The message from the man claiming Nightsong seemed interesting to Lord Lyonel. There was potential there-- though, through legal channels, it meant supplying a new bannerman to the thieves to the west or starting a war. Neither option seemed particularly palatable. He burnt the message, committing the words to memory, and sat pondering in his solar for some time.

Storm's End was a stifling castle, the thick stone walls trapping enough heat that it was warm even in the depths of winter. The wind and rain that battered the exterior seldom made it inside but for in the worst gales, passing horizontally through the narrow windows. A pair of knights stood without at all hours, the treachery in the Stormlands of late giving Lord Baratheon cause for concern. The stood straight as their lord entered, and followed along as he went up the hall and down the spiraling stairs towards the hall.

Thunder growled from outside, and as he passed windows he heard the spatter of rain on stone. These were the sounds of life in Storm's End.

Word of his new arrangement with the Crown Prince had electrified Storm's End, but none moreso than his son and heir, Ser Robert. Ser Robert was a hulking man, tall and broad and barrel-chested. His clean-shaven face was angular and severe. He was everything his father wasn't. Where Lyonel was subtle, Robert was loud. Where Lyonel eschewed open confrontation, Robert would charge a man. Lyonel seldom drank and was never a womanizer, Robert spent his nights in taverns. Yet, Lyonel could not fault him. Robert was steel, strong and sharp and lethal. If he were to perish before reunification, diplomacy and subterfuge would die with him. Blood would flow, vast amounts.

"Father," Robert greeted, still in riding clothes as he came up from the stables. "The news from King's Landing-- the Essosi is dead and the High Septon arrested for it."

"So soon after his predecessor died?" Lyonel asked, mulling this over. Varelos of Myr would have been a major antagonist to his plans, and likely had spies in Storm's End that now had no one to report to. It was good that there was such a gap in the Crown's coverage. "Have the faithful reacted?"

"The trader I talked to left that night. I don't have much else beyond that," Robert replied. He thought for a moment. "They'll cut each other's throats before long. Always knew having those fire-worshipping freaks living in the same city as the Sept of Baelor would lead to bloodshed."

The two Baratheons, the current lord and the next, exchanged a glance and several moments of silence.

"You disagree?" Robert challenged.

Lyonel shook his head. "No. It was certain to come. One has to wonder how the King's cousins in Summerhall will respond, being of the Faith themselves. If the gods are good to us they will move against him."

Robert barked laughter. "Banking on the Targaryens to kill each other, to do our work for us?"

Lyonel shot his son a poisonous look. "Silence, boy. It is not our work to kill anyone, I am about to ward one."

"How could I forget?" Robert asked, looking around. "The whole castle is jawing about it from sunrise to sunset, and well past that. Every one of mother's handmaids whispers about seducing him and becoming the Queen. I can scarce start a conversation without hearing the name Maekar introduced to it by the midpoint."

They arrived at the great hall, where preparations were underway for a modest feast to celebrate the arrival of the Crown Prince. New tables carved of oakwood replaced the worst of the old, giving the bare wood a motley look as one walked-- dark old wood, bright new wood, back and forth. Clothes for the tables had been procured to hide this, though the benches would still be bare. By the time Lyonel returned these tables would be gold and piled high with food and wine.

"You're coming with me to Weeping Town," Lyonel declared, approaching the head of the hall and his high seat. "I'll not have you meet the Crown Prince anywhere but neutral ground. Perhaps on the ride back you will learn to coexist, as you will necessarily have to for the coming years."

Robert betrayed no emotion except exasperation. The road meant no wine, no whores, no fun. "As you will it."

"Pack your good spears and leathers. We will be doing some hunting," Lyonel added. "Keep the logistics train light, catch food along the way and bring dried pork for if we don't."

"When do we ride out?" Robert asked.

"On the morrow."

His heir scoffed. "I knew those men were assembling for some fell purpose. Now I must ride to bloody Cape Wrath."

"Indeed you must," Lyonel responded. He turned to the maester, who had been lurking alongside the high seat with an armful of documents. "See to it my falcon is prepared for the hunt. I shall take the Prince out falconing, I believe, when he arrives."

"Yes, my lord," he replied as Robert stormed off, Lyonel not failing to notice that his fists were balled up. "There is the newest word from King's Landing you ought to hear, the High Septon has been arrested, it is most unprecedented...."

The Lord of Storm's End endured the briefing as his keep endured any storm, stoically and without change. His mind remained fixed on the future.