The banners of the Iron throne snapped sharply in the wind as they filled the hills below Nightsong, Stormlanders, Crownlanders, and the many colors of marcher lords come to answer the call of King Daeron the Young Dragon. War had come again to the Dornish Marches.

For Cyrenna Caron, it felt like something long awaited. The old stories of burned villages and stolen kin had shaped her since childhood, and now at last a king had come not to endure Dorne, but to break it.

The gates of Nightsong opened wide as the king entered with his retinue, the bulk of his host making camp beyond the walls. Torches burned along the battlements, casting gold and shadow across the ancient stone as Lord Caron received his liege in the great hall, greeting him alongside his daughter Cyrenna Caron.

"Your Grace will find no house more loyal to this cause than mine, my men will join your army as soon as you decide to leave Nightsong." her father said, a hand resting lightly at Cyrenna’s shoulder. "But you are a welcome guest here your grace, and can rest here as long as needed before returning to campaign. Also... I would like to introduce my daughter, Cyrenna. She can show you around the castle and help you find where you will sleep during your stay here."

Cyrenna dipped into a graceful curtsy, her dark hair falling forward before she rose again, blue eyes steady upon the young king, studying him, measuring him… and finding much to admire. "I am honored to meet you, Your Grace."