all men must die)."

"Valar morghulis (all men must die)," Arya repeated. It wasn't hard. Her fingers closed tight over the coin. "When do you leave?"

"Now."

That wasn't enough time for Arya to pack some of her belongings, but she's managed with far less. Her thoughts once again turned to her family; as much as it pained her, Arya once again had to make one of the hardest decisions in her life. She looked up at Jaqen, another flame burning in her eyes.

"Valar morghulis (all men must die)," she said once more, but with more certainty.

Jaqen interpreted it as a 'yes'. "Valar dohaeris (all must serve)," he answered back. "If a girl is absolutely certain, she must leave with a man now. She must not have unnecessary baggage. A ship leaves from White Harbor to Braavos."

The following nightfall it was decided. Believing that this was to be her path forward towards improving herself as a fighter, Arya followed Jaqen H'dgar out of Winterfell under cover of night past the Stark guards and rode deep into the woods—occasionally glancing back at her home once more. Arya told herself that all she was doing was simply for the benefit of the family, it still didn't make leaving that much more easier.

"Sorry, mother. Robb," Arya felt her voice crack. "And… I'm sorry, Little Ned. Forgive your auntie for doing this. Auntie will be back home soon, better than ever before. She'll protect you safe, just like mama wolf does with her pups."

In Dorne…

The next day had passed since the failed assassination attempt.

King Daveth sat on an orange bench having a small view of the Water Garden below whilst House Martell's maester Caleotte finished stitching up his left arm and shoulder. The Dornish maester applied a medical ointment known as firemilk on the Young Stag's arm and shoulder to clean the wound, though it still burned on contact. Other ointments applied contained substances such as mustard seeds, nettles and mold of bread which were helpful to fight off any potential infection when the Bastard's Boys vicious hounds bit into him. Shoulder and left arm were mauled bloody, but Daveth still fought off the assassination attempt with help and some likely unexpected assistance from the Sand Snakes.

"Almost done, Your Grace," Caleotte informed him. He steadily put the vial down and finished the last remaining stitch.

Daveth simply remained still, holding his breath and slightly gritting his teeth to ignore the feeling of the needle threading in and out of his skin to seal the wound closed. Cotton bandage cloths were wrapped around his shoulder and chest; his faint scars were visible as Caleotte began wrapping bandages around his arm.

Ser Lucius, one of Daveth's senior Kingsguard, stood guard. "You're lucky those mongrels didn't tear your arm off, lad," he remarked.

Jaime nodded. "Good thing we arrived when we did," he agreed. "Imagine what would've happened if we weren't there. Heard those dogs were specifically bred to track down and kill wolves."

"Judging by the look of those hounds, they look like they haven't been fed for a few days," Olyvar theorized. "Probably starved 'em so they'd be extra vicious."

"Are you certain it was Roose Bolton's bastard?"

Daveth didn't move. "Locke is one of Lord Bolton's best hunters, but he's more in league with Ramsay Snow's line of thinking. Just as cruel and malicious, though one holds the leash and barks orders while the other merely responds to the call."

"Pitiful," Lucius spat. "In my days, assassination attempts were done in secrecy and more effectively, not out in the open and loudly. Youngins these days have no discipline."

"Well, they'll find out it failed sooner or later," remarked Jaime. "Still, I think it'd be best if we inform the Small Council about the attempt on His Grace's life."

"No," Daveth shook his head. "Not yet."

Olyvar looked confused. "Not yet? Why not?"

Even Ser Lucius and Daveth's uncle Ser Jaime were curious.

"Think about it: if we informed the council about the attempted assassination, then all eyes would immediately turn to Dorne," he explained. "They would firstly accuse House Martell of deliberately sabotaging the peace talks which could potentially further escalate tensions and spark another war."

"So we do nothing?"

"On the contrary, we'll do the exact opposite. Varys has his little birds stationed everywhere both in Westeros and across the Narrow Sea, and I have some old contacts who owe me a few favors."

Lucius pieced the puzzle together. "Meaning we'd respond to the crisis to uncover the mystery in a quick yet effective manner, but just discretely enough so as to avoid alerting the enemy of our intention."

Daveth nodded. "Exactly."

All four men debated back and forth as Maester Caleotte finished wrapping the final bandage around the Young Stag's arm.

"We're done," he said.

Standing from his seat, Daveth examined his left arm and gave a quick flex of his muscle—the medicinal ointment burned beneath the cotton and the stitched up wound was itching, but the Young Stag still retained the use of both his arm and shoulder.

"Are you in pain?" Caleotte asked.

Daveth shook his head. "Maester, I've been beaten, stabbed, clubbed, riddled with arrows, nearly lost an eye, almost drowned at the Sunset Sea and was routinely tortured for almost a year when I was 8. Getting bitten by a dog? This pales in comparison."

Olyvar was just as puzzled. "How can you be so calm when someone, some groups of people, literally just tried to kill you?" he asked.

"Listen to your squire, nephew. Don't dismiss such things so lightly," Jaime warned. "No one is invincible, not even you."

"I'm well aware of my limitations."

The Young Stag eased himself back into his spare attire of loose, layered golden Dornish attire, taking certain precautions to ensure the stitches don't come undone. Even then, it still slightly agitated him. Slipping one arm through each sleeve, he didn't even notice someone else entering the guest room.

"That doesn't mean you should keep pushing your luck," a feminine voice broke the silence.

Daveth turned and noticed his wife, Queen Sansa Stark, standing in the doorway. Judging by the look on her face, Sansa appeared to be quite upset—whether scorn or worry, he couldn't tell. Maybe it was both? The Wolf Queen had come a long way since arriving from Winterfell to King's Landing, growing and maturing to be a capable player in her own right. A pang of guilt struck the Young Stag as his wife approached him, possibly expecting to hear words expressing her disappointment—but much to Daveth's surprise, Sansa quickly closed the gap and wrapped her arms around her husband. She held him close.

"I heard what happened," Sansa buried her face into his chest. "Thank the Gods, you're all right. I was really worried, you stupid idiot."

Daveth held his wife close, using his good arm and patted her back. 'I… suppose I deserved that,' he admitted.

More footsteps were heard, revealing Princess Myrcella Baratheon entering the chamber. Jaime asked to speak with his 'niece' to check her well-being after the assassination attempt and especially how one of them tried to abduct her. The Kingslayer could see how much his 'niece' matured since he last saw her – Myrcella was a spitting image of Cersei when she was younger. Standing there in her pink dress, the Lannister necklace upon her neck, Myrcella's primary focus appeared to be fixed more on her brother.

"'Cella," Daveth acknowledged.

She embraced her brother. "Brother. Are you in pain? Does it hurt?" she asked slightly worried.

"I'll be all right. Really," he reassured.

Myrcella looked down and released her hold.

"How's Trystane?" Jaime asked.

"He'll be all right. Just… embarrassed," she answered.

"Embarrassed about what?"

"That he tried to defend me and well, failed. He can't stop thinking about it. He's very proud, you know."

'Proud? Seriously? One hit and he's out like a candle. How could a suitor protect my sister like that?' Daveth disapproved but bit his tongue, referring to Prince Trystane Martell's performance in combat.

Olyvar approached. "Were you harmed, Princess?" he asked.

Myrcella shook her head. "No. No, I'm fine. Just… shaken by what's happened. Prince Doran sends his well-wishes, brother. Says he's thankful you protected his son and heir."

The Young Stag still frowned inside. 'That one lapse in security nearly got you both killed.'

"Are you… still willing to talk?"

Daveth sighed. "Yes. Yes, Myrcella. I'm still willing to continue the peace talks with Prince Doran. Your engagement to his son… will continue."

Myrcella breathed a sigh of relief. She had desperately hoped that what had happened in the meeting room earlier before the assassins came hadn't derailed the proceedings, but was elated to know this could possibly mean her betrothal would remain intact.

"Are you happy here?" Jaime asked.

"Dorne is my home now, uncle. This has been my home for years," she said. "I didn't want to come here at first, but I did my duty. I did what my brother said. So if you're thinking about wanting to take me away from here, then forget it. I love Trystane, I'm going to marry him and we're staying right here."

Jaime and Daveth both equally raised eyebrows. They could tell right away she's serious. Jaime, in particular, noticed that Myrcella was indeed happy. Soon afterwards, Shae and Brella soon entered the room; each of the Queen's handmaidens carried the young Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana Baratheon.

"Your Graces," they both curtsied.

Sansa looked at them. "See, children?" she told the twins. "Papa's all right. He's okay."

Each of the royal Baratheon twins babbled in response. As the Wolf Queen picked up Lyonel, Princess Cassana stretched out her tiny arms towards her father—yearning for his attention. Using only one arm, Daveth was given his daughter from Shae. The little girl gripped her father's robe with her tiny fingers.

"Hey, little bugger," Daveth said to his daughter. "Did you and your brother behave for your aunt Myrcella?"

Myrcella smiled. "Lyonel and Cassana have been very good, brother. They're so adorable!" she almost squealed in delight again.

Ser Lucius smiled at the warm sight. Olyvar tried to hide his expression, as did Jaime as all in attendance observed closely.

"*Mmu*", baby Cassana babbled. "Dada."

Both Daveth and Sansa's eyes widened in surprise and looked at each other.

"Did you… hear that?" he asked.

Sansa nodded. "Her first word," she gasped before smiling. "Yes, little one. That's dada. Dada's right here!"

"Aww, how sweet," Shae praised.

"Dada, dada," Cassana babbled again.

Leaning against the wall, Jaime observed as everyone around him nearly swarmed the royal babies. To them it was big news that one of the twins started talking for the first time, even if it's just one word. Slightly dumbfounded and somewhat envious, Jaime had long suppressed his paternal instincts for his 'niece' out of necessity for her well-being. Perhaps what seemed to be the first time, he was slowly becoming more envious about the joys of fatherhood taking place in front of him—but Daveth was Jaime's own nephew and knew it was wrong to feel that way.

Still, Jaime kept his mouth shut and watched the family—his family, coming together even if things are no longer the same.

Chapter End

Author's Note: This ends with the return of a familiar character along with an apparent discussion. Arya Stark plans on leaving Winterfell to embark on her own journey to Braavos to become a Faceless Man. Little Ned is apparently not going to be happy that his aunt's gone off on her own again. In Dorne, Daveth has calmed down enough to the point where he's going to resume the negotiations with Prince Doran Martell, but is apparently not pleased with Trystane Martell's skills as a fighter when the assassins came for him, so do you think he'll do something about it later? And… one of the babies just spoke for the first time! Imagine that. With the initial trouble stopped for the time being, think the negotiations will come to a head soon? Thoughts? Let me know.

FrostedFlakes1305: Make Cassana a bit like Arya

chase manaena: this was a great read cant wait for the next chapter please update as soon as you can please

Silent Wolf Singer: Wait, aren't the twins three to four months old? Aren't they to young to be talking?

—One of them is apparently more of a prodigy than the other.

10868letsgo: Cassana is daddy's little girl. No doubt about it.

The Last Kenpachi: I almost feel sorry for Ramsay. When people find out that he arranged an assassination attempt, he will probably get blamed for the disappearance of Arya.

RHatch89: Awesome update :)

—Thanks.

Hear My Fury: So Arya's still going on her journey, well I suppose she'll need the training for the Long Night later on. I expect her to be back by the end of the season six timeline, though with the Freys not committing the Red Wedding they'll likely survive. As for Daveth, I like how he's not going to retaliate now, but hopefully someone can discreetly get a message to Roose informing him of his sons plans and the whole Battle of the Bastards can be avoided. And finally, Cassana's first word, adorable. I hope you have more moments like this because Daveth really deserves it after all the crap he's gone through. Look forward to the next chapter.

mpowers045: Nothing warms the heart more than a baby's first word

—So true.

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Author's Note: Well, an assassination attempt has been carried out and Daveth Baratheon is bound to sustain more scars. Probably they'll be uglier than the ones he already has now. The earlier interaction with Myrcella indicates how much she's grown, carrying with her Cersei Lannister's beauty but none of her meanness and the famous Lannister cunning. A kind, gentle heart, Myrcella reassures her eldest brother that he doesn't have to do anything alone; an old habit he's found hard to break. And it may have been quick, but Aero Hotah got in on some of the action—one swing, one kill. But what reward do you guys think Daveth should give his rescuers? Thoughts? Let me know.

History and lore of Daveth Baratheon:

"Hi, I'm Henry Cavill and I play Daveth Baratheon.

When we first meet Daveth in season one, we kinda get a bit an insight of his relationship with his parents and what drives him to be the kind of young man he came to be known as, which of course we know as the Oathkeeper. He's the firstborn son and heir of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. We know that he has two younger brothers Joffrey and Tommen, and a sister Myrcella."

As Season 8 approaches, we'll soon be getting a bit of a sneak peek about the history of Daveth Baratheon; one where other actors and actresses have already gave in an HBO interview. Again, it's only a sample so expect a bit more as we further progress into the story.

Silent Wolf Singer: Damn, this guy cant get a break can he. Always on guard, and enemies in the shadow.

RHatch89: Awesome job as always :)

―Thanks.

mpowers045: The Assassination attempt has been failed, huzah!

marco794: i think olyvar frey should be knighted, the kid went above and beyond the duties of a squire

Hear My Fury: Okay! After that, I now have a theory for what will happen with Ramsay. He will kill Roose after finding out Locke failed in Dorne, gather the houses in the North for rebellion, most likely, Karstarks, Whitehills, Ryswells, Dustins. Umbers may join if Greatjon dies his son Smalljon succeeds him and Jon lets the wildlings in. Glovers will not join because Greyjoys and Robb let Theon go so they'll take this as a slight. The other houses will join, minus Manderlys if you give the same weak excuse the writers did and Lord Manderly 'didn't want anymore of his people dying.' But I have hope that Stannis will help the Starks given that he has 28,000 men and the Boltons have what 5,000? It will be similar to Battle of the Bastards except it's against rebel Northerners instead of taking back Winterfell. Though I hope you don't go by show Stannis and have him burn Shireen. Anyway, great chapter, looking forward to the next.

ZabuzasGirl: I love it!

―Thanks.

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Author's Note: Trouble seems to follow certain major characters in Game of Thrones; as Jon Connington and Jorah Mormont came to blows before fending off an attack from stone men near the ruins of Old Valyria, Saqnizza's forces come face-to-face with the Sons of the Harpy—only these insurgents are opposed to Daenerys presence in Meereen, but they also oppose Saqnizza herself for her role in leading the revolution which ousted the slavers' rule over the area. Think each individual group of people will eventually find common ground with one another before things escalate too quickly? Thoughts? Let me know.

Silent Wolf Singer: I haven't read the books, but in the show the archmaester told Jorah he should had cut his arm off , remove the effected area to save his life. If Jon finger tip was infected, couldn't he cut it off and survive? Just a curious question. Good chapter by the way

―Chances would still be 50/50 either way even if Jon did manage to cut off whatever part of him was infected with greyscale since it could occur in other parts of the body as well. Even so, anything's possible.

mpowers045: I don't like the idea of human cockfighting but entertainment is what public order needs so as long they are like free men fighting for like a prize money or something, then it will work

C.E.W: Great so now Jon Connington is bringing Jorah to Daenerys. And Daenerys and Saqnizza were at each other's throats about the fighting pits. The Sons of the Harpy's attack on has just give them a reason to unite against them. Sorry didn't see the death of Saqnizza, not that the Queen of Meereen is murdered, the people will turn against the Sons of the Harpy and give strength to Daenerys' cause.

The Three Stoogies: A great chapter like always so now Danny becomes the soul ruler of merren can't wait to read more

DaddyChad: And Daenerys has enough power to seize control of Meereen with the death of their Queen

RHatch89: Awesome update :)

―Thanks.

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Chapter 862 - bbh

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