AN: Wow, I'm SO SORRY this has taken me so long to update. Long story short, COVID uprooted my life in several unfortunate ways, but I'm much more stable now, and I hope all of you are too (and of course, staying healthy)! Stay safe! And I hope you enjoy this chapter.

I apologize if it's a little slower, but it's definitely going to pick up even more in the next one. (There's only a few more chapters left!)

Every Loyalty

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Chapter XVIII:

The Southern Prince

"You're either very lucky, or very unlucky," Arya said. She contemplatively chewed on a piece of goat from the skewer in her hand. "I haven't decided which."

Will would've scoffed in her face, if he wasn't too busy considering that very same question. He'd managed to stumble upon their camp, no longer surprised by Arya's Needle poised at his throat. With a knowing grin, she'd sheathed her sword and let him sit down to share their flame-cooked dinner.

Again, Will glanced over at her travel companion, Sandor Clegane, who was preoccupied by his own meal. His dark brow was crunched low, expression twisted in a permanent surliness that Will had come to expect. It was just the man's nature to look grumpy and exasperated in equal measure.

"I'm not babysittin'," said Clegane. "So if you're tryna get killed, might as well fuck off."

"I'm going to King's Landing, with or without your help," Will said at last, turning from the large man to Arya. He didn't care if she saw weakness in him. For the first time, he didn't care what she, or anyone else thought. When he left Winterfell, he'd done so with the singular resolve of doing his part in this war. That meant getting to Jon and Davos, by any means possible.

Arya stared at him. Her unreadable gaze no longer made him uncomfortable, as he knew she was assessing him. Gouging the sincerity of his words.

The corner of her mouth quirked upwards, slightly.

"You better keep up then."

Larisa couldn't say she had missed sea travel. She was far too used to the rocking motion of the ship for seasickness, but the long, dull days were almost a cruel torture with so much waiting for them past the horizon. So much at stake.

Leaving Bran to oversee Winterfell, Larisa and Sansa had organized their expedition to Dorne, having departed from the port of White Harbor nearly a week ago.

Larisa now stood on the bow of the ship, while Brienne and Theon sparred not too far away. Sansa and Martha spoke together in a shaded corner, watching the spar play out.

Preferring to be alone with her thoughts, Larisa leaned against the edge of the ship as she watched the dark blue waters of the ocean pass by. In the repetitive crash of the waves, she fought to calm the slow rise of anxiety in her chest. They had no idea what they would find in the South. For all they knew, Jon and Daenerys would already be waging war on Cersei by the time they reached Dragonstone, let alone Dorne.

Sansa was keeping in contact with both Bran and Varys via raven, keeping track of the Dragon Fleet's movements. Yet even if all went according to plan, Larisa still had no idea what she would do when she stood once more in the halls of the Red Keep. If she faced Cersei again.

Larisa had spent most of her formative years in King's Landing. The court had given her a truly thorough and particular kind of education, but for all the cloak-and-dagger social and political scheming she'd seen there, she couldn't bring herself to regret any of it. She had learned the most important skill a woman could own.

To watch, and wait, and listen.

Larisa turned fourteen today.

It marked the second year she'd spent away from home. Her mother and father, her brothers at Casterly Rock.

Well, she supposed there was Lancel, but he'd been ignoring her more often than not. His duties trailing King Robert kept him busy, she supposed, but that didn't mean he had to avoid her at mealtimes. They were family, and they were here together, weren't they?

Shouldn't that mean they should look out for each other?

Sighing, Larisa swallowed the feeling of homesickness that probably showed melancholy on her face. Instead, she forced herself to keep walking through the long halls in the Red Keep, making her brows and frown relax into a blank expression. She'd practiced in front of the mirror until she knew what that blankness felt like in the muscles of her face, even when she closed her eyes.

Stepping outside, into the garden, Larisa could breathe a little easier. But she didn't relax.

There were still snakes that lived in the garden, after all.

"Just…just leave me alone."

Larisa heard the small, trembling voice, soon joined by others that were feminine, high-pitched, and giggling. It was a cruel sound that she knew very well.

Stepping around the corner, she spotted a girl around her age, possibly younger. She sat on a bench, while a group of three older girls were relieving their boredom by mocking the same oddities Larisa saw.

The girl's bare feet, blackened by plant soil and dirt. Her long-sleeved, gray dress in a sweltering summer, where bolder colors and sleeveless gowns with accompanying shawls were more fashionable. Tight ringlets of sandy curls left to hang shabbily around the girl's round face, where softer waves and braids were the hallmark Southern style. And most notable of all, a large book about medicinal herbs nestled in her lap.

"A gaggle of squawking ducks would have more grace than you three," Larisa observed. She flicked her fan slowly back and forth to relieve her neck from the heat, then raised her bored gaze up to the other girls she recognized. She didn't bother to recall their names. All that mattered was that they were now scowling because they knew who she was.

Even a lesser Lannister cousin was still a Lannister, and by now she'd learned to use the strength of her own name.

Those spiteful twits left soon after. But Larisa's attention was drawn to the girl sitting on the bench next to her, sniffling and wiping stubbornly at her eyes. She opened up her book to where she left off.

Larisa remained standing where she was, waiting for a thank you, at least.

"You didn't have to do that," the girl said. "I'm…I'm fine."

"Is that why you're sniveling?"

The girl finally looked up, glaring at her with sharp blue eyes and a childish, pretty face. Larisa couldn't help a small smile of amusement. She must be new here.

"What's your name?" she asked.

Glancing down at her lap, the girl replied, "Elinor."

Sansa and Larisa took their tea together in silence. Only the odd clanking of their cups and spoons while pouring the cream disturbed the quiet barracks. It was Sansa's room, but Larisa had made and poured the tea, just as she had done so many times for Jon, returning from Eastwatch.

"How will we receive news from the field?" Larisa posed. She knew she wasn't the only one uncomfortable. By the gods, she didn't know what was more surprising. That she had offered the tea, or that Sansa had accepted the invitation to be civil.

"Bran will be relaying their messages by raven," Sansa replied, raising a plain cup to her lips. "It's a roundabout way of getting information, but it's the best we can do without letting Daenerys know what we're doing, or where we really are."

Larisa nodded. It wasn't quick or ideal, but there was nothing for it. Bran would send them whatever messages he received from Jon and Daenerys's forces, which likely would have been addressed to Sansa anyway.

The other woman set down her tea for a moment, her cool blue gaze raising to Larisa.

"I don't know how you sent a missive to Dorne without my knowledge. That put us at risk of interception before we even left port," Sansa said. Larisa only stared back at her calmly. She didn't regret her actions, nor would she hide or play submissive any longer.

There were a good many things she was still afraid of in this world, but she did not fear Sansa Stark.

Then, Sansa's tense shoulders relaxed a touch. Again, she sipped at her tea.

"But," she said, "if you hadn't, we wouldn't know what we do now."

Larisa nodded once, sighing in contemplation. "The new prince of Dorne has not officially chosen a side in the war. But you can expect that will change soon enough."

"And neither option is in our favor," Sansa agreed. "Brienne says we'll be passing Dragonstone soon enough."

Larisa watched her shake her head in wonder, stealing a small pause before she took a longer sip of scalding tea. Larisa still hadn't touched hers for how hot it was.

She arched a brow. "Do you mean to breathe fire yourself?"

Sansa rolled her eyes, lips pursing with something more than just annoyance. She almost seemed nervous. Larisa waited patiently though. She wondered just how much the younger woman would decide to trust her with.

Eventually, she received an answer.

"I promised myself I would never go South again," Sansa said.

It felt rather like a confession. Larisa regarded her with interest, tilting her head slightly.

"Why? Nearly everyone who had power over you then are dead," she remarked. The corner of Sansa's mouth lifted, just so.

"Nearly everyone," she agreed.

A knock at the door disturbed earned both women's attention, shattering whatever calm atmosphere had developed in the room. It was Martha, come with a message for Sansa. Her brows furrowed as she unfurled the small note and began reading. She then passed the note along to Larisa. She read it curiously, but she understood what had put such a troubled frown on Sansa's face.

Be sure to give Dragonstone a wide berth.

Sansa looked back up at Martha. "Who sent it? They haven't signed their name."

"I don't know, my Lady," Martha dipped her head. "This is all the raven brought."

Larisa returned the scrap of parchment to Sansa, and they shared a similar glance. Someone knew exactly what they were doing, and it wasn't Bran, who would have addressed it himself. It obviously wasn't Daenerys. If that were the case, they would already be dead.

Sansa let out a breath through her nose.

"Fine. Give this to Brienne."

Days later, they used the cover of darkness and late-night fog as they sailed a much wider arc around the island of Dragonstone. Even so, Larisa could see the smallest flicker of torch lights far across the black waters.

"What is that?" Sansa whispered to Theon. As Larisa understood, he was the most experienced naval navigator, though he shared a look with Brienne, who was nearly as knowledgeable.

"Lookouts. Three ships, but they're pretty far out," he replied. "Everyone keep quiet anyway."

They couldn't know if those lookout ships were Daenerys's men, or part of the Iron Fleet. They didn't even know if Daenerys had yet set foot onto Dragonstone. Their ship was moving slowly but surely south, and by daybreak they should be past the Gullet, which marked the usual passage into Blackwater Bay.

For now though, it felt as if they were inching by. Larisa gripped a rail of the ship with tense fingers. Her whole body was coiled tight like a spring as she watched those lights flicker and dim, then at times flare brightly. But thank the gods, they never came any closer.

Then there was a dull crunch. The ship groaned as it careened back and forth, and finally veered on its right side. Larisa felt Brienne's firm hand on her back, making sure she didn't altogether lose her footing.

Once the ship righted itself and continued onwards, she had a chance to catch her breath. She looked up and noticed Sansa had gripped the base of one of the masts. Their few crew members had done their best to stay quiet, but a few cries of surprise were understandable.

She looked to their navigator, Theon, but he was holding Martha steady by the waist. Larisa rolled her eyes, but she glanced over at Sansa, who'd noticed the same thing. Larisa noted (with some irritation) that she only looked amused.

Though she also noticed when Theon looked up and out to the water sharply, watching the lights. They grew brighter, curious.

Larisa held her breath until her lungs burned. She had no doubt the rest of their party was doing the same.

The lights kept on flickering, but the sparse fog had been enough to distort their ship. To the Dragon Queen's lookout vessels, it only looked like the remnants of an Ironborn ship, finally collapsing into the dark waves.

A week later, on a dimming afternoon, their arrival at Sunspear was met with an entourage of the prince's men on horseback. They'd rolled out a welcome party to escort them into the city, and further in, to the palace itself. This had both Larisa and Sansa wary, their minds simultaneously drawing back to the anonymous message they'd received.

But Larisa knew their warm reception could have a more likely explanation. Her mother was waiting for them. She could have told the prince of their impending arrival.

Mother.

She refused to show it outwardly, but nerves battled with the surge of anticipation welling up as both joy and anxiety in her chest. She reminded herself to relax though. Larisa had never been to Sunspear, and she didn't know as much of their politics as she would have preferred, in order to be prepared. Not to mention, they had very little idea of the current status quo, or of the new prince of Dorne.

The fact was, there was really no telling what they were walking into. But as they were led through the lavish seat of Sunspear, with its stone and wood architecture, large open spaces filled with tapestries and colorful silks, the palace guards brought them before Prince Aldemar Martell. He sat upon the throne on the raised dais, dressed in rich pale gold that did well to compliment his tan skin. He seemed relaxed, but his darker eyes studied them, even as he smiled.

He was younger than Larisa expected, she assumed in his early thirties. With that thick beard, she couldn't quite tell. His deep brown hair and eyes (along with the colors he wore) marked him as a Martell, but she had to wonder.

Which of the long-dead brothers does he claim to be his father—the invalid, or the showman?

"It is an honor to meet the Lady of Winterfell," he said at last. Sansa inclined her head in respect.

"I'm honored to meet you as well, Prince Aldemar. I see Lord Oberyn in you," she replied.

Aldemar quirked a smile and straightened in his seat. "So you did know my brother."

Larisa kept the slight sting of shock off her face. Prince Doran and Lord Oberyn had yet another brother? Instead, she focused on the nostalgia she saw in the prince's eyes, and on Sansa, as she clearly made her own assessments through traded pleasantries.

"Only by proximity," Sansa said, "He was a daring man."

"Yes, and a foolish one," Aldemar nodded. "I regret every wasted day I lost sailing wild and aimless in the East, while my family warred and suffered, fighting among themselves."

Pain and burden clung to his shoulders as he stood, as if the throne itself was too much of a reminder of what he'd lost. After a moment, he raised his gaze from the floor and met Sansa, and the rest of their meager group.

"You are welcome here, Lady Sansa. I have no quarrel with the North, or the Dragon Queen, as long as she stays north of our borders. But Dorne will not fight your battles with Cersei," he said gravely. "We have lost enough."

Sansa's smile was grim. "That's just it, your highness. We're not here to request your aid against Cersei. Daenerys could burn down the Red Keep today, and the war would be won."

While Aldemar arched a dark brow, Larisa saw the glimmer of knowing in his eyes. She had no doubts that this man was cunning. Maybe his earlier grief was nothing but a show, but somehow she doubted that. Already, Prince Aldemar was more than what he seemed.

"Then what have you come all this way to ask of me?" he asked.

"You know very well what they want, your Highness."

Larisa tensed as the familiar, soft voice washed over her. Her head turned to the right of the dais and found a small woman with graying brown hair twisted up in complex braids. Her deep green gown draped from her thin body, and her face held more age than Larisa remembered. Yet in most respects, her mother was the same.

Lady Dorna met the prince's stare unflinchingly. "They are here because yet another Targaryen intends to rule over us all with dragonfire."

Aldemar lifted his gaze heavenward with a sigh. He finally looked down at her with a terse frown. Larisa's teeth clenched as she hid her hands in the folds of her skirts, preparing for the prince to utter a sharp rebuke and remove her mother from the throne room. Yet to her surprise, he did neither of those.

"And Cersei doesn't?" he challenged. "Whatever the outcome of this war, at least with Daenerys, we'll be rid of that blonde, arrogant whore."

"One blonde wretch for another, as I see it," Dorna remarked. It elicited a look of pure exasperation from Aldemar.

Larisa allowed herself a small smile as she watched the exchange. Clearly this was a familiar argument between the two, but she was beyond curious of how Dorna had become so embedded with the prince, that she could interrupt them so thoroughly without even a reprimand. Let alone spar verbally with him about his own country's affairs.

"But we will not have peace," Sansa said, earning the prince's attention. "Even if she conquers King's Landing, that won't be the end of it. Believe me."

Sighing again, Valdemar sat down a little more heavily on the throne. He refused to speak of this more until morning, when they had all eaten, refreshed, and properly rested. As exhausted as Larisa was from the long voyage, she was impatient to be escorted to her room for the night. Such anxiousness revived in her chest that she couldn't even enjoy washing the grime of the sea from her body.

She quickly dressed and went to exit her door, only to hear a knock on the other side. She opened it and quickly found herself in the warm embrace of her mother. Larisa was already twenty and one years of age, but she was suddenly reduced to a child again, clinging to Dorna's shoulder and no longer trying to repress the hot tears that fell down her cheeks, soaking into the other woman's clothing. Dorna's grip was fierce but gentle as her hand ran through Larisa's loose, wet hair.

"I'm sorry," Larisa choked out. "I'm so sorry."

"By the Seven, what are you sorry for, my love?" Dorna asked, her voice thick with emotion.

"F-For Father. And for taking so long," she babbled. "A-And, I lost Will—"

"Hush now," Dorna shook her head firmly. "I could not be more proud of you, Larisa. Do you hear me?"

She leaned back, pulling away just far enough to hold Larisa's face in her hands and wipe the streaks of tears from her cheeks.

"You kept your brother alive. You kept yourself alive, and you found your way back to me," she said. "As for your brother, we will find him in due time. But first, come with me."

Larisa was shaking as she stood, but Dorna's hand was tight around hers, and they went together down to the private dining hall, where Prince Aldemar was hosting Sansa and the rest of their people. Brienne and Theon were already partaking in the feast, but Martha was speaking with a tall man, more animatedly than Larisa had ever seen her. Upon closer inspection, she spotted the gleam of happy tears in Martha's eyes.

Beside the handsome man was a young woman, only a few years younger than him. But she wore a fondly exasperated look as twin boys play wrestled at her feet. They shared their father's light brown hair, and the woman's expressive blue eyes.

Larisa stopped where she stood, her heart clenching almost painfully. She believed she was getting a bit dizzy. "Ellie?"

The young woman's gaze snapped up, finding Larisa in an instant. A wide, relieved smile spread across her face, those bright eyes welling with tears. Elinor Crakehall had always been soft, and her gracious hugs were one of Larisa's fondest memories. If anything truly good had come of her time in King's Landing, it had been Elinor.

Larisa touched a trembling hand to Elinor's face, no longer finding a reserved, lovely girl, but a woman in her place. Elinor grabbed her hand tightly.

"In all my life, I never thought I would see you again," she tremulously admitted.

Dorna stood behind them, watching with a smile as she brushed away more of her tears. Though her gaze wandered for a moment, and caught the way Sansa Stark was also watching from the dining table with thinly veiled interest. After a moment, a frown took over her face, and she purposefully posed a question to Prince Aldemar.

She decided to leave the girls to have their moment together. She would join the table, taking a seat to Aldemar's right and continue watching and listening from a better vantage point.

Then, one of Elinor's little boys barreled full speed into his mother's leg. Despite Elinor's sharp reprimand, he just kept running down the hall, his brother hot on his heels.

"I see you've been busy," Larisa's eyes twinkled with mirth. Elinor smirked.

"As have you, my friend." She grabbed both of Larisa's hands and guided her further into the dining hall. "Come, meet my husband."

Ah, how could she forget? The oddly perfect Addam Marbrand.

"We've met," Larisa said. "I was there when he carried you off for the bedding ceremony. As I recall, my glass of wine was nearly tossed into the fire when your foot—"

Elinor squeezed her hands sharply, even though her smirk deepened. "Addam, my darling, can you believe it? Larisa managed to escape the North."

Addam turned from Martha just enough to offer Larisa a polite greeting.

"My Lady, it's very fortunate that you were able to return home…well. Nearly there, I suppose," he smiled. "Your mother already seems much lighter, knowing you are safe."

Larisa nodded just as politely. She granted Martha a cursory glance, and the other woman became more guarded, despite the stubborn smile that remained.

"I understand you are cousins," Larisa said. It wasn't hard to deduce, and the way Addam regarded Martha with a similar kind of distant politeness, despite the man's natural warmth, spoke of an equally distant relation. Not of a sibling bond.

"Yes, though we haven't seen one another for a time," Addam agreed. "We should join the feast, so you all can rest and replenish yourselves after such a long journey."

Once they were finally seated and Larisa's lightheadedness could be treated with rolls of buttered bread and a selection of tender meats and vegetables, she turned to Elinor and uttered the question she'd been dying to ask from the first moment they'd seen each other again.

"How the hell did you get here?" she whispered fiercely. Before Elinor could answer, Larisa felt a tap on her wrist. She looked over at Dorna, who offered her a rueful smile.

"When Daenerys mounted her initial siege, and Jaime evacuated Casterly Rock, I thought it best to leave the Westerlands entirely. The Prince of Dorne was most accommodating," Dorna said. Larisa glanced at the admittedly striking profile of the prince, who spoke with Sansa in what seemed to be an immersive conversation.

"Don't let what happened earlier fool you. He hates Cersei as much as we do. What happened to Oberyn and Doran was the result of their conflict with her, and of Tywin as well."

"But how did you get here?" Larisa asked. Addam, who sat beside Elinor, leaned in closer to answer her while he kept his voice lowered.

"I volunteered to escort Dorna to safety. At the time, the Westerlands were becoming uncertain of the ruling Lannisters, after they plundered the Reach," he said. "They paid off their accrued debts to the Golden Company without deigning to pay off the many houses that had supported them for centuries, including House Marbrand."

"Better to stay here, where it's safe," Elinor said. She found her husband's hand on the table, and Addam held hers securely in his own.

"Or be forced to fight for that psychotic family." He shot Larisa and Dorna an apologetic smile. "Present company excluded, of course."

Larisa smirked. She couldn't help her blood, but being here was finally her choice. She looked over at Aldemar Martell, then at Sansa, who briefly met her gaze. If nothing else could unite them, Larisa was grateful it would be this.

Of course, she wanted to find her brother. Perhaps she was being selfish yet again, but she couldn't ignore the burning in her heart that told her this was right. Fighting for Jon Snow, not for the world, but for herself, was right.

Jon stood on the beach of Dragonstone and watched where the gray skies met the darker waters of the sea. The heavy winds whipped at his face, but it was a welcome sensation. For just a moment, he closed his eyes and imaged them colder. Icy air chilling his lungs. Then the frozen Godswood, where he and Bran had taken to sitting with one another, telling each other about their travels and their hardships.

Then the scene changed, to the warm insulated walls of Winterfell. Mealtimes with his men, with Davos and Will. Warm drinks shared with Sansa. Warmer evenings in the arms of the woman who undoubtedly held his heart.

And it ached for her, even now. Despite her often sharp tongue and the wild flame in her green eyes, it was her gentle touch that undid him. That was why, for every victory they made in the South, it was one step closer to getting back to her. Maybe even creating a future beyond this war.

Not that their decimating victory over the Iron Fleet felt much like one when the sea of flame had spanned for miles, burning bodies alive and men screamed and jumped from their ships for even the smallest chance of life.

The fires had even affected their own fleet, claiming ships and crew. But Euron Greyjoy's only defining moment was the iron cannon, more like a harpoon that had aimed for Rhaegal and Drogon. The dragons mostly managed to avoid them, taking flight high into the clouds, but only one of the harpoons had found a mark in Daenerys's ship. It had claimed the lives of several Unsullied, Dothraki, and nearly Tyrion Lannister.

Missandei had also gone down with that vessel and the fires that swallowed it up.

Now Daenerys hardly slept or ate, and her anger, along with her grief grew daily. Jon wouldn't (couldn't) admit his thoughts out loud, but privately he was beginning to worry.

Sensing someone was watching him, Jon opened his eyes and turned to see Varys.

"How is she?" Jon asked.

"Not well," Varys replied. Jon joined Varys in heading back up towards Dragonstone.

"She hasn't accepted any visitors, any food. Hasn't left her chambers in days."

Jon shook his head. "She shouldn't be alone."

"You're worried for her. I admire your empathy," said the Spider. Jon gave a sharper glance at that.

"And you're not?"

"I'm worried for all of us," Varys confessed. "They say every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin, and the world holds its breath."

Jon restrained the urge to roll his eyes.

"I'm not much for riddles where I'm from."

Varys leveled him with a look. "Jon, we both know what she's about to do."

Finally, Jon slowed to a stop, planting his feet on the sand before he turned to Varys.

"That's her decision. She's our queen," he reminded, though he had a suspicion of where this was headed.

"Power comes from one of two places," Varys explained. There was a certain resolve in his eyes that gripped Jon. "From the individual, carved out by their ambitions, and by force. Or from the many—as they decide in their hearts whom should rule them."

Jon sighed. "What do you want?"

"What I've always wanted. The right ruler on the Iron Throne."

I'm not certain how her coin has landed, but I'm quite certain about yours.

Varys had always a singular purpose, ever since he'd seen how great power corrupted so resolutely. Especially in the Targaryen line.

He knew that he could not stay in Dragonstone.

He gathered what little he could, and sent one last raven to Dorne. He'd almost told Jon that slip of information he'd gathered (and withheld from the Dragon Queen), but in the end, he'd thought better of it. Even in Jon's hands, that admission would have been too much of a burden. There was no telling whose prying ears could have caught it, even with the cover of the wind.

So, as he was practiced to do, he left in the cover of nightfall before he could be found by Tyrion, Daenerys, or anyone else.

And he disappeared.

"I didn't know the North had once again allied with Ironborn," Addam remarked at breakfast.

Theon said nothing as he ate, but he regarded the Marbrand with a mostly stoic look.

Larisa watched as Martha's lips pursed, then she hid it by offering her cousin a smile.

"Cousin, this is Theon Greyjoy. Have you not met?"

Addam gave Theon a customary nod, but focused his attention on Martha.

"Every time I look at you, I still cannot believe you've grown so beautiful," he remarked. Martha smiled with a light flush to her cheeks. "How have you…adjusted to the North?"

Martha's smile became more reserved. She must have noticed, as Larisa did, the telling shift in Addam's tone. It was no secret that their stay in the North wasn't by choice.

"Sansa has been very kind to me," Martha replied. Larisa knew she meant this, but it still made her want to gag. Sansa was busy at the far right of the table, speaking with Brienne. The Prince of Dorne had yet to grace them with his presence that morning, but Larisa suspected that they would be meeting with him privately soon enough.

"You know, you could have reached out for h—," Addam began, though Larisa noticed the way Elinor gripped her husband's thigh, what looked rather painfully under the table.

A servant arriving with a raven's message for Sansa was able to cover up the way Addam noisily cleared his throat. Martha only looked down at her plate. Larisa shared a brief look with her mother sitting next to her, then turned her attention to Sansa.

Her expression slowly darkened as she read the note. Finally, she looked up at Larisa.

"We must speak to the Prince immediately."

Twenty minutes later, Prince Aldemar received them in one of his council rooms. It was only Larisa and Sansa, Dorna, Brienne and Theon in the room. They all stood around a large round table while the rest of the room was mostly bare, save for a collection of books and maps along the back wall.

"As I said, Daenerys will set fire to more than King's Landing to bend the Seven Kingdoms to her rule," Sansa said.

"She will not accept less than Seven Kingdoms," Larisa added, earning the prince's gaze. She held his scrutiny.

"How do you know she will set fire to King's Landing?" he asked.

"Likely you've received the reports as we have. Daenerys was ambushed at Dragonstone by the Iron Fleet," she replied. "She burned them all to ash."

"One of her dragons was weakened, and one of her key supporters is dead. You can bet she will retaliate against Cersei with full force," Sansa said. According to the message, this time addressed by Varys, of all people, Rhaegal's injuries sustained during the Long Night had slowed him enough to be grazed by Euron Greyjoy's new weapon. While he still lived, Missandei's death, so shortly after Grey Worm and Jorah Mormont, was taking its toll on her mental state.

"Again, tell me why I should intervene?" Aldemar gave them a sardonic look.

"If you want Dorne to be free, don't hold your breath," Sansa quipped. "When she's done with King's Landing, she'll go west and south next."

"And what of Jon Snow?" Aldemar asked. "You claim she will turn on him, but as of yet, he still supports her as well. She still counts him as an ally."

The room fell silent for a moment, tense and uncertain.

Larisa looked up at Aldemar, her eyes honest and grave. "It's only a matter of time. When she gets what she wants, she won't allow a threat to her claim on the Iron Throne."

Aldemar seemed to consider this. Eventually, however, he sighed deeply.

"I understand what you're saying," he said. "While I can't deny that opposing both Cersei and Daenerys is appealing for me personally, for my family…for the good of my country, the risk is far too great."

Larisa's heart felt as if it fell into her stomach. Panic rising in her throat, she looked to Sansa, who seemed similarly thrown and irritated. She turned her growingly desperate gaze to her mother.

Dorna's lips were pressed together in a flat line, but just as she opened her mouth to speak, an attendant came through the door to arrive swiftly at the prince's side.

"Your guest has returned," Larisa heard him say.

Before she could censure herself, she muttered, "What, another one?"

"Impeccable timing, as always," Aldemar said. He appeared slightly exasperated, but resigned. "No doubt he will have something interesting to say on the matter. Might as well send him in."

Larisa found that suspicious. Her gaze traveled to her mother, who wore a strangely annoyed look on her face. She said nothing, even as the council room door soon opened once again.

From his graying hair, to his sleek embroidered clothing, and that conniving smirk. Larisa knew his face in an instant, no matter how quickly he bowed before the prince. And from a glance at Sansa, she knew it too, despite how impossible it seemed.

The dead weren't supposed to revive. Not anymore, at least.

"Lord Baelish," the prince greeted. "Welcome back."