(thank u to waffle for ur help writing the harlaw sections!)

Harlaw

It was cold out in the Iron Islands. Cold and wet and rocky. There were beaches that were mostly pebbles, and castles smaller than some of the houses on the mainland.

Ravella Durrandon loved it. It helped that Harlaw was slightly more… normal than some of its neighbours, admittedly, but it was normal in an odd way. Her cousin was part of that. Margaret Harlaw had turned the island into a party since the princess had arrived, and it seemed unlikely to stop. It wasn't like Ravella was complaining. She had felt more at home here than she had at Storm's End in her most recent visits. There was no looming shadow here.

Home felt far away wherever she was, even at Stormhall, but it felt closer than ever here. She let out a sigh, before the elbow of some Harlaw cousin she didn't know the name of broke her from her reverie.

"Sad you don't have enough ale, coz?" the man asked, grinning, before shouting to a servant off in the distance with a clap of his hands. "More drink for the princess!"

She shook her head, but she couldn't help herself from matching his smile. "I was thinking of home," she told him, under the din of music and chatter all about them.

With a laugh, the Harlaw stuck out his tongue. "Think of here, coz! Home's always sad when you're not there. Well, for some of us, it's sad both ways. Y'ever been to the Tower of Glimmering?" he asked.

Ravella hadn't, and told him as much.

There was a moment of thought from the drunken man, before he gave his response. "Don't! It's shite. There's a reason I'm here all the time now. Our shared cousin is a wonderful host," the man said, "and the drink and food isn't half bad either."

Another laugh, this time from the princess. "It's more than not half bad," she agreed. "I'm half tempted to stay for another moon."

"You should! It's nice here. And whatever lands you've got back in the greenlands can take care of themselves, no?" he told her, grabbing the drink from the returning servant and passing it to Ravella. She took it gladly and sipped at it, her sixth drink of the night. It wouldn't be the last.

Looking down the table at Margaret, she nodded. "I think I will," she said, loud enough that her conversation partner could hear her.

"Good! You enjoy your night, coz. I'm off to drag my father to bed, then find a-" he paused. "Mustn't say that before a princess. Take care, eh? I'll be around."

She nodded, before turning back to him and calling out, her voice sharp and commanding. He didn't hesitate to turn, like he was a soldier. "Wait! What's your name, cousin? I should not like to have to ask about every man bearing the Harlaw arms on his chest."

He put his hand to his doublet, as if he was flattered. "A kind gesture, princess. Wex Harlaw. Of the Tower of Glimmering, if there's another by my name floating about here. If you need a man with a steady sword or a full flagon… might want to ask me if I know one," he joked, before slipping off. Ravella laughed again, taking a soft breath in.

Once more she set her gaze on Margaret, and this time it was met. "Lady Margaret," she said, standing with flagon in hand to begin her approach. "I should like to ask you something. You've no need to host more celebrations on my part, I'll ask not for that, but… if you're willing to quarter me here, I'd like to stay a touch longer. I'll not remain overlong, before my company becomes grating, but I have found family I thought was lost to me with the passing of my mother."

There was little family left back in Storm's End, too. Her last conversation with her father, right before she left for Stormhall to rule it, had been less than cordial. They had bickered, traded harsh words, and parted without fanfare. And her relationship with her brother… it wasn't worth speaking on. They knew where they stood. He'd be treated well when she was Queen, of course, given the accomodations he required with his condition… but it would take work for them to be siblings again.

"Willing to quarter you?" The laugh that erupted from Margaret nearly was lost in the din of the feast, even her own children that crawled about her seemed to muffle the barked sound. "Cousin, you are the least grating of my relations, and I've let them eat from my board far longer than they are welcome. You are wel- Edmund put that down or so help me the Storm God will take that new toy axe away!"

The child in question, one that could questionably be identified as Edmund with the muck on his face, giggled like a madman and ran off further into the feast. Margaret ran her fingers through her hair, shaking her head with a long sigh. "Going to be the death of me…" she would mutter before remembering Ravella. "Same threat to you if you bring up such nonsense as not letting you stay here again. You're family Ravella, means these halls are always open to you, even if the Storm God himself tries blowing them down."

Ravella couldn't help but let a laugh slip from her lips as the young boy ran about her, her more humble and reserved demeanour shattering at the sight of her kinfolk enjoying themselves. "It would have been rude for me to assume, cousin, but I appreciate your candour. I shall do my best to make my presence not a burden, though. If there is aught you might need from me, you know I shall provide it."

Her eyes followed Edmund down the hall, watching as he almost clattered into two cavorting nobles - one of whom might have been Wex - before she returned her gaze to Margaret. "And you know the Storm God will do nothing here. I bring a touch of Storm's End wherever I go, and even a sliver of that power… well, I wish him luck. I suppose I should tell my retinue we'll be staying longer, hm?"

"Bloody candour…" Margaret seemed to take great pleasure in the word, rolling it around her mouth in a way that made her smile widen. One of her other children, Oswin by his shaggier hair, was busy squirreling himself between the space Margaret had made between the arm and the chair. "Since you offered, you wouldn't happen to have a few kegs of ale lying about? Lord Myre seems to have a bottom pit where his mouth should be."

"Bottomless Mitt!" Cheered Oswin from his little homemade cubby, as Margaret took the opportunity to roughly ruffle his hair.

"You have the right of it, quite the good luck charm you are!" Oswin squirmed, quickly tiring of his mother's attentions, though Margaret didn't let him escape quite so easily. "Aye, doubt they will mind much. Though, saw one of your knights starting to bet on the finger game, best stop him now before he plays one of the Grey Garden boys, lest you like your knights with fewer fingers.."

Ravella rolled her eyes as the knight was mentioned. She knew exactly which one it was. Ser Lorent had been a gambler back on the mainland, but he'd become twice as bad there on Harlaw. She would have to give him a dressing down once they returned home - or maybe just to the quarters.

"I'll do my best to stop him," the princess swore, offering a smile. "Though I regret to-"

As she started, the doors to the hall swung open. Through them dashed a messenger, a scroll in his hand, that everyone gasped at as they were passed by.

"Letter…" he shouted, "for Princess Ravella Durrandon! For…"

He near enough collapsed as he reached her, falling to a knee and offering the scroll to the raven-haired woman. She took it, and brushed a hand through the messenger's hair. He must have been just a boy. Ten-and-five, maybe? At most.

"Calm, lad," she said, reassuringly. "What-"

It was Roelle's seal.

"Shit," she breathed, cracking it open. Her eyes went wide, and she looked to Margaret as a tear started to form and roll down her cheek.

Bile rose in her throat.

it began,

She passed it to the Lady of Harlaw, silently, and prayed she understood what she had to do.

Margaret stared blankly as Ravella passed the scroll, as if squinting could help decipher the meaning. She had the social awareness to understand that whatever its contents, it was upsetting her cousin, but her young child didn't share that skill as his eyes went wide with excitement. "Oh mama, I can read that for you! I've been practicing!"

What followed was a painstakingly terrible rendition of the letters contents as Oswin attempted to sound out the words, turning to ask what certain words meant. By the end, even Margaret had runny eyes as she struggled to keep her composure in the crowded hall.

"I have to go," Ravella said. "Roelle says I might need stay, but… I can't. I'm sorry, cousin. I… we shall have to postpone those plans we just made, hm?"

There was the shadow of a smile on her lips. It didn't reach her eyes. She wondered what Margaret might think. She wondered if the feast would come to a sudden end. She wondered if they were already crowning the sick boy halfway across the world. She wondered a million things, and a harsher question than them all burnt in her mind that she prayed didn't need answering until she was already gone.

Ravella was thankful when Margaret broke the silence once again.

"You aren't going back alone into that nest of vipers, you're taking a handful of my best men and I won't be hearing anything otherwise." She paused then, nodding. "Our plans shall keep cousin, but I trust you will send us a raven when you arrive?"

Her heart was filled with love for her cousin once the offer was made, and she nodded. "I'll send word. I shan't be returning to Storm's End, just Stormhall, but I know not if even my home is safe. Thank you, cousin."

She took a deep breath. "I'll ensure your men are returned to you, as well. For now, I have to… I have to get going. There's no time to lose. Already… already, what has happened in my absence?" Ravella postulated, but shook her head. It wasn't worth letting the thought infect her mind. With one final goodbye, she was gone, striding out of the hall with a nod to everyone who offered their condolences as her men followed one by one.

Ironman's Bay

It hadn't taken long to ready their belongings for the journey home. Ravella and her retinue had left within the day of the letter's arrival, accompanied by every man that Margaret could spare to send. Wex Harlaw had appointed himself to the guard, too, finding himself inspired by his cousin's resolve and willing to go to war for that inspiration if he had to.

Waves crashed against the hull of the ship as they sailed. She couldn't help but think of her father. What had he been doing? Sailing out in autumn was a foolish task enough without the best of sailors, but in Shipbreaker Bay? Had he been trying to kill himself?

Maybe he had. Ravella found that a terribly grim thought. What could have possessed him to do such a drastic thing? Was the stress of rulership truly so heavy on his shoulders? Maybe so. But he had made it twice as stressful for her, now. Maybe that was why he did it. To curse her once last time for their foolish argument over Stormhall that had severed their relationship for good.

She sat upon the deck of the ship, a Harlaw vessel, leaning up against the bulwark. Did her father sit like this as he died? She found herself full of thoughts about those final moments. They suppressed that thought from the great hall at Harlaw, and she was glad for it.

Would they think her a witch? She had been in the home of the Drowned God, and now her father rested within His watery halls. If they knew how strained things had been, surely those would be the words on the lips of the fools who had chosen Arlan to be king. If they did not… what then would they think? Would they imagine her bereaved? That the journey home across Ironman's Bay had turned her stomach, as she dreamed of her father who she had loved so dearly?

Neither were true. She had not killed her father. Gods, she hadn't wanted him dead. Especially not like this. But she wasn't… sad. Ravella had tried. No doubt those at Harlaw thought she had been. But the tear that had fallen had been caused by a different pain.

That thought was back.

She mourned not her father. No, what she mourned was the loyalty of those she had thought faithful to the rule of law. It was the lives of those who would throw themselves down for the reign of her brother. It was the hope that Arlan and her might one day be siblings again.

It was her crown. It was that she hadn't been there to seize the throne when she should have been. It was that she would have to wait, to build a faction, to plan. Arlan had the advantage.

Ravella couldn't help but chuckle. She knew it drew an eye or two from the sailors, but they no doubt thought she was struggling. And she was. How had the sick boy taken the lead? Embarrassing. It was embarrassing! If Roelle hadn't been there, would she have known in time to even make a single move? Or would she have landed on the shores of Westeros and been thrown into a cell for a treason she hadn't even been given the opportunity to commit?

Standing from her spot on the deck, she nodded to Wex, who emerged from her cabin with a grim expression.

"It's not queenly, coz, but it'll do. Sun's going down. You should get some rest. Like as not we'll be there by dawn. Then it's a quick enough ride from Seagard," the Harlaw told her. "I'll keep watch out here on deck, just in case… well, just in case of anything."

Taking in a soft breath to regain her composure, she gave the man a half-smile. "Thank you, cousin. Have you been to the Riverlands before?" she asked. He shook his head. "It will be nice to show you my home. Perhaps a small boon in these dark times."

Wex smiled back. "It'll be my pleasure. You rest as long as you need, alright? You've had a rough day. Worse comes to worst, we sit in dock for another day and let you light a candle, or whatever it is you Seveners do," he joked, trying to lighten the mood. Ravella held in her laugh, but she let a smile crack.

"You've a lot to learn. Wake me when we arrive, Wex. I shall put on a brave face, no matter how I feel," she promised. Yes, brave and dour. As she had to be.

He nodded, pressing a fist into his chest as a salute. "Aye, Your Grace. Sleep well."

Would she? Or would she dream of storm and sea, of King and Queen, of blood and battle and death? So much death. Just the thought of it caught in her throat as she strode towards the door of her cabin and shut it behind her, plunged into darkness save for a candle beside the bed that flickered with each rise and fall of the vessel.

Another laugh escaped her lips. How prudent that she'd trained for war.