Rowena Baratheon reached up, gently touching the marbled stone.  The Black Wall of Volantis was an oval of fused stone surrounding the Old City.  It stood two-hundred feet tall and was wide enough to accommodate six four-horse chariots riding abreast on its ramparts.  Only those of old Valyrian blood were allowed within the Black Wall—or those invited by those of Old Blood.  Rowena, born across the Narrow Sea, fell into the latter category.

     “The darker parts are almost the same color as your hair,” Aemond said in high Valyrian.

     Rowena, her hair sweeping across her shoulder, gave Aemond a wide smile and answered in his language.   “The stone’s so smooth,” she said, running her hand along the colossal wall.  “How did it get like that?”

     “Dragonfire,” Aemond said.  “Back in the days of Old Valyria.”

     He would know, she supposed.  Aemond Maegyr had been born to one of the oldest Valyrian families of Volantis.  If Rowena hadn't befriended him, she'd be just another Westerosi outcast, unable to step within the boundaries of the Black Wall.  Fighting the urge to wipe sweat from her brow, she allowed her fingers to linger on the black stone.  Volantis was a wet hot, unlike anything to which she was accustomed.  The very air felt like a dragon's hot breath blowing on her neck.  “Funny,” she said, without thinking.

     “What?”

     “Legend has it, House Baratheon was founded by Orys Baratheon, the half-brother of Aegon Targaryen; who slayed the Storm King, Argilac Durrendon, in single combat; and then married the dead king's daughter, Argella Durrendon.  They say Lord Orys helped the Targaryens and their dragons conquer Westeros.  So, like this wall, my family was forged in dragonfire.” Rowena stepped back and looked up, squinting under the bright sun.  The Black Wall was taller than any construct she'd ever seen.  It had to be twice as high as the massive outer curtain wall at her family's ancestral castle, Storm's End.

     The only thing she knew that was taller was the Wall separating the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros from the wild lands to its north, which was said to be as tall as three Black Walls.  She had never seen the Wall of Westeros, but there was something about this fused black stone that was wondrous in ways she imagined a wall of ice could not be.  “For centuries,” she said, “Targaryens and Baratheons were friends, allies, even family.  Until eighteen years ago, after my cousin, Robert, rebelled against Targaryean rule when my second cousin, Rhaegar, kidnapped his betrothed.”

     “Only now, Robert is dead,” Aemond said.  “And Westeros is in chaos.”

     “Robert, First of his Name,” Rowena said, turning toward Aemond and wiping sweat from her brow.  “He was always good to me when we visited.” She pushed a long strand of straight hair behind an ear.  Though, truth be told, I always felt there was a hint of lust behind his courtesy.”

     “They say your King Robert left bastards in every town and village he ever visited.”

     Rowena's dark eyebrows arched upward.  “In this case, the words might be somewhat more than wind.”

     Aemond laughed.

     Rowena did not.  “But it’s also somewhat of a sore subject,” she said, walking past him.

     Aemond gritted his teeth.  He should have known better than to mention Robert's bastards.  Rowena had told him that assassins had begun hunting down King Robert's illegitimate children once rumors emerged that the Lannister Queen had cuckolded him.  “Sorry,” Aemond said, hurrying to catch up with her.

     Ostensibly turning to face Aemond, Rowena walked backward for a moment, eyes shifting left to right.  While monstrous, the murder of her little bastard cousins wasn't her foremost concern.  Even across the Narrow Sea, in the company of those of old Valyrian blood, she never truly felt safe.  People still whispered about the assassination of Robert’s brother, Renly Baratheon.  She’d be willing to wager a gold dragon it had been Queen Cersei; though some said Renly's brother, Stannis Baratheon, had committed the act—either alone or in conjunction with the red witch, Melisandre of Asshai.  In Volantis, where faith in the Red God was the dominant religion, the gossipers blamed the Queen.  In the end, it made little difference, her first cousins Robert and Renly were dead.  What did it matter who killed them?  They were gone.

     “But why does Cersei care?  Aemond said, careful not to name Cersei queen.  “Bastards in Westeros don't inherit, do they?”

     Rowena sidestepped a man with a fly tattooed on his cheek, pushing a wheelbarrow of dung.  “You know they don't.”

     Aemond stepped closer to her, his voice low.  “Well, since Robert left no legitimate children, and Stannis has only the one daughter...”

     “Shireen.”

     “Then you're next in line for the Iron Throne, right?”

     Rowena stopped walking.  Aemond was the fourth son of one of the Triarchs of Volantis.  Although Volantene leaders were elected, older sons were given preference, as in Westeros.  She sensed a bit of his own frustrated ambition in the question.  Looking at his smiling face, she could see the question had been innocent.  The kind of innocence that only someone untouched by tragedy could exhibit.

     “According to Stannis: my cousin's closest friend, Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, was murdered for trying to help Robert free himself from House Lannister—as was John Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, before him.  Now, Eddard's sons have all been killed in what they call the War of the Five Kings, and Lord Arryn’s wife, Lysa, was also recently murdered.  My cousin, Stannis, the only one of Lord Steffon Baratheon's children yet to live, has fled to the North after his forces were routed at the Battle of the Blackwater at the hands of the combined Lannister and Tyrell forces.  Ironmen prowl the Western coast and Riverlands; though, rumor has it, their Lord Greyjoy was thrown to his death in the sea.  So, what, pray tell, is there for me in Westeros?  Yes, I am second in line to inherit my House—and maybe even the Iron Throne—but I have my hands full avoiding the Queen's assassins here in Essos.  Imagine if I returned to Westeros to claim my birthright!”

     Aemond's smile died.

     “I have a small bit of land outside the city, which good slaves work.  We sell just enough of those sweet beets that you Volantenes love with every meal to make a small profit.  And, from time to time”—she took Aemond’s hands, their sweaty palms meshing, and pulled him into a twirling dance step—“I am an honored guest of some of Volantis' finest gentlemen, allowed to walk within the walled-off Old City.”

     “Gentle-men?” Aemond asked—his smile returned—as he gracefully joined her impromptu dance.

     Rowena laughed loudly.  “Rather, the grace and courtesy of the noble Aemond Maegyr,” she said.

     Two passing city guardsmen, tattooed tiger stripes on their cheeks, gave them odd, but deferential looks.  Rowena ignored them.  After a few more steps, she pulled away from Aemond.

     “You don't have to stay outside the city,” Aemond said.  He left the rest unsaid.

     Rowena bit off a laugh as she started walking again.  She mock-pouted at him.  “But for such a noble as you to involve yourself, more…permanently…with a Westerosi barbarian.  What would your parents say?”

     Aemond fell in next to Rowena, looking at her high cheekbones and straight, short nose.  A slight, hot wind blew her hair back.  “My older sister, Talisa, ran off to Westeros.  She said she could no longer stand the very concept of slaves.”

     “Are not nine out of every ten Volantenes slaves?” Rowena asked without looking at Aemond.

     “Yes,” he said, a little too eagerly.  “But after one saved me from drowning when I was a boy, she just couldn't take it.  As soon as she came the age of majority, she left Volantis.”

     “Slaves are illegal in Westeros.  One of my dearest friends had her uncle exiled after he sold poachers to a Tyroshi slaver.” Rowena frowned.  “So, I’m somewhat uncomfortable with owning slaves.  But, given my situation, I had little choice.  Elsewise I'd just be hemorrhaging gold.”

     “Sensible,” Aemond said.  “An old Valyrian practice, really.  And we both have Valyrian blood.  The Maegyr family on my part, and for you, what'd you say...?”

     “Like King Robert, my grandmother was Rhaelle Targaryen.  My father, Palamar, was Lord Steffon's younger brother.”

     “Yes,” Aemond said.  “A bit of dragon in you.”

     “True,” Rowena said, but she was still thinking about her slaves.  The young Baratheon pulled a gold coin from an inner fold in her pants.  “Honors” they were called in Volantis.  On one side a crown, on the other a death's head.  It was for these that she owned slaves.  Years ago, when her father passed away, Rowena and her mother had moved into Storm's End, under Robert's good graces.  She had been nine when Robert started his rebellion against the crown.  Stannis went off to war with him, and she had been tasked with watching over Renly, who was only four at the time.  He was a good boy, who, a year later, with the spoils of war being divided, had been granted Storm's End as his own.  But now, with both Robert and Renly dead, Storm’s End under siege, and Stannis fighting a new war, her travels had ceased being funded.  She wasn't sure if House Baratheon expected her to return, but she had no plans to do so.

     Rowena had come to Essos to become her own woman, to be in a place away from family, contacts, and influence.  Which was good and well for traveling.  But when she became a de facto exile, it had all worked against her.  With no ancestral lands, she had limited choices: sell her skills as a mercenary, partake in the commerce of Essos, or use her money to buy others to work for her.  She had been a mercenary for a while, but the life expectancy of those in that line of work was short.  And she had no experience in merchanting.  So, while ending up a slaveowner may not have been the most honorable choice, it was the most likely to end up making her money while leaving her in one piece.

     She looked up at Aemond.  He was still going on about the Old Blood of Valyria.  She let the Honor dance across her knuckles, then bumped it off into a passing fountain for luck.

*          *          *

     As much as she enjoyed Aemond's company, Rowena had decided to ride to Northern Gables, the bland name she had chosen for her small beet farm outside Volantis.  Common enough words, but ones that reminded her of home.  In Westeros, Rowena had been known as the “Northern Storm.” Over the years, many Baratheons had been given nicknames involving the word “Storm,” as an homage to both their ancestral home, Storm’s End, and their role in the Age of Conquest in overthrowing (and marrying into the lineage of) the Storm King.  Her cousin Robert, upon learning that she had been warded in the North, had jokingly referred to her as the Northern Storm.  Some of the household servants had overheard the conversation, and thereafter the name had stuck.

     But Rowena no longer had servants in her home; she had slaves.

     A teenage girl, with a horse tattooed on her cheek, met Rowena as she rode up on her black stallion.  “Didn' expect ya back tonight,” the slave girl said, pushing short, sweaty brown hair behind her ear.

     “I needed some time to myself,” Rowena said.  Handing the girl the reins, Rowena left the care of the horse to her slave.  Alone, she thought, as she walked toward the manor.  Alone in a home full of slaves.

     But this was the hand dealt to her.  When Rowena arrived in Volantis, she had just completed a tour of duty in the Disputed Lands with a sellsword company called the Ragged Standard.  She had only intended to stop briefly in the city, to rejuvenate, while finding a ship home.  But that was when she learned that John Arryn was dead, King Robert had summoned Eddard Stark to King's Landing to assume the role of the King’s Hand, and that Lord Stark had allegedly betrayed Robert.  If Rowena knew anything, she knew that tale was false.  If her cousin had a true brother, it was Eddard Stark—not Stannis or Renly.  Yet, by the time Rowena had booked travel back to Westeros, all of Robert, Eddard, and Renly were dead, and every man, woman, and child in Volantis was shamelessly gossiping about Stannis' declaration that Queen Cersei's children were bastards born of incest.  It wasn't long thereafter that she heard rumors of Robert's natural children disappearing.  So Rowena had stayed in Volantis.

     A bald, dark-skinned slave, with a small house tattooed on his cheek held the manor door open.  She handed him her riding gloves.  “Donnel,” she said, nodding her head.

     “Mistress,” he replied.

     Rowena walked through the open door without another word.

     “Will you be eating?” she heard from behind her.

     Rowena turned to the house slave.  “Just some wine.  And a wet towel.”

     Rowena walked through the foyer, past the library on the west side of the house, and into her solar.  There, she opened the curtains to the night.  This far outside Volantis, the stars shone bright.  Especially on a moonless night like this.

     By the time she had pulled a chair to the window and opened it to let the warm breeze blow through the house, Donnel had returned with a glass of red wine and a cool, wet, towel.  After he set both on a small side table, she dismissed him with a curt nod.  Even with the sun down, the heat was oppressive.  At Storm's End, she had been used to cool humidity, even in the summer, but it was nothing like the constant wet heat of Volantis.  She pressed the towel to her face, breathing through its cold dampness for several long breaths before wiping away the dirt from her ride.  Done, she dropped the towel on the small side table next to the glass of wine.

     Picking up the glass, Rowena swirled the wine and sniffed the complex bouquet.  She rather enjoyed Volantene wine—especially those to which Aemond had introduced to her.  Volantenes made a sweeter wine than most Westerosi varietals.  Dornish wine, so well liked across the Narrow Sea, was too sour for her tastes; and while the Arbor reds were excellent, they were a bit dry.  In this particular vintage, she tasted flavors of blackberry or black cherry along with thick layers of spice: an extraordinary flavor.

     As Rowena savored the wine, she closed her eyes and let the warm night air flow over her.  She thought for the hundredth time, what would cousin Robert say about my little beet farm?  She knew what she would say to him: what choice did I have?  Rowena's mother had passed away in the last year, in part from the stress of war and Storm's End being under multiple sieges; but her mother, born Desmera Karstark, had plenty of reasons to die of a broken heart as well.  Her brother had been executed by Robb Stark before he, in turn, was betrayed and killed at the Red Wedding. Even before that, two of her nephews had died during the war, with the third—the heir of Karstark—held captive by the Lannisters.  And that was to say nothing of her troublemaker daughter.

     Maybe it had been because of her mother that Rowena had wanted to be warded in the North.  Aemond hadn't understood why it was unusual for her having been sent to live with another noble family for several years.  “Don't they do that all the time in Westeros?” he had asked.

     “Yes,” Rowena had told him.  “With young boys.  Less so with young girls.  Unless they are hostages.”

     “You weren’t a hostage, were you?” he had asked.

     “No.”

     “But your parents sent you away?”

     “I made them.  It helped that I convinced my cousin, Robert, to persuade them.  You see, he was still in the prime of his years then, and his best friend, Ned Stark, was Overlord of the North.  So when I pointed out that the women of Bear Island—part of Lord Stark's territory—were just as fierce of warriors as their men, Robert laughed that hearty laugh of his and told my father to make it so.”

     “What makes the women of Bear Island different from other women?” Aemond had asked.

     “Their island used to belong to the Ironborn, a bunch of thieving, raping pirates.  So they have learned over the years to be ready to fight without the usual warning signs of war.”

     Aemond had laughed.  “And this is where you wanted to go?”

     Rowena had laughed too.  “I wasn't looking to get assaulted, no.  But I wanted to be a warrior.  I knew that wearing pretty dresses and popping out little lords wasn't for me.”

     “Did you find what you were looking for?”

     “Yes,” Rowena had told Aemond.

     And she had.  At the time, Bear Island had been ruled by Jeor Mormont.  His sister, Maege, had a daughter, Dacey, who was only three years younger than Rowena.  Together, the twelve-year-old Rowena Baratheon and nine-year-old Dacey Mormont were fearless: learning how to fight, fish, and, eventually, fuck.  Four years later, the teenage girls had even been allowed to follow Jeor and his son, Jorah, off to war with Robert and Eddard's forces during the Greyjoy Rebellion.  Rowena and Dacey had not been allowed to fight, but had sat in on Jeor's war counsels and helped the Mormont men ready for battle.  She wouldn't learn of it until months later, but her only brother, Mychel, had died islands away, fighting with their cousin, Stannis.  At the time, she and Dacey had been enthralled with all the men in their shining armor.

     But that had been then.

     Rowena took another sip of wine.  When she had been debating what to do about the decimation of her family, and whether to join Stannis—when it looked like it was impossible for Stannis to defeat his foes—she had received a letter from Dacey, asking her to join Robb Stark, who had declared himself King of the North.  That invitation, however, died when Dacey got an axe in the stomach during the Red Wedding.

     Almost more surprised than disappointed or mad, Rowena looked at her suddenly empty glass like it had wronged her.  As her grip tightened along the stem of the glass, she realized she was breathing heavily.  With a sudden fury, she hurled the wine glass at the wall and it exploded into a hundred pieces.  Rowena dropped her head into her hands and began to sob.  What was left for her in Westeros?  Stannis and Shireen were the only Baratheons left, and the Starks, Mormonts, and Karstarks had all but been wiped out.  The Stormlands were under siege and the North was in chaos.  What reason was there for her to ever return?

     Rowena ran her hands through her long, black hair.  Exhaling slowly, she puffed her cheeks out.  She turned to call Donnel to sweep up the broken glass when she saw a strange man standing in the doorway, garbed in a grey linen cloak, a dagger in his hand.  The man froze.  He obviously had been trying to sneak up on her.  An assassin from the Bastard King?

     Rowena swung out of her chair and assumed a battle stance.  Did the assassin know she could fight?  Did it matter?

     The man took two quick steps forward and thrust his dagger at her chest.  Rowena was quicker: darting at him diagonally, surprising him by meeting his advance, and stepping past the incoming dagger.  She locked her arm over his, mashed her other palm into his shoulder, then pulled his arm across the socket at an angle it was not meant to transverse.  Rowena heard bones crack.  The man screamed, then fell to his knees.

     The knife rattled to the ground, but she didn't bother with it.  Instead, she slid behind the man and took his chin in one hand and the back of his head in the other and twisted.  With a final crack, the man fell limp to the ground, dead.

     Hearing footsteps approaching the solar, she dropped into a crouch and reached for the fallen dagger, ready to throw at whoever came next.  But it was only Donnel.  Rowena breathed a sigh of relief, and sat.  A good house slave was expensive.  “Call Raul,” she said.  “Have him check the rest of the house for intruders, then search the near perimeter.  Only then should he expand his search outward to the rest of the grounds.  Have the hands light torches and keep the property as well-lit as possible while he conducts his search.” She flipped her grip on the knife from the blade to the hilt.

     Donnel, wide-eyed, simply nodded and disappeared.

     Rowena's jaw tightened.  This assassin likely cost next to nothing.  The Lannisters shat enough gold to pay for hundreds of such fools—no doubt accompanied by promises of lordship if they succeeded.  But send enough fools and one of them was eventually bound to get lucky.  Rowena sprung to her feet and upended the chair in which she had been sitting only moments prior.  Her knuckles were white around the dagger that was still in her hand, and her breaths were coming fast.  She closed her eyes and focused on those breaths, fighting to slow the in and out flow of air.

     After a moment, Rowena opened her eyes and looked down at the dead intruder.  Absently, she twirled the hilt of the dagger through her fingers.  The man’s clothes were ordinary.  She knelt next to him and cut the seams of his cloak, before removing it from around him.  He had no tattoos that she could see.  He had a pouch with a few Honors in it.  She took off the man's boots and shook them out.  Nothing.

     Raul entered the solar.  He wore a simple leather vest over a leather kilt.  He had a tattoo of a scimitar curved around his broad cheek, and his arms were covered in tattoos of various weapons, testifying to his proficiency with each one.  “You are okay, Mistress?”

     “Fine,” she said.  “The house.”

     Raul nodded and ran off to search the manor.  Donnel stepped into the doorway where Raul had been.

     “Get something to clean this broken glass,” she said evenly.

     Then she turned back to the body beneath her.  Rowena went through the man's pockets and even felt around and under his garments, looking for something, anything, that would confirm his identity or who had sent him.

     Donnel returned with a small brush and dustpan and began cleaning up the glass.

     “When you're done with that, bring me a washing bowl,” Rowena said, grimacing as she smelled her hands.  Quiet the man may have been, but clean, he was not.  He'd been lucky the wind was blowing into the room, not sucking out, or she might have caught his scent as he approached.  Suddenly, she regretted running her hands all over his under areas in search of clues.

     Rowena pulled the man’s cloak over him, looking it over.  She ran her hands along the fabric, testing the seams for pockets.  There it was.  A hidden pocket, with only the thinnest of bulges to give away that something was inside it.  Rowena turned the cloak over as Donnel returned.  He stood there, holding the bowl.

     Rowena reached into the small, hidden, pocket as the outside door banged shut.  She hoped that meant Raul was heading out, having cleared the house.  Rowena pulled a small note out of the pocket.  It was a ticket for passage aboard the Dornish Maiden.  That was unexpected.  Was it just a coincidence, or had the assassin been Dornish?  Her father had once considered sending her to Dorne to spend time with Arianne Martell, the heir of Dorne, but after Robert's Rebellion—during which the Lannisters had slaughtered Princess Elia Martell and her Targaryen children for Robert—that had no longer been an option.  Dorne had been a hostile place to Baratheons, Lannisters, and Starks ever since.  It was said that only John Arryn of the Vale had been able to broker the final peace with Dorne after Robert's Rebellion.

     Rowena stood and washed her hands in the bowl that Donnel still held.  Maybe she should have stayed the night in Old Volantis.  As it was, Rowena had no choice but to return there immediately.  This wasn't the job for a thief in the night—which she wasn't—or a lone warrior—which she may have been; what she needed was the official right that privilege conferred to investigate this ship.  She needed Aemond Maegyr.

*          *          *

     Rowena had looked long and hard at her green silks, fine shoes, and golden brocade cape; ultimately, though, she had decided to don armor.  Ours Is The Fury was the motto of her family.  But wearing the colors of House Baratheon and donning a black stag brooch would have painted a target on her.  Nor would a dress do, not on a ship.  So she had ordered Donnel to remove her formal dress and had him send in Raul to help her don her armor.  Now, as he slipped a fitted sleeveless brown leather armor over her chest, pulling it over a black steel gorget, she chuckled at how different this old Valyrian city was.  Volantene modesty was as strong as Westerosi modesty, but did not apply to slaves.

     At Storm's End, her lady mother would have thought nothing of being helped from a bath by female servants, but it would have been scandalous had male servants toweled her off.  Here, where slaves were not considered people, Volantenes thought nothing of being dressed by house-servants of either sex.  Whether most slaves did not dare sly sideways stares, or their masters never registered the slave's lascivious looks, she did not know.  But when Raul helped her step into her brown leather pants, his eyes lingered over long on her smooth, pink legs.  He had even dared catch her eyes as he slipped on her black leather boots.  “Keep your eyes on your business,” she said softly, but sharply.  His eyes darted away to the next piece of armor.  Had it been a mistake to accost him in the stables and force herself on him?  It had been part loneliness, but part curiosity.  Were they really hers to do with as she pleased?  If that had been any indication, they were.  But if it were to happen again, it would only be at her whim.  Perhaps she should take one of the hands so Raul would not think himself special.

     After the last buckle on the leather armor was fastened, Raul handed her a pair of black steel gauntlets.  Rowena drew them on over sweaty palms.  Damn this Volantine heat.  Even Autumn here is uncomfortably hot.  Raul, eyes down, pulled a gold belt around her and fastened it tight.  Rowena flexed her arms and twisted back and forth, testing her mobility.  Accepting a mace from Raul's outstretched hands, she attached a thong at its base to a clip on the side of her belt.  Turning, she glanced at herself in a tall mirror.  Her raiment seemed nondescript enough for Volantis, yet of obvious enough quality to scare off the riff-raff.  She nodded at Raul, who withdrew.  Rowena chose not to wear a helmet, instead drawing her hair behind her in a half-ponytail, so it wouldn't be in her way.  Even then, she still had to fight off every wrong instinct in her that wanted to wear that damn Baratheon brooch.

     After a brisk ride and hurried explanations, she stood up the dock from the Dornish Maiden with Aemond Maegyr.  They were accompanied by a host of city guards, each with tiger stripes tattooed on their cheeks.  Imaginatively, the Volantenes called them Tiger Cloaks.  Slowly, Rowena clenched and unclenched her fists.  Aemond had instructed a pair of guards to remain at the base of the dock, where it met the shore, but the bulk of the city guards had boarded the Westerosi carrack.  The crew members that hadn't gone on shore leave lined up halfway down the dock, watched by several other Tiger Cloaks.

     Rowena was eager to board the vessel, but knew her association with Aemond meant that the Tiger Cloaks had to clear the path first.  Fourth son or not, if the slave-soldiers let the Triarch's son come to any harm it would be their lives.  Next to Aemond, in his fine dress, she probably looked no better than a sellsword sworn to his service; but even still, the Tiger Cloaks weren't going to risk her ending up with a dagger in the back either.

     The last man dragged off the Dornish Maiden by the Tiger Cloaks was grumbling about the treatment of his ship.  Rowena figured he had to be the captain, as the rest had been wide-eyed and silent.  She stalked up to him at the mid-point in the dock, fury in her eyes.  “What's your name?” she asked in the common tongue.

     The captain was a thick man, with olive skin, who she marked as a Sandy Dornishman.  He frowned before answering.  “Joffar Wells.”

     Rowena vaguely remembered Wells was a Dornish name.  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Aemond had followed her.  “What are you doing here?” she asked the captain.

     “We are wine traders, my—my lady.”

     Apparently, he figured Rowena was someone important based on the phalanx of Tiger Cloaks, but wasn't sure exactly what her title was.  “My Lady” would suffice.

     The man was sweating like a pig, and Rowena didn't think it was just the hot Volantene night.

     Rowena waved to a pair of guards that were hanging back, ashore, with a simple litter.  Seeing the signal, the two men approached with a sling stretched by two opposing poles, carrying the assassin’s corpse.  Rowena turned back to Captain Wells.  His face, drenched in sweat, had gone pale.

     “You know him?” Rowena asked.

     The Captain looked from her, to Aemond, to the Tiger Cloaks.  Every urge in him that wanted to defy her wilted.  “He booked passage from King's Landing, my lady.  We were overfull from Sunspear, intending to sell some Dornish wine in King's Landing, and then to continue here to Volantis.  He said he would keep to himself, required little space, and would pay us to ask no questions.” The man wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

     “And so you took this assassin on?” Rowena asked.

     “We had no idea what his business was, my lady.  I swear!”

     Apparently, something in her calm fury had struck a nerve with him.  “But he booked return passage?”

     “We were to depart for King's Landing in the morning.”

     “Assuming any of you live to the morning,” Rowena said evenly.

     Behind her, she heard Aemond suck in his breath.  A few of the guards behind Captain Wells gave her a quick look, but they were too well-trained to say anything.  To the contrary, their grips tightened on their weapons, in case Rowena's proclamation spooked any of the crew.

     Captain Wells squirmed, but was too proud to beg.  “I would think you have no cause for such drastic measures,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.  He again wiped sweat from his brow.

     “We'll see about that.” Rowena walked past the captain and down the dock toward the vessel.  The Tiger Cloak stationed at the foot of the gangplank nodded at her and stepped aside to allow her to board.

     “Where did he stay?” she heard Aemond ask the Captain.

     “He just kept a locked chest in the aft deck and slept on the deck.  He had no quarters.”

     Rowena grinned.  The oppressive wet heat wasn't helping her foul mood, she had been too impatient; but Aemond had cut to the quick.  She marched to the back of the ship, climbing up a ladder to the aft deck, and then up a few more steps to get to the platform at the stern.  Sure enough, a simple wooden chest sat under a small sealskin tarp, presumably to shield it from rainfall or stormwash.

     Rowena pulled a dirk out of a metal sheath on her gauntlet and sliced the tarp open.  Kneeling down, she saw a thick lock on the latch.  It looked like it could take a beating, enough to deter most would-be thieves.  Even still, for a moment, she wanted nothing more than to bash it open with her mace.  But there were better ways.  Ways that proper noble women wouldn't know.

     She waived off the closest Tiger Cloak, who stood on the edge of the stern platform.  He looked to Aemond, who nodded.  Obediently, the Tiger Cloak stepped down to the lower platform, near the ladder they had climbed to get there, and turned his back to her.  Volantene slaves understood discretion when it was asked of them.  As Aemond approached, Rowena put the dirk back in its gauntlet sheath.

     She pulled two picks out of her belt buckle, one straight and one curved.  “Sorry, my lord,” she said absently.  “This calls for decidedly improper means.”

     Aemond laughed softly.  “You know I love how improper you are.”

     Rowena wasn't one for sneaking or stealing, but as a young girl, unable to train with weapons like her brother, she had taught herself to get into places she wasn't supposed to go to satisfy her curiosity.  From time to time, those self-taught skills were useful.  With a quick poke, wiggle, and turn, the tools did their job and the lock clicked open.  Rowena slipped the lock out the latch and dropped it to the deck.  Putting away her lockpicks, she took a deep breath.  With tingles running up her arms, Rowena opened the chest.

     Clothes.  She wasn't sure what she had expected.  The banner of House Martell?  Dragon eggs?  She pulled the clothes out, one by one, shaking them for any hidden items, before unceremoniously dropping each worthless garment on the deck.

     “Oh ho!” Aemond said beside her.  He leaned in and retrieved a small pouch, shaking it.  It rattled with coins.  He unlaced the pouch and glanced inside.  He whistled sharply as he picked through its contents.  “Mayhap the assassin was paid in advance.”

     “And you thought you'd regret helping me,” Rowena said with a smirk.

     “Some for me, some for you,” Aemond said, “and the rest we leave for the Tiger Cloaks to take back to the watch commander.  What he does with the coin is his business.” He leaned closer.  “Nice thing about slaves is they have no need to try and get a piece.  Makes things much simpler.”

     Rowena turned back to the chest.  The most important thing was what she did not find; she had feared the assassin might have come from Westeros with a map leading to Northern Gables.  If the false-Royals had a map to her beet farm, then she would have had no choice but to sell the property and move.  But if the man learned of her location here, then his knowledge had likely died with him.

     She also found a journal, but it had little more than personal entries: random thoughts, misgivings about a particular whore he had grown fond of in King's Landing, how he tolerated sea travel.  Banalities.  No confessions of his profession.  With that removed, the chest was empty.

     “Well, good haul,” Aemond said.

     Rowena glared at him.  “I want to know who sent him,” she said.  “This flotsam tells us nothing.”

     Aemond just gave her a dumb smile.  

     “What?” she asked.

     “You Baratheons aren't very good with secrets, are you?” Aemond said, shaking his head.

     “What do you mean?” Rowena asked.

     Aemond leaned back and looked at the front of the chest.  Then bent forward, resting his hands on his knees.  He repeated the back and forth lurch before turning to her.  “Look at it,” he said.  “It's not as deep as it is tall.”

     Rowena mimicked Aemond's movements.  He was right.  “A thick base,” she said.

     “You suspect no more from this kind of a man?”

     She made a fist and rapped along the bottom of the chest.  When her gauntleted hand got to the right rear corner her knock hit wood on a loaded spring and a small door opened.  Inside was a folded parchment.  The broken seal around it was the image of the crowned stag and lion, combatant.  The Pretender King's seal.

     “Isn't that—” Aemond began.

     “Not my family seal,” Rowena finished.

     She read the document.  “It's from the Queen Regent,” she said.  “Honorifics, titles, gold.”

     “For a dead Baratheon?”

     Rowena looked up at Aemond and nodded.

     “And the crew?”

     Rowena shrugged, looking past the chest to the dock.

     Beside her, Aemond ran a hand through his loose, brown hair.

     Suddenly, Rowena leapt to her feet, jumped to the landing below, and strode toward the railing.  “Hey,” she snapped at the Tiger Cloaks.  “Bring the corpse up here.”

     She heard the Captain protest, but knew it would do him no good.

     “What are you going to do?” Aemond asked.

     To the nearest Tiger Cloak she said: “get one of your mates and bring up one of the wine casks from the hold.”

     “Yes, my lady,” the city guardsmen said.

     She turned to Aemond.  “Do what you want with the coin.  Then toss the man's clothes into one of the braziers around here.  Give them to your Red God.”

     “And the journal?”

     “To the flames.  I want no record of this man's existence.”

     By the time she was done with Aemond, two of the Tiger Cloaks had brought up a large cask of wine.  Another pair of soldier-slaves had brought the dead assassin aboard and had set the litter on the deck of the carrack.  The captain had followed them when he saw the wine barrel.

     “You can't!” he said.  “That is our property.”

     “Would you rather be arrested for abetting an assassin?” Rowena asked.

     The Captain bit off his retort.

     “Stand it up,” Rowena said to the two guards standing by the wine barrel.  She turned to the Captain.  “Open it.”

     “My tools,” Wells stuttered.

     “Get them before I lose my patience,” Rowena said.

     Captain Wells looked between the guards and, after ascertaining that they would not stop him, ran to the foredeck to get a hammer and bar.  “You’ll spoil the wine,” he said on his return, in a last attempt to get Rowena to change her mind.

     Rowena laughed loudly.  “Don't worry about that, Dornish.  This cask is going to be a gift for the Queen.”

     The Captain's eyebrows arched and his head tilted.

     “Open it,” she commanded.

     The captain complied.

     Rowena gestured to the two Tiger Cloaks by the litter.  “Put the corpse in the wine barrel,” she said.  “It'll keep his body preserved for the trip back to Westeros.”

     The Two Tiger cloaks tried to hide slight smiles as they obeyed.  Red wine splashed out of the barrel as the corpse displaced it.

     “Bring the crew back aboard, and see that none of these men leave before the ship departs.  Keep it under guard until the rest of the crew returns and the vessel is safely away.”

     The Tiger Cloaks looked to Aemond, who nodded.

     Rowena pulled off one of her gauntlets and cupped a bare hand into the overflowing wine.  She leaned over and sipped from the wine in her palm as it spilled over her hand onto the deck.  “Seven Hells!” she said.  “That's damn fine wine.” She gestured at the city guards, but each shook their heads.  She laughed.  Slaves.  So different than fighting with men.  She cupped her hand and pulled another draw of wine out.

     “R'hllor save me,” Aemond cursed behind her.  “You're drinking out of the gods-cursed wine cask that is storing the corpse of the man sent to kill you.”

     “It's not like his foulness corrupted the wine in the few seconds it's been there,” she said.  “Besides, it's a fantastic vintage.  Probably from some vineyard on the East Side.  Inside the Black Wall.”

     “I've plenty more at my quarters,” Aemond said.  “Without the corpsification.”

     Rowena laughed once; it was more of an acknowledgment of his statement than an expression of any mirth.  Under her armor, she was drenched in sweat.  But it hardly bothered her.  Maybe she was getting used to the Volantene heat.  She slapped her palm in the wine, splashing the ship's captain.  “Deal,” she said.  Then, glaring at Captain Wells out the tops of her eyes, she said, “Seal it up.”

     The captain complied.

     “And I mean it,” she said softly.  “You will, Captain Wells, deliver this cask to Queen Cersei and tell her that Rowena Baratheon declines her gift.”

     The Captain nodded once.

     Rowena walked off the ship, thinking only of more wine, trying to forget that her cousin's treacherous wife had ordered her assassination.

     Behind her, Aemond signaled to the Tiger Cloaks to clear the ship.  She heard him order them to dispose of the assassin's clothes and, once the ship was away, to take the almost empty crate with the half-empty pouch to the watch commander.

     Rowena kept walking.  Down the gangway.  Back up the dock.  She needed more wine.

     Somewhere behind her she heard a sizzle as the assassin’s clothes were deposited into one of the flaming braziers that lit the docks.

     Just one glass of proper wine.

*          *          *

     Rowena lifted her head off of the pillow.  Aemond's arm was draped over her naked chest.  Her head was throbbing.  She rolled out of his grasp and sat on the edge of the bed.  Resting her elbows on her knees, Rowena gently rubbed her temples.

     After a moment, she crossed the marble floor to a table by the window, where painful shards of light stole past the heavy drapes.  On the table was a flagon of wine.  She poured herself a glass of Volantene red, sipping it gingerly.  A little to take the bite off.  She had heard it was how King Robert rose on most mornings; but she also pictured her cousin, Stannis, frowning at her (such a serious, stubborn, and unforgiving man).  Would Stannis welcome her if she returned to Westeros?  Or were they rivals?  Did he think her a traitor for secreting herself away in Essos?  She was as capable of fighting as any Baratheon.  If she so chose.  She took another sip of wine.

     Her armor, strewn in pieces along the marble floor, caught her eye.  She glanced back at the bed, at Aemond half covered by silk sheets, wiry muscles visible in his arms and back.  Her uncle, Lord Steffon Baratheon, had died on the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay, so close to home, after having been dispatched to find a potential bride for Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in Essos.  Once, the fourth son of a Volantene Triarch might have been an excellent match for the only surviving child of a lesser branch of House Baratheon.  Now, they just passed time with each other.  Him, probably looking for something better; her, always unsure how to proceed.  Sometimes she told herself she could be happy with her little beet farm and good slaves to work it.  But then she would see her armor, or a weapon she knew how to use too well, and realize that such a life would eventually bore her to tears.

     It was then that she noticed a note had been left next to the flagon of wine.  She exhaled deeply, then took another small sip.  Afraid of what it might contain, she read the note.

     Shaking her head, she read it again.

     After a third read, Rowena dropped the note, letting it fall through her fingers to the marble floor.  The word from Westeros was that the Imp, Tyrion Lannister—already standing accused of poisoning his young nephew, the false King Joffrey—had murdered his father, Tywin Lannister, and then disappeared along with his forced bride, Sansa Stark.  Sansa, last of the Starks, gone.  Although the loss of two Lannisters was welcome news, Queen Cersei would now be more powerful than ever.  

     Without even realizing she had done it, Rowena had knelt down and picked up her mace.  She looked down at the thick silver rod and its flanged head.  She brought it up and just as quickly brought it down on the table by the window, smashing it to splinters; the flagon of wine fell, where it shattered on the marble floor.  

     “Fires of R'hllor!” Aemond cursed, snapping to a sitting position.  “What are you doing?!”

     Dacey was dead.  Robert and Renly were dead.  Lords Stark and Arryn, and all but two of their legitimate children, were dead.  Her parents were dead. Her only brother was long dead.  The War of the Five Kings was all but done, with three claimants dead and one pretender Baratheon King replaced by another: her false-cousin Tommen.  Stannis sat in the North with the King's Watch, but had already been routed by the crown.  The King’s Watch was said to be led by Ned Stark's bastard, who had taken command after the murder of the Mormont that had been Dacey's uncle, but what was any of that to her?

     “Rowena?”

     Rowena Baratheon glared at Aemond.  His eyes were wide, his short hair wild.  She dropped the mace; it clumped softly onto her leather armor.

     “Northern Storm, indeed,” Aemond said, somehow still possessed of laughter in his eyes.

     She stepped back to the bed and crawled under the silk sheets, running her hands over Aemond's bare chest.  “Tywin Lannister is dead,” she said.  “At his son, the Imp's, hand.”

     Aemond put his hands around Rowena's waist and pulled her close.  “That's good news, right?  Why are you so angry?”

     She ran a finger down the side of his neck.  “Oh, just lamenting the tale of House Baratheon: a tale told by bastards to kings and kings' bastards, full of the sounds of battle and cries of barren fury, which, in the end, signifies nothing.”

     “I didn't know you were a poet,” Aemond said.  He kissed her on the lips.

     Rowena ran a hand through Aemond's hair.  She slowly gyrated her hips.  “Kiss me again,” she said.

     He did.

     She could feel him stiffening under her.

     She reached down and guided him into her.  A good fuck would make the world melt away.

     Just one more fuck.

All Rights Reserved © 08/14/2013

All elements from A Song of Ice and Fire are © George R.R. Martin