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Chapter Text

Map of Southern Westeros, the year 260 Ac, after the arrival of Gondor (Grey)

in the Southern Stormlands (Yellow),

as well as a small part of Rohan (Between Yellow and Grey))

Aragorn had not wanted to return to the White City. Not yet, at least. As the Gondorian fleet had left the burning corsair ships at Umbar, he had known in his heart, that his path did not lie in Gondor for many more years. Yet as they reached Pelargir and the celebrations within, a messenger had run up to Aragorn. 

At first, he had believed the man to be sent by the Steward, Ecthelion, yet the note in his hand said otherwise. 

Therefore, with great haste, he had left Pelargir with a few dozen men at dawn, at the urgent request of Gandalf the Grey, and now found himself at the gates of Minas Tirith. On this day, the walls were not merely manned by guards, for amongst them were commoners too, and behold! The banner of Gondor flew proudly on the walls, as every man, woman, and child in the city cheered for their beloved general. 

Aragorn slowed down, to greet the people, and accept their gratitude. He knew that to do otherwise would be foolish. As he rode, old women and little girls would approach him with flowers, which he happily accepted. And then the singing began. It seemed to have originated with one of his companions, Bregon if Aragorn had to guess, yet soon all sang.

Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!
West Wind blew there; the light upon the Silver Tree
Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old.
O proud walls! White towers! O winged crown and throne of gold!
O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree,
Or West Wind blow again between the Mountains and the Sea?

All the way to the tower, he could hear the people sing the songs of old around him, and for once in decades, the Gondorians felt hope. The hope was magnified by the apparent disappearance of the darkness to the east, for no matter how hard the people looked, none could see the shadow of Mordor any longer. 

As Aragorn entered the throne room, he found that hope and joy had been replaced by grim faces. He knelt in front of the steward and unsheathed his sword. 

"My sword is yours, my Lord," said Aragorn, as he handed it to Ecthelion the Second. 

"Stand, my friend. We have need of your council, not your sword," said Ecthelion, with a kind smile. Aragorn looked up at the man he served. Ecthelion looked every part a king of yore, although age had taken its toll on his wise and noble face. He was tall and proud, with hard yet warm eyes. On his chest was emblazoned the white tree of Gondor. As Aragorn stood, he looked at the men around him. Right behind the Steward stood a great table, with a map of Gondor on it, as well as her neighbors. Around the table, stood men of Gondor, whom Aragorn admired greatly. First, he saw Denethor, the Steward's son, on the right hand of his father's seat. Although he looked as kingly as his father, the young man's face was made hideous to behold, by the clear jealousy and mistrust in his eyes. Aragorn looked somberly at the heir and bowed. Although many in Gondor believed the two to be rivals, Aragorn could never see Denethor as anything resembling a rival. It pained him to cause so much jealousy, when all he wanted to do, was to be of service to Gondor. 

On Denethor's right, sat Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth, as well as his young son, Imrahil. Furthermore, there was Angborn the Fearless, and Forlong, the fat yet brave lord of Lossarnach. 

On the Steward's left, a seat was empty - Aragorn's seat, he knew - yet besides it sat Gandalf, Golasgil, Hirluin, Duinhir, and Dervorin, the captain of the Rangers of Ithilien. Aragorn greeted them all, before helping the Steward to his seat. 

"I apologize for the hasty summons, Thorongil," said Gandalf suddenly, with a glint in his eye as he said Aragorn's undercover name, "Yet the matter is very urgent."

"You need not apologize, my friend, yet I would like to hear the reason for this... council."

"And you shall!" cried Ecthelion, with a strength that seemed beyond his 94 years, "For we will no doubt have need of you."

With that, he turned towards the guards, and yelled: "Send in the messenger."

Aragorn looked on as the guards obeyed their lord's command. As the doors opened, a small man came strolling in. He seemed worried as if he might become a victim of some gruesome attack at any moment. He did not look like a man of Gondor, and nor did he look like a blonde-haired rider of Rohan. If Aragorn did not know any better, he would have assumed that the man was from Bree, or perhaps Dale to the East? Yet he wore an orange coat, with a white sun-and-chevron emblazoned on his chest, a sigil Aragorn had never in his life seen. Then the nervous man spoke. 

"My lords, I am Ser Randyll Meadows, an emissary of Lord Andrew Ashford... of Ashford. His lordship has sent me to inquire into who you are, and what you're doing on his land. As I have already been told, this is the Kingdom of Gondor, yet I have not been told what evil sorcery you have used to come here, and what you want. I can assure you, that Lord Ashford's liege lord, the Lord Luthor Tyrell of Highgarden, possesses a vast amount of wealth and warriors. Furthermore, Lord Ormund Baratheon, the hand of King Jaehaerys Targaryen, is in command of 10.000 men at Summerhal and has already sent word to the capital. Ser Jason Lannister commands 11.000 men further west from there as well. The Northmen are bringing down thousands of men too, and they have joined together with the forces of the Vale and the Riverlands. If it is a war you wish, 400.000 Warriors of Westeros shall soon descend upon you, led by the great dragon himself, and w-" 

"Thank you, Ser Randyll..." Ecthelion interrupted, "We have no need of threats, for we are not here to wage war against anyone." At this, Aragorn could not contain himself any longer.

"Here? What do you mean, my lord? What has happened?"

Ecthelion sighed and looked to Gandalf for guidance. The wizard nodded, and the strength returned to Ecthelion.

"Our scouts report that all land north of the Argonath, and all land east - no, west, I suppose - of Ithilien... Has disappeared. It has been replaced by a new, strange land, this 'Westeros'. The new king of Rohan, Theoden, is enraged, for he has lost nearly all his land, with exception of all land south of Edoras. To think, the pressure that the Valar have placed upon his shoulders... Atlas, it would seem our enemies have not come with us. At least, this man claims he has never heard of orcs before, isn't that right?" he asked the envoy. The man merely nodded. "We have no 'Orcs', or grumpkins and snarks," he chuckled, "although I'm sure the Starks of Winterfell would love you and your tales."

If Aragorn heard the envoy's response, he did not show. His majestic face has gone pale, and all warmth had left his eyes. His once calm demeanor had collapsed, to be replaced by what could only be described as fear and sorrow. His thoughts dwelt on Arwen, Elrond, his mother - whom he was not certain would survive the loss of her son-, Elladan and Elrohir, and on his kinsmen of the north. His beautiful Arwen, Luthiel come again, whom he would never see again. The last time he had seen her, he had hardly said a proper farewell. She trusted his abilities as a warrior and knew that he would come home again. Yet they had been wrong, and now they would never see each other again. He tried to speak but found that he could utter no words. Ecthelion noticed.

"Have some wine brought to Lord Thorongil..." he said sympathetically. As Aragorn drank, Gandalf took the word.

"Whether this is the work of the enemy or the Valar, we cannot know. It may even be that Eru himself has done this. If so, we may have a purpose here, one we must fulfill before we can return home." said Gandalf, although Aragorn could sense that he was uncertain about this. 

"A purpose?" asked Adrahil, "My lord Gandalf, the enemy has not come with us! There are no orcs here, nor any other fell servants of Morgoth. Had this been the work of the enemy, would he not have sent orcs with us? Someone, to torment us?"

"I concur," said Hirluin, "My lords, this is a gift! We have been saved from Sauron by Eru, and he has brought us to his land!"

Golasgil and Duinhir nodded in agreement, yet Aragorn was furious.

"A gift, my lord?" he asked, barely getting the words out behind his clenched teeth, "You forget that we have not only been removed from Sauron but also the rest of the free people of Middle Earth!" he nearly shouted

Hirluin looked taken aback by his anger, as did the rest of the council, "My Lord Thorongil, please, I meant no harm! Yet surely you will not disagree when I say, that I'd rather not meet any elves or dwarves again if it meant being saved from Sauron!" 

His attempt at diplomacy did not work as well as he may have hoped, yet it allowed Aragorn to control his anger, and stop himself before he exploded. 

"And tell me, Lord Hirluin; What shall the rest of Middle Earth do, when we are gone? Ever has Gondor been the shield that guarded the North against Sauron's forces, and now it is no more. Middle Earth shall be run over end, while we feast in our new comfort!"

Denethor scuffed. "Tell me Lord Thorongil, why we should continue being their shield when they do nothing to support us? The elves and dwarves have left us alone, yet they no doubt still have some strength left to use. They shall not be run over end, although I understand your worry. You're from there yourself after all, are you not?"

Before Aragorn could respond, Gandalf cut in, "My Lord Denethor, I can assure you that everyone else has not sat idly by. Or have you heard nothing from the world outside Gondor? 40 years ago, the men of Dale, the dwarves of the Iron Hills, and the elves of Mirkwood, all rallied together to defeat a large goblin horde, as well as a dragon, an anc-"

"Enough, all of you!" Ecthelion shouted, "We do not know who sent us here, and nor do we know how to return, that is if we even want to. Therefore, I believe it is foolish of us to discuss such things."

Now Angborn spoke up, "I couldn't agree more my lord. Before I say more, however, I should like to have this envoy removed."

As the guards removed the envoy at the order of the steward, all looked to Angborn, beckoning for him to continue. The man wiped away a bead of sweat from his forehead. Despite having recently cut off his massive lock of black hair, he still wore his full armor to the meeting, as the only one amongst them. 

"My lords, I do not doubt that this man exaggerates the strength of this kingdom, as well as their being led by a dragon. Nevertheless, we should not believe his words to be too far off from the truth. If I had to guess, I would say we face 100.000 men. Yet as the envoy said, 10.000 of their men are isolated at Summerhal. If we led a surprise attack, we could wipe out this force, with minimal losses on our side. Furthermore, it would seem the people of Westeros are not as tall as the Gondorians. Every one of our men is worth at least 5 of theirs! My Lord Ecthelion, give me command of this army, and I would bring you certain victory!"

"You would start a war with other men?" spoke Imrahil, son of Adrahil. The man was only 25, yet already wiser and more mature than many in the room, Aragorn thought. If only all Gondorians were like the Dol Amrothians... Might be Gondor would never have fallen into decline... 

"What else, Lord Imrahil?" asked Angborn

"What else, you ask? Well, diplomacy for one! We do not even know these people yet, and you council war?" He turned to the steward, "My Lord Ecthelion, give me leave to travel to Summerhal with a hundred men, and I shall personally negotiate with these people, with your blessings."

"Lord Imrahil speaks the truth. With your permission, I would participate in these negotiations, for I much desire to know where we are," said Aragorn then, having decided he would not sit idly by here, while people he loved were in danger at home. Perhaps if he completed whatever task Eru had in store for him, he could return home.

Ecthelion looked at the two for a few minutes. His face was thoughtful, and it seemed as if an inner conflict raged within him. Then it settled, and he spoke,

"Envoys shall be sent to Summerhal. You may travel in this retinue, but it shall be led by my son, Denethor, who shall speak with my voice,"

Denethor seemed satisfied with the decision, judging by his grateful smile.

"We shall send this ser Randyll back to Summerhal, to warn them of our arrival. He shall instruct them to send guides, who shall accompany my son and his followers. Denethor, you shall pick your retinue yourself, although all who want to join are welcome to. Make sure that your followers are people who represent the beauty and might of Gondor. Pick the tallest, strongest, and most honorable men. I will not have any envoys of Gondor misbehave. You hear me?"

"Yes, my lord, I hear you. I shall not disappoint you, father." his ever dutiful son responded. The response seemed to sadden the old man, yet he said nothing. Angborn did, however.

"While I understand the wish for diplomacy... somewhat... it seems foolish to me, to risk the heir to Gondor on such a dangerous mission. What guarantee do we have, that they will not harm our envoys?"

"If it is of any comfort to you, my Lord Angborn," said Gandalf,  "I shall travel with the envoys myself."

"And what comfort would that be?" asked Denethor. Aragorn looked to the steward's son. "My lord, do not mistake Mithrandir as some conjurer of cheap tricks. I for one would feel far safer if the grey wanderer went with us."

And so it was...

The next morning, the envoy from Ashford had left for Summerhal, ahorse on a great Gondorian mount. He had left with great gifts, as was the custom in Gondor, to the loud cheers of Minas Tirith. As he rode, Ecthelion had leaned in towards Aragorn,

"I do not trust that man. He was arrogant, yet insecure. Never have I met a man like that, not even in Harad. If this kingdom is full of men like him..." he had trailed off.

"I wouldn't worry, my lord," Aragorn had said, kindly, "He was worried, as would I have been. He seemed arrogant and standoffish, yes, but perhaps he thought it necessary, to scare us off. After all, it might seem like we were an invading force. He might have a family he does not wish to see die. No, I do not think these are all bad men, yet my heart tells me that this kingdom has faced much war in the past, and the many horrors that accompany it."

Aragorn remembered the man's smile as he rode northwards, alongside Gandalf. It had been a week since the envoy left. A week full of waiting for news, waiting to see if Angborn may have been in the right. A week full of doubt amongst the lords of Gondor. Yet it had all been for nothing, for on Tuesday the 17. of march, banners had been spotted in the distance from Rammas Echor. A yellow flag with a great black stag on it had flowed freely alongside a banner that had sent chills down Aragorn's spine. A red three-headed dragon breathing flames on a black field. It seemed more like a banner of Mordor than a banner of the free peoples. Aragorn had ridden at once to the wall, alongside Denethor's retinue. 

The Westerosi retinue was led by another knight, the brother of some great lord. His name was Ser Jason Lannister, the very same the envoy had warned them off, and not even during his service in Rohan, had Aragorn seen such blonde hair. The man rode alongside Denethor and Imrahil, while Aragorn himself and Gandalf rode alongside a young knight from the Stormlands, a Ser Barristan Selmy. The knight was the heir to a castle that now lay on the border between Gondor and the Stormlands. 

As they rode, they spoke of Gondor, and of Westeros. The Kingdom was ruled by house Targaryen, a people said to have purple eyes and silver hair. When Barristan had told him that just a hundred years ago, the Targaryens had ridden dragons into war, Aragorn had at first not believed him. Yet the more they talked, the more he came to see Barristan's honesty and honor. Even Gandalf had seemed surprised when he heard of the dragons and had immediately questioned if there were any left, and how the Targaryens had managed to control such intelligent yet evil beasts. Barristan had answered the first question easily but had been at a loss for the second one. They had learned from the man, that dragons were not as intelligent in this world, and that they could not even speak. That had seemingly relieved Gandalf, yet it did not do so to Aragorn. Had there been any dragons, any servants of Morgoth, in this world, Aragorn would have known that these were his enemies and that his purpose here was to defeat them. Yet now there was nothing. There was no magic in this world, according to Barristan, and even the notion had made the young knight laugh, not unkindly. 

And so, they rode onwards, while Aragorn considered his purpose.

They did not stop until they reached ser Barristan's home of Harvest Hall, where they spent the night. 

Harvest hall was a humble castle, with 1000 inhabitants, yet it had a certain charm to it - it reminded Aragorn of the Dunedain holdfasts in the north. Every time he walked around a corner, he expected Halbarad to appear, with his laugh. Yet it was not to be. 

He had been discussing this new world with Gandalf when the young Ser Barristan walked over to them.

"Well met, ser Barristan. Would you care to join us?" asked Gandalf. 

"Well met to you too, Lord Gandalf. It would be my honor, yet I'm afraid that is not why I am here." he turned to Aragorn, "Lord Thorongil, the Gondorians tell me of your success in an attack on a pirate lair, where you slew their captain. The story intrigued me and is why I am here. I wish to challenge you to a fight." he said boldly, without any hesitation. His courage impressed Aragorn. He was a young man, who had decided to challenge a supposedly renowned Gondorian lord, who was not only more experienced than him, but also taller. Of course, Ser Barristan could not know of Aragorn's Dunedain blood, or he surely would've not dared to fight. Aragorn smiled.

"If you are sure that that is what you want, then yes, I shall fight you. With blunted swords I assume?" he asked, to which Barristan nodded, "Well, I hope your home has one, for I am afraid I have not brought mine."

The challenge drew much attention from both camps and already they were betting with each other. Aragorn did not like it, and nor did he like fighting for entertainment. Yet he was an envoy, and to not participate in their customs and traditions, would surely reflect poorly on Gondor as a whole. He would not do such a thing to his land, and nor would he do it to Ecthelion. And so he found himself putting on his armor. It was not what he would've preferred wearing. He felt more free wearing his ranger clothes, yet that was not a good idea when he did not know Barristan's skill. Even then, the Gondorian armor was not as he wanted. On it was only the white tree and not the full sigil of the house of Elendil, yet he wore it with pride. 

Ser Barristan wore a simple set of armor. His chainmail above his gambeson was old and used, and the tunic he wore with the sigil of house Selmy, seemed like something that had been passed on from father to son for many generations, ever since the days when dragons roamed Westeros. Around his neck, he wore an old gorget, and on his head was a chain mail hood and a Broe helmet, that looked surprisingly new. 

His sword, however, was what caught everyone's attention. For a moment, Aragorn wondered if this was the famed westerosi "Valyrian Steel", and decided to ask.

"Your sword, ser Barristan, seems to be of high quality. Is this the valyrian steel you were telling me about?"

Barristan laughed, not unkindly. "I wish it was, Lord Thorongil, I wish it was. Yet this is but a normal blade. It was given to me by Prince Duncan Targaryen, 8 years ago. I assure you, it is but crucible steel, despite its looks. You may hold it if you wish." said the young knight. Aragorn took him up on his offer and grabbed the blade. It was slightly lighter than a normal sword, and the handle was easier on the hand, yet it was nothing compared to Narsil.

"I am happy that you shall not be wielding this in our fight," said Aragorn with a smile, as he handed it to Barristan, who put it away.

"So far, it has only been used on bandits. I yearn for the day when I can use it on a worthy enemy."

"Then I shall do my best to remain your friend," said Aragorn, before putting on his helmet that covered his face.

Barristan unsheathed his blunted blade and approached Aragorn.

He was not sure whether Barristan meant to attack already, yet he went on the defensive. It was not to be, however, as Barristan began circling him. Aragorn reciprocated the gesture. When no attack came from Barristan, Aragorn decided to go on the offensive. He slashed at Barristan's left shoulder, which Barristan quickly blocked, yet Aragorn's strength shocked Barristan, who staggered back. Aragorn pushed onwards, taking advantage of his initiative. Again and again, he slashed at Barristan, like the waves upon the cliffs, yet again and again, Barristan parried his strikes. Never before had Aragorn fought a man who could match his speed, yet here he now was. Yet the signs of weariness were visible in Barristan. He had started breathing through his mouth, and his sword went downwards after every parry. Believing victory was his, Aragorn relaxed more, seeking mainly to disarm Barristan. Yet suddenly, with incredible speed, Barristan dodged Aragorn's strike and went on the offensive. He stabbed upwards at Aragorn's sword arm, pushing it backward. The stab was followed by an attack on Aragorn's exposed left, which Aragorn only barely parried before he was kicked in the chest. He staggered backward and prepared himself for the onslaught. Had Aragorn been a normal man, Barristan would've won now. His offensive was too much to handle for most and would've exhausted the opponent, allowing Barristan to deliver a killing blow. 

Yet Aragorn was of the Dunedain. The blood of Fingolfin, Elros, Beren, Isildur, and the maiar Melian flowed in his veins. He would not be defeated by a normal man. 

It would seem that Barristan had begun to realize this too. Where he had before been confident, he now realized, that no matter how hard he pushed, he would exhaust no one but himself. Having spent all his energy, Barristan disengaged and retreated. Aragorn allowed him to catch his breath. All around them, the men were cheering. Shouts of "Thorongil" and "Barristan" could be heard. Aragorn looked up to the sun, and there, flying above them, was a great eagle. A great sign, Aragorn believed. He closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer in Sindarin, before attacking Barristan once more. This time around, Barristan was not as Bold as previously. He stood entirely on the defensive, attempting mainly to avoid engagement. It worked, for Aragorn could not hit him, and was wasting energy. He disengaged and looked for an opportunity. He looked all over Barristan's body, searching for an opening. 

With a quick thrust, he stabbed at Barristan's knee, which Barristan dodged with ease. Yet he had fallen into Aragorn's trap, for the thrust was bait, and before it had even gone halfway towards its goal,  he pulled his sword back, and in a wide movement, directed it towards Barristan's head. This time, the blow landed. His head no doubt ringing, Barristan instinctively put his hand on his head, which allowed Aragorn to attack unopposed. He landed a heavy blow at Barristan's stomach, knocking the air out of him, before smashing at his blade, disarming the young knight. Having Aragorn's blade at his throat, the knight looked at Aragorn with disbelief in his eyes.

"Yield?" asked Aragorn.

"Who... Who are you?" Barristan stuttered between breaths.

"They call us the Dunedain," he said, low enough that only Barristan could hear him, "Descendants of a great people of old. We are blessed with long life, and, as you can see, great strength and endurance," he said.

"Long life?" asked Barristan, "...How old are you, Lord Thorongil?" he asked, seemingly not wanting to know the answer.

Aragorn smiled. "I am 49. I am young by my people's account, that it has been many generations since any of my forefathers died of old age, so I cannot know for certain how old I shall grow. perhaps 200? I know not. I hope you can keep this between us, for the time being?"

Barristan did not respond for a while. Yet eventually, he regained his sense. 

"You have my word, my friend," he said with a smile. He then turned to the crowd and grasped Aragorn's hand before raising it high. The Westerosi, who had been shocked into silence by Aragorn's speech, cheered loudly for the two knights, one of whom they now viewed as the greatest in all of Westeros.

Chapter Text

The men of Gondor were all as tall as any Baratheon Steffon had met. It was clear to see that these were men in whom the blood of kings ran strong. They were tall, grey-eyed, proud, and dark-haired, and held themselves as lords. When Steffon had first laid eyes on the retinue that rode into Summerhal, he had immediately believed the men at the front to all be lords of Gondor. Clever, he had thought, to put all their proud lords at the front. Tywin would like them. Yet that changed as every man that entered the ruin, looked as proud and lordly as the previous one. Either Gondor was a country with many great lords or every footman was as great as the best man from Westeros, he had thought. 

After the first column, came another one, of men clad in shiny armor with blue tunics, who all wore swan helmets. These men were as beautiful as the Targaryens. Nay, even more so, he thought. He looked to his father, Ormund, and was surprised to see the Lord of Storm's End keep his composure. Next to his father, however, stood Aerys. His cousin looked as dumbstruck as Steffon surely must've seemed. The young prince turned towards him and grinned when they locked eyes. When they turned back towards the foreigners, they were met by the sight of dozens of Lannisters riding in. Or was it? As he looked on, he soon realized that these were not Lannisters, nor even men of Westeros. They wore mail and green tunics, and from their heads flowed long sandy hair and great beards. Two men carried great banners of green cloth with a white stallion on them. 

In his heart, Steffon knew that these were good men. Yet that feeling did not prevail, as he looked around the courtyard. All around him, he was met with the grim faces of Stormlanders, all of them having lost friends and family when the Rainwood and the Dornish Marches disappeared. Men were spitting on the ground and sending angry looks toward the envoys. Steffon, however, could do no such thing. 

As the foreigners came to a halt, Aerys stepped forwards. Ser Jason Lannister, an uncle of Tywin, dismounted his horse and dropped down on his knee. 

"Your grace, I bring you the Gondorians," he said, his head bowed down. Aerys smiled and rested his hand on Ser Jason's shoulder.

"Rise, ser Jason. Now tell me whom you have brought before me," he responded.

As ser Jason rose, Steffon saw that the Gondorians had all dismounted too, and many were leading the horses away. Leading them stood a tall and proud man, kingly to behold. He wore black and silver clothing, with a white tree on his chest. A weirwood tree?  thought Steffon, mayhaps these are followers of the old gods? 

Behind the man, were two more men, who too looked like kings. One was quite young, perhaps a few years older than Steffon, while the other looked to be around 30, yet his grey eyes were old and wise. And there, behind them stood the oldest man Steffon had ever seen. He was an old man with a staff. He had a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, a silver scarf over which a white beard hung down below his waist, and black boots. He was shorter in stature than the other three; but his long white hair, his silver beard, and his broad shoulders made him look like some wise king from the age of heroes. In his aged face under great snowy brows, his deep eyes were set like coals that could suddenly burst into fire. Around his waist was a belt, with a great sword strapped to it. Steffon wondered why such an old man should carry a sword when he surely could not wield it. Mayhaps he was some aged lord of Gondor, who despite his old age still held much respect from his past deeds?

Now ser Jason spoke again,

"Your grace, I present to you Lord Denethor, son of Ecthelion the second, steward of Gondor. With him are the lords Thorongil and Gandalf, as well as Lord Imrahil, son of Prince Adrahil, ruler of Dol Amroth. On our way from Harvest hall to here, we were joined by men of Rohan, a kingdom north of Gondor. I have the honor of presenting Theoden, the newly crowned King of Rohan." 

Aerys nodded.

"My Lords, your grace, I am Prince Aerys Targaryen, son of King Jaehaerys. My father sends me as his mouth to negotiate with you." 

he turned to the Baratheons,

"This is Lord Ormund Baratheon, warden of the Stormlands. His son and heir, Steffon Baratheon, is with him," he said loudly.

"It is my honor to meet you, your highness. My father too sends me to speak on his behalf. I bring a hundred men of Gondor, as well as another one hundred men of Dol Amroth. Theoden King brings with him fifty riders of the Rohirrim."

Aerys chose this moment to observe customs, as he directed everyone's attention to a servant carrying two large plates with bread and salt.

"I offer you bread and salt, my lords, as well as my hospitality!" he exclaimed dramatically.

The Gondorians looked confused,

"Bread and salt, your highness?" asked the youngest of the four, Imrahil, if Steffon's memory did not betray him. 

"Aye? Is this not a custom in Gondor?" asked Aerys, who was now as confused as the others.

"I cannot say I have ever heard of this before, no. If you wish, I'd like to hear of it," said Denethor with a kind smile.

Aerys laughed, "Ah, of course, my lord Denethor. You see, in Westeros, we offer bread and salt to guests, as a way of offering guest rights. Once this is accepted, you have our protection, and our guarantee that no harm shall befall you, lest the culprit faces the wrath of the dragons!"

Steffon smirked at his friend's dramatic speech. A simple 'We offer bread and salt, as a guarantee of guest rights' might have sufficed, yet Aerys was ever one for theatrics. His smirk disappeared when he looked at the Gondorians. All of them looked horrified, and Steffon couldn't help but think that these were a people with a stick up their arse. All Aerys had done, was be a bit dramatic, and suddenly they're acting like he just burned an old man in front of them. 

Aerys seemed to have noticed too, for he had a fire in his eyes. Oh, seven hells, they're about to wake the dragon, he thought frantically. Aerys had never accepted a negative reaction to his antics. His friend was like that at times, constantly seeking other people's approval. Yet it was one thing to not give him a laugh, or perhaps even to ignore him: It was a whole other thing to give him a negative reaction. That was something Aerys had never tried. Steffon could only imagine the diplomatic disaster that would no doubt ensue. He knew he had to interfere.

"Is something wrong, my lords?" he asked, as he stepped forwards.

"Shut up, boy." said his father, as he felt a hand yank him back.

"Oh no, it's quite alright Lord Baratheon," said the old man kindly, "We are the ones who ought to apologize, for leaving our manners at the gate," he said pointedly, with a glare at the three other lords.

Now Denethor spoke up again, although he seemed slightly annoyed.

"Yes, Gandalf the Grey is correct, and we all apologize. Yet we lost our manners for a reason, for we had not expected that such a guarantee would be necessary, to prevent you from harming a guest. Where we are from, envoys are always treated with respect, as are guests, and we do not offer any such things to strangers."

And just like that, the brewing rage in Aerys's eyes was gone, and he now laughed instead. For a while, that was all that could be heard in the courtyards of the ruined castle, as others started laughing too. Sycophants, he thought grimly. 

"Well, my lords," said Aerys between laughs, "I apologize for confusing you! It would seem I had forgotten that you are from elsewhere, and have customs and traditions of your own!" he laughed, but quieted down, "Now that we are on this topic, there is something I've been dying to ask you, ever since I first saw you: The tree on your tunic, is this a weirwood tree of the North? Does Gondor follow the old gods?" he asked.

"Well, your highness, the gods we follow certainly are old," said Denethor, "Yet this is no weirwood tree, at least that is not what we call it. This is the White Tree of Gondor, a remnant of Numenor. Yet you say there are white trees in Westeros too? Perhaps this North is worth a visit?" said Denethor.

Aerys laughed mockingly. "I would not say so, no, for they are a superstitious lot, and the cold has made them all grim and serious. Anyway, let us negotiate!" he said, as he led the envoys inside. "The wall, however, now there's a worthy trip! I visited it once, and took a..." Aerys trailed off as he disappeared inside the ruined hall. Of the nobles present, only the Baratheons remained outside. His father sighed and looked at him.

"Perhaps I judged you too harshly, my son. If it were so, it was a grievous fault, and I apologize. You did well, but in the future, you will never speak without being addressed, is that understood?" he asked. Steffon smiled cheekily,

"Yes, my Lord," he said with a sarcastic bow. Ormund guffawed loudly, and smacked Steffon's head, not unkindly. 

"Seven hells boy, you'll be my death. Now run off to that fiancee of yours, I'll have to participate in these damned negotiations," he said.

Steffon smiled and felt his loins stirring at the thought of Cassana. "If you say so, father," he said, before turning around. He didn't get far however before Ormund called out to him.

"Boy!" he yelled, and Steffon looked over his shoulder, "No funny business, you hear me? I won't have you dishonor that poor girl. She's suffered enough already," he said. Steffon could feel the guilt well up, yet he pushed it away, and sighed at his father, "Do you think so lowly of me?" he asked with a smile. Ormund smiled sadly. "I too was once a boy, Steffon," he said, and Steffon had to quench his desire to make a snarky comment about his father's age, "and you are my son. I think very highly of you, but it would be foolish of me to think that you'll keep your hands off of her at your own discretion," he said, and then sighed.

"Think with your head, Steffon, not with your..." he winked, and turned away, towards the hall, leaving Steffon behind in his shame. 

Steffon had not gone to Cassana after that. Not immediately, at least. Instead, he had gone to the army's quarters. The Baratheons had set up camp just south of Summerhal, alongside their bannermen. The yellow banner, with the proud black stag, flew everywhere Steffon looked. 

As he walked, he noticed a man he recognized. With a smile, he strolled towards the fire a few Baratheon men-at-arms sat at. 

"Seven hells, are you here too, Noye?" he roared happily. The man almost choked on his stew, caught by surprise. He turned around with a cough and jumped to his feet.

"I was wondering when I'd see you, you lordly bastard!" He laughed, as they embraced. 

William Noye was a muscular, yet fat, man. He had a broad and flat nose and a large black beard. On his head, only small stubbles remained. His right eye was missing, but his blue left was one of kindness yet fierceness, that beamed with intelligence. When they separated, Noye put his hands on either side of Steffon's face and studied him sharply. 

"You've become a man in my absence, it would seem," he said with a somber smile.

"And you've gotten old," Steffon jested. Noye laughed heartily, "If you weren't the son of my lord, I'd have knocked out a few of your teeth, boy. You damn lordlings will be my death. Now, come join us at the fire, you can have some stew too if you're brave enough." 

Steffon gratefully accepted and sat down at the empty spot the men had cleared for him. They all kept their heads down and averted their eyes from him.

"Stop it, treat me as you would any other boy, would you?" he said, perhaps too angrily. It disappointed him greatly that they all thought he was some malicious lord, who'd have them flocked for looking at him the wrong way. Had he not been enough with them? Not shown them enough love? If so, he would change that, he decided then and there. I suppose I've been too caught up with Cassana and doing stupid shit with my cousin...

The men obeyed him, yet all did so awkwardly. He ignored it. Hopefully, they'll stop acting like that soon enough, he thought. 

"Bill, where've you been all these years?" he asked Noye. Bill swallowed his food, and answered, "Well, here and there I suppose. I went to Essos first, to the Stepstones, - not now, I'll get back to it -" he said before Steffon could even ask, knowing full well how eager all were to learn more of their destination, "Then I went to Braavos, met some interesting people, and some buxom wo-" a pointed cough cut him off. Steffon looked to the source and saw a smirking old man, 60 perhaps, throw a glance at a young boy who sat by the fire with the men. Steffon could immediately tell, that this was Bill's son, although he had forgotten his name. The men laughed loudly, as Bill's cheeks grew red. 

"Uhh, I think I misspoke, I meant to say that I met some busy wonderful mothers, a very nice experience," he spoke quickly, too quickly perhaps, as his son sighed at him. 

"I'll go to the smithy, father." the boy said.

"Of course, you will, Donal," Noye responded with a smile. "Anyway, where was I... Oh yes, Braavos. After Braavos, I went to the wall. Majestic to behold, for sure, but the watch was in a sorry state." he said, as Donal was getting up to leave, "Only 3000 members to guard the wall. The fuckers tried to recruit me at every moment!" he roared with laughter. "Then Dorne, Volantis... Fuck that, however, I know I lost your attention when I skipped past the Stepstones," he said, not unkindly, to every man's eager nods.

"Very well then, if I must. I was at the Stepstones 4 years ago, when Daemon was still Captain-General of the Golden Company. Good man, although he too tried to recruit me. I'll be honest with you lads, I don't understand why they all want me." said Bill

"Must be your pretty face!" Steffon quipped, to the men's laughter. None laughed so loudly as Noye, though, who nearly fell from his seat.

"Aye!" he said between laughs, "Must be!"

They all sat silently for a moment, before a young man, perhaps Steffon's age, spoke.

"What happened then?" he asked.

Noye's face grew grim and pale, then. 

"I saw Maelys 'The Mounstrous' too," he said. Steffon leaned in, eager to hear more.

"What was he like?" he asked. "As bad as they say?"

Noye nodded darkly. "Worse. He has another head on his shoulder, the size of a small fist. He's absurdly large and as strong as a bear. He looked like a demon straight out of the seven-pointed star, I tell you. Didn't surprise me one bit when I heard what he did to poor Daemon." he said.

Some grimaced, others paled at the thought of the death of Daemon Blackfyre. When the news had first reached them, some had secretly toasted to Maelys' health, believing him a savior. That all changed when news of how he died, had reached Westeros. After that, Maelys had become the boogeyman old nurses used, replacing the others. Yet one question had been on everyone's mind, although none dared express it: could he be killed by any man from Westeros?

"Did you see him fight?" asked Steffon. Noye nodded.

"Do you think any among us can beat him?" he continued.

And then, something surprising happened: Noye seemed to recover his color and familiar smile.

"I'll be honest with you, lad. Just a moon ago, I didn't harbor much hope that such a thing could be done. Perhaps The White Bull could do it, or some other member of the Kingsguard, but I wouldn't bet on it. They say Lord Selmy's son, Barristan, is quite a warrior too, but the boy has only ever fought in tourneys. I reckon he'll piss himself the moment he fights a man for real, but who knows. Suffice to say, I do not think that any Westerosi will kill him. But that was before today." he said, with hope in his eyes.

Everyone seemed to guess whom he meant, judging by the sour looks of most. 

A man with a griffin on his armor spat on the ground. "You think those fuckers are worth anything, do you, Noye? That they'll save us somehow? No, William, these Gondorians are no good, I tell you. Think they're all better than us." he growled.

"You only say that because your father lost half his land, Robert." another man responded. "The rest of us like them."

"Fuck no we don't!" roared another, to the eager nods of nearly all others at the fire. Then the Connington knight, Robert his name was, looked hesitantly to Steffon.

"What say you, m'lord? Are these Gondorians any good?" he asked, as all talk quieted down, and they looked at him expectantly. He felt his face heat up, and all saliva in his mouth seemed to have abandoned him. 

"Uh..." he said hesitantly, not actually knowing how he felt about the foreigners. They had stolen half of his father's land, through no fault of theirs, if they were to be believed. Were they tall and noble, as he had believed, or arrogant, like Robert had said? 

"I do not know, my friends. I have never seen such noble men in my life, nor any so honorable - not even the Arryns of the Vale could match them, for treachery and scheming are unknown concepts to them, or at least only things they could see lesser men do. To kill a guest or an envoy is unimaginable to them, or so they claim, of course. Yet I could not blame them for being arrogant, or seeing themselves as our superior - can any of you? You all did see them ride up this road, I presume?" he asked.

"Aye," said Noye, "And they say a Gondorian general defeated Ser Barristan without breaking a sweat."

"Did you not just say that Barristan was a mere tourney knight, and nothing else?" asked Robert.

"Aye, that I did speculate, but is a tourney knight not accustomed to duels between two men?" he countered.

"We know not yet of the Gondorians strength at arms, and I hope we shall never see it compared to ours in a true battle." said Steffon, before an argument could break out between the two, "Yet it seems to me we know of their quality. They did not come here on their own accord and are as bewildered as we are, yet they attempt diplomacy, rather than take us unawares. That tells me everything I need to know." he finished. Some had seemingly been convinced, for they nodded with a renewed hope in their eyes. Others knew the dangers of disagreeing with a lord's heir and so held their tongue, yet Steffon saw it in their eyes all the same.

Only now did he realize that it was already well past midday. That means it'll only be another hour before father emerges with the results, he thought. And that leaves precious little time for Cassana. 

"I better get back to the castle, Bill," he said, as he slowly stood. Every man jumped to their feet, observing protocol. He sighed, "Sit down you bastards, or I'll have your bloody heads," he jested, although only Noye laughed. Once again, he let out an exasperated sigh. "A joke, you morons," he said with a small smirk. 

"Will I see you on the Stepstones, Steffon?" Noye asked.

"Of course, you will, how else are you to return to your son?" he quipped. Noye smiled. 

"Good lad. I'll make sure not to end the war before you get there." 

Steffon laughed loudly and clapped Noye on his shoulder. Although nearly 3 decades younger, Steffon still towered over the man. He then turned away and walked towards the castle.

As expected, the Gondorians appeared an hour later...

Chapter Text

Shortly after the duel, Barristan had gained an annoyingly large bump on his head, that hurt every time he put on his helmet - something that happened often, with all the challenges from Westerosi and Gondorian alike. All things considered, he had not expected his fame to grow, yet his defeat had seemingly made him appear even greater. It had come as a shock to him when he heard the first recount of the fight. Arol was a good lad, a trustworthy lad, and he had told Barristan with great excitement about the seemingly inhumane speed the two had fought in. Despite eventually losing, he had shown his talents for all to see and proven to the men present that he was no mere tourney knight. The thought gladdened Barristan; too often had he had to deal with older knights not taking him seriously. 

"It's true, I tell you, lad!" the old knight, Ser Henry, near yelled from atop his horse, bringing Barristan back from his thoughts, "It was just like at Redgrass Field! Never before had I seen two men fight with such speed and ferocity, as when I saw the Black Dragon blind Ser Gwayne Corbray!" he continued, to the enjoyment of all. The old man was nearly 80 years old and had long since lost all fighting prowess. Yet despite this, he had opted to go to war, in the hopes of dying an honourable death. Barristan did not mind - despite his age, the man constantly raised the spirit in the camp with his war stories of old. 

"When later I asked Prince Baelor Breakspear about it-" he said before an outburst interrupted him.

"Shut your mouth, Greybeard! You expect us to believe that horsecrap?!" a young man rudely yelled with a loud cackle. A smack on the head stopped his antics.

"You forget yourself, boy. Ser Henry has seen much and many, and he deserves respect," Tyrold said, silencing the boy, who had the decency to look slightly ashamed, "Go on, Ser."

Henry smiled kindly at Tyrold, before continuing, "Eh thank you. Where was I... Oh yes, Baelor Breakspear! Gods, what a man! A shame what happened at Ashford. Anyway, I asked him about this thing, and he told me much of value. You see, lads, when two men of equal skill compete, they draw out the best in each other, and magnify each other's prowess! That was what happened back then, and I believe it is what happened when you fought this Lord Thorongil, Ser Barristan!" 

Barristan adjusted his reigns, before answering, "I thank you Ser Henry, yet I am not afraid of admitting that I was vastly outmatched by Lord Thorongil. It was never an even fight for him, you see. Had I met him on the battlefield - and thank the Mother I did not - he would've defeated me even sooner."

The ride to Summerhal had been uneventful for the most part, ever since Harvest Hall. Most of the time, he rode with the Lords Thorongil and Gandalf- or Mithrandir as he was wont to be called by the men of Gondor - yet on this day, they had ridden off to the South, leaving Barristan with his countrymen, as well as a few Westermen here and there, such as Tyrold the Tanner, who had taken up arms supposedly to 'Avenge his grandfather, who was slain by the Black Dragons!'. They were entertaining fellows, yet he couldn't help but look to the south at dawn every day, in the hopes that they would return. Eventually, he accepted that the two men had important business, and would probably not return before Summerhal. 

It was on the eighth day of the second moon of 260 AC, that Barristan was by himself at the outskirts of the camp. The sun had only just dawned on them, and most were still asleep. He had not gotten much sleep, however, as he had gotten up early to polish his skills with a sword. An hour he had spent, swinging a practise sword at the strawman before he pulled out his crucible steel sword, Dragonfly, and put it to use instead. It was a fine blade and a better weapon than what most knights could expect to possess. Dragonfly, he had named it, after Prince Duncan Targaryen, the prince of dragonflies. He remembered the day it had been given to him by the kind Targaryen prince. He had been only 16, barely a man, when he had unhorsed Prince Duncan himself at a winter tourney in King's Landing. Even back then, all he had wanted was to be named a Kingsguard, to serve under Ser Duncan the Tall and the good king Aegon. 

Had Summerhall not happened, he mused, it might've been. 

Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats on the horizon and was faced with a distant cloud of dust when he raised his eyes. He jumped to his feet, sword in his hands, but remembered he wore no armour. 

As they came ever closer, he realised that even with armour, he could not take this many men alone. Hostile or not, Ser Jason had to be alerted of the approaching force. 

"Could be the Monstrous himself, come sailing into the Shipbreaker bay with a group of men, hoping to slay us." Said Jason, as his squire armoured him. 

"This far inland, My Lord?" asked the Dol Amrothian, Imrahil, who was leaning over a map of the Stormlands - or the Stormlands as they had looked one year past. 

"Could be your arrival has changed the coastline, Lord Imrahil," said Lord Grandison, not even attempting to disguise his hostile feelings. If the Gondorians caught the not-so-subtle meaning, they did not show it. Instead, Lord Denethor spoke loudly.

"I advise caution, Ser Jason, and have advised the same to my men. They come from the south, Ser Barristan says, yes?" he asked but did not wait for an answer, "Gondor has friends living alongside the mountain, such as the proud men and women of Rohan. Theoden King is newly crowned and might seek to participate in any negotiation we may enter."

"Friends of yours they may be, Lord Denethor, yet not friends of the Iron Throne. This King Theoden has lost much of his land, has he not? He may seek vengeance for any perceived slight." argued Ser Jason. 

Lord Denethor snorted, “Ser Jason, I do not know how things are done here in Westeros, but where I am from, kings and lords don’t attack allies because of slights, perceived or otherwise. Theoden King is a good man and a trustworthy ally.” He paused, and looked around the tent, at every face. He then spoke,

”I shall ride with a Gondorian escort to meet the approaching force.” he declared to everyone’s surprise, including Barristan’s. He did not know Denethor well, yet this was the heir to Gondor, and to its steward, Ecthelion, Thorongil’s liege lord. He did not know the man well, and he was no student of politics, but even he knew that the death of Lord Denethor would start a war between the Iron Throne and Gondor - something he could not allow to happen.

”Lord Denethor, if you would allow it, I would wish to join your men.” 

The Gondorian lord, for whatever reason, scowled at Barristan. 

"I was going to demand that a representative of mine accompany you, but if this is your wish, ser Barristan, I would ask you to serve this role." Ser Jason pleaded.

Lord Denethor, with a resigned look on his face, agreed to Barristan's proposal.

As they rode with their banner of parley, Barristan started to notice the banners of the approaching force: Green cloth, with a golden horse prancing upon it.

He turned towards his companion, the Dol Amrothian heir Imrahil, who sported a relieved smile.

"You recognize the banner, my lord?" he inquired.

"That I do, ser Barristan, that I do. 'Tis the banner of the Rohirrim." he explained before focusing harder on the force. His smile broadened then, "And if you look closely, you can see the men of Rohan, and if my eyes don't betray me, Mithrandir and Thorongil. Our friends have returned."

The young knight found himself smiling, then, even though he could see no such things,

"How can you see this, Lord Imrahil? I can barely make out if they are ahorse or not from here!" he wondered out loud.

Imrahil chuckled heartily, "My sight is oft' superior to other men, my friend!" he laughed.

Suddenly, Barristan noticed movement from the men of Rohan. At a loud bellow, they all halted, except for 5 men, who rode onwards. Denethor looked back at his men before he commanded 2 men to follow him. Barristan was content to remain behind, but when Imrahil rode with no invitation, he remembered the reason he was here. He sighed and muttered something relating to the damn politics of Westeros before he too spurred his horse.

As they came closer, he began to see more clearly the faces of the men riding to meet them. One was merely a horseman, it seemed, who carried the Rohirrim banner. Another was young, younger than Barristan even, yet looked battle-hardened. He had a short sandy beard and long hair beneath his helmet. The other man of Rohan was middle-aged and wore no helmet. Instead, he wore a crown upon his long sandy hair, that was braided like a Dothraki horse lord. Barristan reckoned this was the king, Theoden. His hard features softened, and his blue eyes which had once flared with anger now calmed at the sight of the Gondorians. 

"Lord Denethor!" He cried loudly, "You're a sight for sorry eyes. Gandalf and Thorongil did tell me of you joining us in these strange lands, yet I could not believe them before now."

"Theoden King," Denethor bowed his head respectfully as he rode onwards alone, "It grieved me to hear of your father's passing. Thengel was a good man, and I regret having only known him shortly," he stated sympathetically, as the two men clasped forearms, an odd tradition to Barristan. 

"There shall be time for reminiscing on the past later, Lord Denethor. Is it true what Gandalf says?" he asked urgently.

Denethor scoffed, "That would depend entirely on what old Mithrandir has told you." he sneered at the old man. The young knight had to stop himself from saying anything. Not only was Gandalf a wise and kind man; but he was also elderly, and the elders deserved respect in Selmy's mind. He needn't have done anything, however, for Gandalf boomed loudly at Lord Denethor, with a shocking strength that Barristan had not thought possible. 

"Silence, Lord Denethor. This is not the time, nor the place, to trade insults; Now is the time for Gondor and Rohan to rekindle their alliance, and stand together at whatever may come. No more!" he ordered. Ordered. Old Gandalf had ordered the heir to a powerful realm around as if he was a mere servant. 'Absurd!', thought Barristan. Denethor, taken aback by the powerful command, grew smaller on his horse and nearly dropped his jaw. Yet he spoke no more. Lord Thorongil, who had been impatiently watching the encounter, pressed his horse towards the centre. 

"My lord," he sighed, a look of pity on his face, "We have told the king of everything that has occurred since we came here. When he heard of the Westerosi gathering at Summerhal, he wished to go there, to meet with his Westerosi counterpart."

Now Barristan spoke to the assembled men, "My lords, your grace, King Jaehaerys will not be meeting us at Summerhal. Instead, he sends his son and heir, Aerys."

Theoden nodded disappointedly, "Very well, I shall have to meet him another day then." he declared, before focusing on Barristan.

"You don't look Gondorian?" he asked Barristan. 

"Nay, your grace, I do not think I do. I am Ser Barristan Selmy, heir to Harvest Hall. Ser Jason Lannister, brother to Lord Tytos Lannister, sends me as his representative, and to meet with you." he remembered his manners then, "And I am honoured to meet you, Theoden King," he recalled, having noticed the Gondorians use the weird phrasing, "The Lannisters send their regards, too." he finished. Not a lie, he thought, but perhaps not the full truth. 

"I too am honoured to meet you, good ser. Thorongil has told me of you, yet you are the first Westerosi I have met."

"And you are the first man of Rohan I have met," he noted, his comment, and his lack of formality, surprising himself. Theoden, however, laughed. 

"I hope all Westerosi are as bold as you, Ser Barristan!" he said, the word bringing the young knight back to the past, to a tourney and a kind heir, gone before his time. 

"You can see for yourself, your highness." Thorongil proposed, and then they rode for the camp.

The men of Rohan, and the men of Westeros, had gotten along nicely. It seemed the Rohirrim were less elegant and liked to joke with each other and participate in duels. Their favourite pastime, however, had been throwing axes at posts, a skill the Westerosi did not have. The tension that had been building up in the camp, disappeared as they rode to Summerhal, Barristan alongside Thorongil and Gandalf. 

"You cannot expect Gondor and Rohan to submit to Baratheon rule, your highness!" Denethor hissed in frustration. Aerys leaned nonchalantly back in his chair, and sipped on his wine, with a smirk on his face. His silver hair which had been long before Barristan left, had been cut off, making the young heir look more like a warrior than previously. His amused purple eyes focused on Denethor.

"And why not, Lord Denethor? You stole their land, and the Baratheons have always been good friends of the crown." the prince insisted. Denethor's hand united with his face once more, as had become a habit during the 'negotiations'. Barristan understood the Gondorian - Aerys had been unwilling to compromise and had insisted on Westerosi dominion over Gondor and Rohan if they were to avoid war.

"Your highness, the combined land strength of Gondor and Rohan, is four times that of the Stormlands," Lord Imrahil reasoned "And I have heard nothing about a navy in 'Shipbreaker' Bay."

Lord Baratheon rose quickly from his chair, his hand resting on his empty scabbard - Once more Barristan thanked all the seven above, that every man had been stripped of their weapons before entering - as his head turned into a sharp red. Smoke seemed to come out of his nose, like a dragon of old. 

"I will hear none of this! Every Stormlander is worth 20 of you Gondorian twats! You come here and take my land, and then insult me and mine afterwards?!" he shouted in anger. Barristan's honour bade him speak up, to disprove his lord, yet he knew his position. He was merely here as a form of formality.

Lord Denethor groaned as he raised his palms to the man, "Lord Baratheon, no one is insulting you. Yet you must admit, that what Lord Imrahil has said is true: We cannot bend the knee to someone weaker than us - it would not make sense."

Gandalf hummed, "From what I have heard, there are few houses in Westeros that bend the knee to someone who isn't significantly stronger than them."

"There are examples." Aerys objected, his brows furrowing

"So I have heard, your grace, yet would you not agree that it always breeds conflict? The Tyrells are always challenged by the Hightowers and Redwynes, the Starks have had to deal with many Bolton uprisings, and currently, the Reynes are challenging house Lannister's hegemony, as Ser Jason tells me."

Ser Jason nodded reluctantly, "That is true, my lord. The Reynes are a struggle to our hegemony, but I assure you that it is of no consequence, and will not become a problem!" he assured his liege. Aerys didn't look assured. "It's because of that weak brother of yours, Tywin tells me. If you ask me, something ought to be done about them, although my father, the king, would disagree of course. Anyway, yes, the Reynes are ambitious, yet the other houses remain loyal and steadfast. My father tells me, that these houses ensure that the Lord Paramounts do not rest on their laurels, and assume themselves too strong to be challenged. When a house believes this, they will not develop further, nor grow their strength and economy." he retorted.

"There are other motivators than fear, your highness." Lord Thorongil argued, "And we are not any of these houses. It would be more comparable to your Riverlands being under the dominion of the Vale - or perhaps more so the North being ruled by the Rivermen, considering the cultural differences."

Theoden nodded in agreement, "If the people of Rohan were to be under anyone's dominion but mine, they would rebel. This is not a threat, your highness, merely a warning."

Prince Aerys shook his head in defeat. "You make fine points, my Lords. The Crown no longer insists upon Baratheon dominion over Gondor or Rohan - Sit, my lord -" the Targaryen hissed at Ormund Baratheon, who was halfway up, "Yet if you do not seek war, we cannot allow full independence. By design or otherwise, you have occupied land belonging to the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, which makes it the land of House Targaryen as well. You must pay homage to the Iron Throne. My suggestion is for Gondor to become the tenth kingdom in Westeros, with Rohan as its eleventh. Steward Ecthelion the Second, is to henceforth be known as Lord Ecthelion of Gondor, a vassal of King Jaehaerys II Targaryen. And you, King Theoden, shall be Lord Theoden of Rohan." he concluded.

The foreigners considered it for many minutes in silence. It was a good offer, Barristan thought. Generous, yet realistic. He had not thought the young prince had it in him, yet his display of diplomatic prowess, should he succeed that was, impressed the young knight. With some luck, and with good advisors around him, he believed Aerys could be his father's namesake reborn. 

It was foolish of them to expect to be left alone, yet it was equally foolish to expect them to become vassals of House Baratheon. If House Selmy could muster near 30.000 men, they never would've yielded to the Stormkings. He suspected Aerys knew this, if not Ormund, and used some of those negotiation tactics his father always talked about. 

After what felt like an eternity had passed, and as Gandalf nearly fell asleep, the Gondorian heir finally spoke, startling the old man. 

"Your offer is generous, your highness, yet I cannot agree to my father becoming a mere lord. My offer is this: Gondor shall remain under the helm of the Stewards. My father, Steward Ecthelion the second, shall remain so, and shall pay a fifteenth of our income from taxes and trade to the Iron Throne. In case of war, we shall aid the crown, as other subjects would. We shall keep our own laws and customs, as I have heard the Martells of Dorne do. Yet we shall swear fealty to House Targaryen."

Aerys mused on the proposal for an equally long time, his fingers drumming on the table. Lord Baratheon sat beside him, looking every bit the embodiment of his house's words, and no doubt now believing that his predecessor, Lord Lyonel, had the right of it when he rebelled. Once they returned from the Stepstones, Barristan felt he would need to watch his liege lord carefully. It was a tough thing, to be a Targaryen loyalist in the Stormlands these days. Although most had forgiven their overlords, they still had not forgotten the great insults that had been thrown at them. 

Barristan was pulled out of his thoughts, as Aerys rose from his seat. 

"My lords, on behalf of my father, Jaehaerys Targaryen, the second of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I accept your proposal, Lord Denethor."

Denethor stood up, and the two men walked toward each other, and extended their hands, before grasping the other's forearm. Aerys smiled fondly at his new vassal, before turning to Theoden. 

"And you, your grace?"

"I have lost much of my land, your highness. I do not know how many Rohirrim I have in my lands, nor how much I can expect to receive in taxes from my people. I will agree to the same offer, on one condition: Rohan is to not pay taxes for the next 5 years, after which we too shall pay a fifteenth of our income. We shall keep our own laws and customs, and shall aid you in times of war when called upon."

Aerys's smile broadened. "Your demands are reasonable, King Theoden, or Lord Theoden I suppose." 

He extended his hand, as Theoden slowly rose from his chair, a sombre look on his face, before grasping Aerys's forearm. Aerys laughed loudly.

"Come now, my friends! Let us announce our union to the people outside!"

Chapter Text

Ser Jon Arryn stood at the helm of his ship, The Falcon, as he sailed for Hull on the island of Driftmark. Ahead of him lay hundreds of ships inside the grand port. He could read some of the sigils in front of him - the stag of House Baratheon, the dragon of the Royal House, the Lannister Lion, and many minor ones were obvious - but there were a few that stood out to him, in particular, the large white banner without charge, the blue banner with a white swan-like ship upon it, and the 3 or so ships that flew a green banner, with a white stallion upon it. 

The Gondorians, Jon guessed. Perhaps the Rohirrim too? He knew not. He had only heard of the Rohirrim once, in the tales of a merchant at Gulltown, for most would rather talk of the Gondorians it seemed. 

The 40-year-old knight did not know much of ships, yet even he could see that these were ships of extraordinary quality, made by men who knew their craft well. Of course, there were small ships too, but the vast majority were ships of great draught with many oars. Jon looked back at his own pitiful fleet behind him with a sigh. Not since Aegon's Conquest had the Vale been in possession of a large fleet, a fact clearly visible. Yet he still had 46 lesser warships and 7 dromons. When House Arryn had mustered its forces, Jon's father, Lord Jasper Arryn, had made sure to hire four dozen merchant carracks to help transport the men, yet it now seemed an unnecessary expense. 

Lord Jasper had expected 10.000 men would come when he mustered the men. Yet by the time Jon departed at Gulltown, he had only 6000 men, who only needed 60 ships. He had spread the men out a bit, on 70 of the 101 ships, since the gold had already been paid. 

38,000 golden dragons, he mused. That was how much had been thrown into the sea by his father, seemingly because of a lapse of judgement. Already there were whispers that his old age was limiting his capabilities as a lord. Nonsense, Jon thought. By rights, the Vale should have been able to bring more men. The only reason they had not, was because of the laziness of his father's bannermen. House Hunter, Redfort, Belmore, Corbray and Templeton had each sent 250 men. The Waynwoods and the Royces had each sent eight-hundred men, with 500 knights accompanying them. Jon himself had brought 1400 men, and 400 knights.

Yet the rest of the Vale combined had barely sent 400. Four houses, and not even four hundred men. It was disgraceful. 

A pat on the shoulder brought him out of his thoughts, and he turned around and looked into a long stern face with dark grey eyes. 

"What troubles you, Jon?" his new friend, Rickard Stark, asked him. The man and his army had been a welcome addition to Jon's fleet when they had sailed into Gulltown from White Harbour, with 24 ships, and two thousand strong men, ten dozen or so of whom had even fought in the last Blackfyre Rebellion. A quarter of the northern force consisted of grizzled warriors, no younger than 40, while another quarter were third and fourth sons, no older than 20; yet they were a formidable force, that didn't lack discipline, and never whined about the conditions at sea - like a few of Jon's lords had. 

The other half of the northern force were knights from White Harbour, led by the young Ser Wyman Manderly, the heir to White Harbor. The Andal knights had been a surprise to Jon, albeit a pleasant one. 

Rickard himself had also been a surprise to Jon. He had expected a wildman more akin to the mountain clansmen of the Vale, yet in front of him stood an intelligent young man, with a quiet dignity to him, and ambitions that rivalled Jon's. He was a stern but well-composed man, with dark hair. 

"Thoughts of my father's bannermen," he answered truthfully. Rickard didn't need further explanation and merely nodded. 

"I trust you've seen the ships ahead?" he asked instead with a toothy smile, softening his stern features. Jon grinned, as he turned around and looked at them again.

"Beautiful creations. I wonder who these Gondorians are. They are clearly good ship-makers, yet so are the Ironborn. Is that all the gods have brought here? More Ironborn?"

"My Gods hate the Ironborn as much as your gods!" Rickard laughed, "But it certainly seems like the sort of divine joke they'd make." he snorted, before pausing and staring intently at the ships, "Yet they are beautiful, these ships. As beautiful as my sweet Lyarra. These were made by men who care for more than raiding, I reckon. Good men, I'd wager." he said then. 

Jon considered his words and prayed to the Father and Mother that he was right - and to the Warrior to give him battle strength if not. The mention of the Ironborn had him remembering a raven he received at Gulltown before they departed.

"Now that you mentioned the Ironborn, I forgot to tell you before we left, that Quellon Greyjoy is leading a hundred longboats around Westeros to aid in the battle," said Jon.

Rickard gave a wolf-like growl and gripped his sword tightly. "Damn raiders," he spat, "Good for nothing except killing unarmed women and children. It will take a thousand squids to subdue a man of the Golden Company," he added with respect.

Jon furrowed his brows.

"It sounds an awful lot like you respect these mercenaries, my friend?"

"Aye, I do. Why shouldn't I? They're skilled fighters, probably far better than most of the peasants you Southerners brought with you. Not to mention, they're fighting for what they believe is just and right - or well, the men do, their commanders only care for wealth and power. I have no respect for the other sellsword companies, however."

"What they believe is just and right?" he asked incredulously, "Rickard, these men fight to place a usurper on the throne, as their predecessors did. Thousands of Valemen died in the first of their gods' forsaken rebellions."

Rickard chuckled. "The Blackfyres have always believed that Daemon Blackfyre was the heir to the throne. They fought because they believed that he was the true king. Just like our families did during the Dance, my friend; or have you forgotten that Aegon the Elder was the heir by all the laws of gods and men, yet we aided Rhaenyra merely because the king chose her?" he asked. 

That silenced Jon, who usually didn't struggle to find words. 

"As long as you agree that the Monstrous is our enemy who needs to be defeated, I can accept your more... controversial opinions." he then said a minute later. 

Rickard smiled at him, "The Monstrous is nothing but an ambitious man. Any man who would give up 8/9 parts of his kingdom to other men, does not deserve to rule and is not in this for the greater good. Not to mention this "Tom the Butcher", that has laid claim to my father's land. I wouldn't have led two thousand northerners south if I didn't believe in this cause." he said, before he patted Jon on the back again, and walked away.

****

By the time they sailed into the port, a welcome party had appeared upon the wharf. Jon recognized the long silver hair of a Targaryen, the short golden hair of a Lannister, and the large black-haired man, who could only be a Baratheon. Behind the three, stood another three, whom he did not recognize. One was tall and proud, yet looked as old as Jon's own father. He wore commoners' clothes, yet was well groomed - apart from his absurdly long beard, of course. He held an ash wood cane in his right hand - or a walking stick, mayhaps? - that was as large as himself, an impressive feat. 

The other was dressed like a northerner, yet had the sandy hair of the Westerlands. Below the hair, he wore a somber look and a short beard. If Jon had to guess, he'd say the man was near himself in age.

The last man was tall, near six and a half feet, with raven hair that flowed freely down his broad shoulders. He seemed as if he might as well have come with Jon's entourage from the Vale, as proud and valiant as he looked. As the ship got closer, Jon could see wisdom and farsightedness in his eyes, which seemed strange for a man as young as he looked. Furthermore, with a closer range, he could now see the white tree on his chest. 

"Lord Arryn, Lord Stark, we are happy to see you arrived safely!" the young Targaryen prince announced, as Jon's ship docked. Before the ship even stood still, Rickard had already jumped off of it, in one smooth motion. He unclasped his cloak and allowed it to fall freely to the ground, leaving it behind without a second thought. Jon shook his head with a slight smile on his face. 

By the time Jon had gotten off the ship, Rickard was already kneeling to the crown prince.

"My prince, I bring two thousand men with me for your father's cause. The strength of the North is yours, your grace." spoke the northern heir.

He then looked up from his feet, towards the Hand of the King.

"Lord Hand, it grieved me to hear of the loss of your land," he said bluntly, lacking the tact Jon would've used. His father had taught him from an early age, not to mention topics that would make your companion uncomfortable. If he had to guess, Rickard had been taught the opposite by his.

"Yet," he continued, "It is good to see that not all of the Stormlands is gone." he said, as he got to his feet, not noticing the sour look on Ormund Baratheon's face, "Anyway, my father would've come himself, but sends me in his stead. My men are yours to command: I bring 300 spears - of which a hundred are mounted-, 600 axes, and a hundred swords. Ser Wyman Manderly has answered your call as well, bringing a thousand mounted knights with him."

"The Iron Throne thanks you and your father for your loyalty, Lord Stark. I assure you, your men will be in good hands, -" said the Hand, before he was cut off by a cough. All eyes turned to the third Westerosi with them, the Golden-haired Lannister. 

"Forgive me, my Lord Hand, your grace, yet I cannot help but wonder, how it is that the North brings a mere two thousand men, while other kingdoms, like my father's, have brought eleven thousand, a quarter of our full force? Could you help me understand, Lord Stark?" he asked with a feigned curiosity, that Jon had no doubt did not fool anyone present.

Rickard merely smiled in response, as he took a measure of the young man.

"And you are?" he questioned softly. The Lannister's brows furrowed for a short moment, and his previous smile turned sour. A soft spot, Jon guessed.

"I am Ser Tywin Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock."

"Ah yes, I had heard of Lord Tytos's son. I met your father a few years ago, and I must say that you seem very similar to him. Yet I had expected Lord Tytos to have provided his children with a proper Maester." he admonished the young Lannister with his typical sternness as if he wasn't only a mere three years older than Tywin. 

"Your Maester," he continued, "ought to have taught you, at the very least, the size of the North. My father's land is the size of all the other kingdoms combined, and eight times as large as the Westerlands - Bear Island is similar in size to the land your father rules directly, in fact - yet it has a population somewhere around four million we believe, less than a ninth of how many live south of the Neck, and less than how many live in the Westerlands. When Lord Cregan Stark marched south during the dance, it took him more than a year to gather twenty thousand men. I could have gathered as many men too, of course, but then I would not have been here before the next year. I chose instead to gather as many men as I could in a short period of time and come south to the aid of my liege." he said nonchalantly.

Aerys waved his hand dismissively while shaking his head.

"Enough of this foolishness! Lord Stark, I thank you for bringing your men south," he said, before turning his attention to Jon, "Ahh, Ser Jon! It is great to have you here as well. Your men shall be put to good use. Now, how were your travels, my friends?" he asked.

Jon smiled, "It was a decent journey, your grace. We were hit by a storm off the coast of Cracklaw Point, yet no man was lost, fortunately. I bring six thousand men with me." he said, before looking behind the prince.

"Your grace, might I ask you to introduce your companions to me?" he asked curiously. Aerys cracked a large smile in return, before gesturing for the three men to come forward, which they did reluctantly. The raven-haired man came first, his back straight, and chin high. He bowed his head slightly in greeting, before extending a hand. Puzzled, Jon extended his hand too, slowly, and the foreigner grasped his forearm tightly, shaking it, and placing his left hand on the back of his hand. 

"I am honoured to meet you, Ser Jon Arryn. I am Lord Denethor, of the House of Húrin, heir to Steward Ecthelion the Second of Gondor. And you too, Rickard Stark," he said, as he grasped Rickard's forearm, the Northman seeming more accustomed to the queer greeting. 

"Lord Denethor is a good friend of mine!" said Aerys then loudly, before gesturing to the sandy-haired man. "This is Ki- sorry, this is Theoden of the house of Eorl, Lord of the Mark, another great friend of mine!" he patted the man on his shoulder while smiling, to which this Lord Theoden tried to give a smile. Theoden greeted them similarly to the Gondorian. 

"Finally!" Aerys said dramatically, "I have the honour of introducing Gandalf the Grey - or Mithrandir, one of the two..."

The tall old man smiled kindly at them, yet made no move to greet them as the others had done. Jon wondered who this man was, yet knew better than to insult the elders with too many questions. Whomever he was, the others seemed to respect him - grudgingly perhaps - although he seemingly held no lands or titles. 

Jon was the first to answer them. "I am Ser Jon Arryn, heir to Jasper Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, and Warden of the East. This is my friend, Rickard Stark, heir to Edwyle Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North," he said before Rickard interrupted him. 

"My lords, I need some cold ale and food that doesn't come from the damn sea. Might we move the conversation indoors?"

While some seemed taken aback by the northern bluntness, there were those amongst the foreigners, chief of them this Gandalf fellow, who looked relieved. 

****

Lord Denethor was a curious man. In many ways, he reminded Jon of the young Tywin Lannister, yet... different. He was a noble man, yet proud and calculating. While Rickard was fighting the Gondorians and Rohirrim in the yard, Jon was introducing Denethor to Westeros, with all its backstabbing and scheming that seemed to shock the Gondorian lord. 

"They... rode dragons?" a confused Denethor asked Jon.

"Aye," Jon said, "Yet the last dragon died more than a hundred years ago. Since then, the Targaryens have ruled over us as men, not gods. Of course, they didn't like that. The last king, Aegon the Fifth, attempted to bring back the dragons at Summerhall - the ruin you passed on your way here - yet failed miserably. I trust you saw the result of his folly?"

"That I did..." Denethor said grimly, "Yet why would any man willingly attempt to bring back dragons?" 

Jon chuckled darkly, "Aegon was a man of the people, more peasant than noble in truth. Throughout his reign, he constantly attempted to reform Westeros and limit the power of the nobles, in favour of the peasants. Needless to say, he was wildly unpopular with all the lords and ladies who constantly opposed his radical decisions. He seemingly thought that what he needed to pass his reforms was dragons. With dragons, he could force his reforms on every noble in the seven kingdoms, for who would dare to oppose an army of dragons?" he explained while chewing on his salmon. 

Denethor considered his words with a frown while picking at his cod with a knife. Jon looked towards the yard, to see Rickard preparing for his next fight, against a Gondorian, Thorongil his name was. The fight was over in ten seconds, with Rickard flat on his back, and a sword at his throat. 

"You're lucky to have as skilled a fighter as this Thorongil as your general, Lord Denethor!" Jon chuckled, as he turned back to Denethor, to find the man scowling. 

"Yes, lucky." he japed scornfully. Jon frowned. "You dislike the man, my lord?" he asked sincerely.

"Dislike? No, not exactly. Distrust, more like. Him and that old wizard, Mithrandir."

Jon ignored the jape about Gandalf being a wizard. "How come?" he asked, being no stranger to disloyal vassals and knights. 

"I have my suspicions about the man, yet you must promise not to speak loudly of these to any man. Can you make this promise, Ser Jon?" he questioned. Jon thought about it for a moment, before nodding. "You have my word as an Arryn," he added. 

"Good. I have come to believe that the man Thorongil is in fact a descendant of the kings of old, the son of Arathorn the Second if I had to guess, although his name escapes me," he whispered conspiratorially, "He came to Gondor a few years back and won the love of every Gondorian, yet I see through him. He has been showering himself with glory ever since, and I fear he might take advantage of his popularity to seize the throne of Gondor by force." he whispered grimly. Jon looked back towards the yard, and saw that the general had rather easily befriended both Rickard Stark and Ser Yohn Royce after besting them in duels. Denethor continued talking.

"Of course I am not the only noble to believe that this would be a disaster, yet the man has the love of the army. I fear he would quench any opposition to his reign with brutal force. Gondor would be thrown into a civil war, the likes of which we haven't seen since the 'Kin-strife', more than fifteen-hundred years ago." he shook his head in sorrow, "I have done everything in my power to strengthen my father's position, yet even my father loves this Ranger of the North. More than anything, I need allies, yet our closest friend, Theoden, has fought in many a battle alongside Thorongil and would be far more likely to support his kingship, than my father."

Jon considered Denethor's words carefully while staring intensely at the floor. Thorongil seemed a good man, yet Jon knew that appearances could easily fool you. If the general declared himself king of Gondor, the kingdom would surely no longer bend its knee to King Jaehaerys. The king, although a weak man, could not allow such a slight, lest he suffers countless insurrections. He would have to go to war with Gondor, a conflict that had just barely been avoided by the young crown prince. Who knew the result of such a war? Jon was no fool; he could see the strength of even a common Gondorian guard, worth mayhaps 5 Westerosi knights. Any war would be costly for the victorious side, yet it would also create opportunities for all the great lords of Westeros...

He sighed, and looked up again, "How can I help you, my friend?"

Chapter Text

Ser Tywin Lannister stood on the beach, hands clasped behind his back, the sea before him, as its waves clashed against the nearby cliffs, slowly eroding them. Who knew when they would be gone? A thousand years? More? He did not know. They had endured much, and their legacy was grand, yet one day they would be no more, consumed by the sea. 

His maester had told him of the erosion of cliffs before, yet he could not remember much of his lessons. He frowned, as the thought reminded him of home, in all its dwindling glory. The rock, its Hall of Heroes, the great mines, overflowing with gold. Before he had left for King's Landing all those years ago, he had bathed in the sea of Lannisport with his beautiful Joanna. Joanna. The thought brought a rare smile to his face, washing away his frown, as he remembered the girl he had been separated from for nearly 7 years before she too had come to the capital, with her long golden hair, and her beautiful green eyes, so alike his own. When he left her, she had been but a young girl, barely nine. Yet now she was a woman grown. He had known from the moment she entered the Red Keep, that he would marry her one day. He found himself yearning for her, and her warm embrace, as the sun dawned on Driftmark.

With Dawn came Lord Denethor, the heir to the Gondorian Stewardship. 

"Lord Tywin," he greeted the young heir to Casterly Rock. 

"Lord Denethor," Tywin said, his eyes not leaving the sea ahead. Spring was almost at an end, yet the morning was still cold, Tywin noted to himself. They had been lucky that winter had ended before the war began, otherwise, it would've taken far longer to gather the armies of the Seven Kingdoms. The winter of 258 had been quick, yet brutal and cold. The ice had blocked the port of Lannisport and prevented naval trade. Tywin frowned as he thought of the initiatives he had proposed to his father to deal with the ice, only for his father to dismiss them without a glance. 

"Are your thoughts on the upcoming war?" Denethor asked him, noticing the frown. Tywin sighed.

"Yes," he lied, "It's my first war." he continued, not wanting to tell a foreigner of the current weakness of the Westerlands. 

"Ah..." the Gondorian lord chuckled grimly, "You're lucky. I fought my first battle when I was two years younger than you. A minor skirmish with the orcs of Mordor," he shivered, "Yet it was enough for me to realise that I was better suited for command than the actual fighting."

Curious, Tywin thought. He had heard mention of these "Orcs" before, and each time the man mentioning them shivered or became angry. He decided not to press the matter further - he would wait until he had gotten to know Lord Denethor well enough. He turned towards the Steward’s son. The man was taller than he, a rare feat, he mused. His hair was dark, and his eyes as grey as a Stark. He looked in many ways similar to Rickard Stark, yet calmer, more noble and more dignified. Of course, he too was far older than Stark, and probably older than Tywin’s own father. How the man had not yet been made Steward, Tywin did not understand - his father would have to be in his seventies, if not older. 

"You were merely sixteen?" he asked incredulously, "That's quite an early age to fight in battle, wouldn't you agree?" 

"Perhaps for you Westerosi it is, but before Gondor came here, we had been at constant war for hundreds, if not thousands of years, with Sauron or his minions. Most Gondorian men have had to fight the Orcs at one point or another, even if they hadn't yet come of age. It has been a constant drain on our population, and I expect that the safety of Westeros shall lead to great growth in our population." Denethor said innocently with a slight chuckle, the act convincing enough to fool a lesser man. Yet Tywin saw through the innocent smalltalk, to what he was actually saying: Gondor is a growing power, and may in the future become the strongest power in Westeros. Their army was exceptionally skilled, yet relatively small; but this will change in the future, as the army becomes comparable to other Westerosi kingdoms. 

"Spare me your flowery words, Lord Denethor," he said harshly, "Speak your mind freely, there's no one here to hear you scheme."

Denethor smiled slightly, the smile not reaching his eyes. "Aye, the Prince did tell me you were clever. I talked to your uncle a few hours back, yet he didn't seem to have any thoughts about politics," he said, while slowly walking closer to Tywin, until he was but an arms length away, "I happened to look at a map of Westeros recently. If my math is correct, the islands of the Stepstones should be blocking any naval passage into the sea between Gondor and Dorne. As you might guess, Westerosi possession of these islands is of paramount importance to any naval trade coming in and out of Gondor's ports..."

"...And you want me to persuade the king to do this." he finished for the Gondorian. 

"Just so." Denethor admitted. 

Denethor was a far-sighted man, he realised then. The proposal made sense for Gondor, yet it also made sense for Tywin to seek to weaken any potential future enemies. Limiting Gondorian trade with the free cities, would make sure that they never grew too powerful. 

"And what would be in this for me?" Tywin asked, crossing his arms.

"Why, my gratitude, of course!" Denethor stated, before continuing, "And all the boons that come with it."

Tywin scoffed, "And what boons would this be, Lord Denethor?" he questioned.

Denethor smiled, "The Rock is a great castle, Ser Tywin, almost as great as Minas Tirith. Taller than both the Hightower and the Wall! I understand your pride, as well as your belief in its impregnability. Yet Casterly Rock has many weaknesses too - not just its lord. Under Lord Tytos's rule, House Reyne has come to nearly rival House Lannister in strength. After you left, they have been using their men to strengthen their position further. Brigands raid the Westerlands, hundreds of them in fact, and whenever they enter the land of Lord Roger Reyne, he merely sends them towards Lannisport instead of defeating them."

Tywin’s hand curled into a fist. Someone had talked to Lord Denethor and told him everything. Was it his uncle, Ser Jason, perhaps? Yet even he would surely not know all this?

"No, your uncle did not tell me this, Ser," he said reassuringly. Tywin froze, the hair on his neck rising.

"How did you..." he asked quietly before Denethor interrupted him.

"Do you think the eyes of the White Tower are blind, Ser?" he asked rhetorically, "No, Gondor knows much, including things that even you do not. As I said, the Rock is not as strong as you think. It has a fundamental flaw, that could easily be taken advantage of by enemies. Yet it is a weakness that I could tell you of, should you help me in this matter." 

Tywin said nothing, instead staring at the sand beneath him. Surely the man was just good at guessing? There was no realistic way for him to know Tywin's thoughts. He was a fraud, surely. He lied to Tywin, said all the things he knew would set him off, and then correctly guessed where Tywin's mind would wander - nothing more. 

Denethor sighed, as he turned to walk away from Tywin. After a few steps, he turned towards Tywin again, his eyes piercing Tywin's, "Take some time to think about it, Tywin. Gondor is in need of allies in this strange land. If House Lannister agrees to help us, it would benefit us all. Our knowledge would become your knowledge as well, to use to strengthen your father's land and rid it of disloyal vassals. All I need in return, is your assistance in delivering the isles of Bloodstone and Sunstone to Gondor. Do this, and you will earn my gratitude. And much like you Lannisters, I too pay my debts."

He left Tywin with his thoughts racing.

****

"I will lead the men, nephew, as your father, our lord, has commanded. I will hear no more!" Ser Jason Lannister nearly shouted, the veins on his face throbbing. Tywin ground his teeth.

"Our lord commanded you to lead the men from Casterly Rock, as I, his son and heir, was in King's Landing, on his orders." he said, fuming, "I thank you for your service, Ser, yet now that you have brought the men here, it is my right and duty, as the future Warden of the West, to command them into battle. I have no more need of you, uncle." he responded, doing his best to remain polite, so as not to get on bad terms with Joanna’s father.

"Listen to your uncle, Ser Tywin." Roger Reyne said, his chin up as he happily watched Tywin get humiliated in front of the dozen lords present in the small valley. The Lord of Castamere was a vile man, with dirty hair and a large nose. Roger Reyne was a man who took great pleasure in destruction. Merely five years ago, he had murdered several Marband men - one of whom Tywin knew - before escaping punishment. And now he was here at the Stepstones, no doubt enjoying warfare. The smile he bore reminded Tywin of a smiling badger. 

Ser Jason smirked, as he always did, which only provoked Tywin further.

"Aye, nephew, you outrank me on paper, as the son of my brother. Yet command was given to me, in spite of this. It is not within your right to defy your lord's wishes." he said, pinching his nose. Tywin tried to respond, but was interrupted, "No more, boy!" Ser Jason hissed, "I will hear no more! Have you seen battle before, Tywin?" he asked rhetorically, knowing the answer. "I have. I have fought bandits and outlaws in the Westerlands, whilst you feasted with royals. I have bled alongside our countrymen. I have seen battle." he stated, "The men know this too. You may be their lord's heir, yet they will not respect you, before you have fought alongside them, and become their brother-in-arms. If they don't respect you, they won't follow you."

Tywin said nothing as his uncle gently placed a hand on his face, and locked eyes with him.

"You're my nephew, Tywin, and I love you. Yet you cannot expect to command in the war when this is your first war. I shall lead the men, and Lord Roger shall be my second in comma-"

"Lord Reyne?!" Tywin snapped in shock, the Lord of Castamere glowering at him, "This is folly, uncle!"

"Enough! Roger is a good man, a good leader and a good warrior." he said, stroking the lord's ego," Should I fall, I'd want our men to be commanded by the best man present. That man is Lord Roger Reyne. Now go to the prince, and board your ship." he said, before turning around and storming away from Tywin. Kevan looked apologetically back at Tywin, before he too ran off, as Lord Reyne's dutiful squire. Only 10-year-old Tygett stayed behind, his long golden locks flowing down his back, the one thing that helped differentiate the two brothers

"I wouldn't worry, brother. With Aerys and Steffon, you'll have plenty of chances to distinguish yourself and earn glory on the battlefield!" He observed cheerfully, trying to wash away Tywin's frustration.

"Aye. And with the host of the Westerlands, Lord Roger Reyne will have plenty of chances to distinguish himself and earn glory on the battlefield." Tywin pointed out to his well-meaning younger brother, "And he shall gain more popularity than had I been in command, and able to keep him with the reserves."

Tygett rolled his eyes and pouted. "You think too politically, Tywin. We're off to war against the Blackfyre bastards in the East, and you're still thinking of our petty internal power struggles."

He scoffed. Tygett had a great mind for battle, he believed, and would serve House Lannister brilliantly in future wars, yet he lacked the political cunning that House Lannister needed in this fateful hour. The political cunning that Tywin was seemingly the only one of his brothers to have received - perhaps with the exception of his younger brother Kevan, yet that remained to be seen.

"This war matters not, Tygett. It is all but won already. Maelys and his band of nine command 20.000 men according to our scouts. They had 22.000 before they took the Stepstones. They fall like flies in battle, with their only good warriors being the men of the Golden Company. Yet even had they had 20.000 Golden Company men, it would be nothing compared to the army of Westeros. More than 80.000 men shall soon sail for the Stepstones. Or, truthfully, we shall leave some behind to not exhaust our supplies too quickly. Yet should the first wave of attacks fail, we'd have another army ready to sail forth and conquer the Stepstones. And that's not mentioning the Gondorians and Rohirrim, whose numbers I do not fully know. Do you understand now the pettiness of this war?" his condescending voice asked Tygett, who scowled at him. 

"And now you're going to start talking about the legacy of House Lannister, are you not? About the lion and the sheep, and whatever other analogies you like using?" his brother questioned lazily. Tywin sighed. "Do you care nothing for the future of our house?" He asked rhetorically. "No, not really." Tygett said sarcastically, "In fact, I think I'd care more for practicing with swords in the yard." he faked a yawn, patted Tywin on the arm, and abandoned him. 

After a moment of silence, a voice spoke in the shadows, "Ahhh, the competitiveness of brothers." it lamented, seemingly reminiscing of events and brothers long gone. Out of the shadows, strode Gandalf the Grey, the old man from Gondor. 

"Lord Gandalf," Tywin greeted politely, "I had not seen you."

"I have only just arrived, young Lord Tywin. And please, I am no lord. Gandalf will do just fine - or Mithrandir if you prefer; In fact, anything you'd like will be accepted." the old voice spoke kindly. 

"Yet everyone treats you with great respect. Why?" he questioned, perhaps too harshly, for the old man seemed slightly surprised. 

"For the council I give, I reckon. Or perhaps merely because I am an old man!" he jested. Tywin didn't buy it. He may look like an old man, yes, but there was something to him that he couldn't quite describe. A strength, and a power that burned in his eyes. He decided to probe him.

"Your cane," he said, "doesn't look like an ordinary cane to me. What use is the spike at the end?" 

Gandalf chuckled, "Why, I know not, young Tywin. This was a gift to me, from an old friend. I don't believe I ever asked him your question, yet perhaps I should've."

Tywin wasn't convinced. This old man was a good liar, yet Tywin's heart told him not to trust the man. Yet there was something about him. This was no ordinary schemer, like the men he had seen in King's Landing. He was noble, even with his blue hat and absurdly long beard. 

"You don't look like the other men of Gondor, Master Gandalf. Are you from elsewhere in... your world, somewhere far away, perhaps? " asked Tywin, curious about this 'Middle Earth'. Gandalf chuckled, seemingly amused by the question. His amusement angered Tywin, whose nostrils flared, "That's amusing to you, is it now?" he questioned harshly.

"No!" Gandalf said, still chuckling, "I am, as you guessed, from somewhere far away. Valinor, its name is, yet I don't know if I shall ever gaze upon its beauty again..." he said wistfully, his eyes dazing off to somewhere far away, that only he could see, before refocusing on Tywin, "Yet now I am here."

"And how long have you served Gondor and Steward Ecthelion, then?" Tywin probed, not interested in the old man's home.

Again, Gandalf chuckled heartily, "I am afraid that I've never served Gondor, Ser Tywin. I come and go as I please, arriving only when my heart brings me to Gondor, or when the stewards ask for my assistance - which I'm afraid rarely happens, as the stewards tend to prefer the council of the head of my order, Saruman."

"Your order?" asked Tywin, the word reminding him of the maesters, and he found himself suddenly disappointed in the mysterious old man. Was that all he was, this man? Some sort of maester? He did not like the man, yet he at least respected him - before now. 

"Yes, my order. Five, we are; Saruman, our leader, myself, Radagast, and two more whom I have not seen for... a long time. Alatar and Pallando, their names are - or were, I know not. We came to Middle-Earth long ago, when kings still ruled Gondor, our purpose was to guide the free people and help them overcome the Dark Lord Sauron."

Sauron. There was that name again. Lord Denethor too had mentioned it, and Tywin had assumed it was the name of an enemy house, yet Gandalf's words said otherwise. Nevertheless, he would be a fool to believe everything an old man tells him. Something else had piqued his interest, however,

"Kings? Lord Denethor had not told me that Gondor was ruled by kings until recently?" he asked skeptically. Gandalf sighed, his face darkening. 

"It has been many centuries since Gondor was ruled by a king," said Gandalf, no longer sounding like a maester recounting history, but rather a man who himself had been there at the events. The realization startled Tywin, the hairs on his neck rising, "The House of Anarion collapsed with Eärnur, and the blood of Elendil and Isildur seemingly failed. The House of Hurin has been capable stewards of the throne ever since, yet we are many who yearn for the return of the king - although I know not whether a king is still necessary, of course, with our arrival to these lands. Time shall tell, I imagine."

If the old man had thought his response would explain everything, and answer any questions Tywin might've had, he had miscalculated. His mind was spinning. Before he could ask Gandalf his questions, he had thought of a new, more important one. On and on his thoughts went, until they landed on a single question, after what felt like hours.

"Who... are you?" he heard his own nonplussed voice ask, not noticing that he had opened his mouth. The old man gave him a smile of pity. 

Yet before Gandalf could answer his question, a great horn reverberated everywhere on the island. Tywin felt his heart drop into his stomach, as he looked to find Gandalf's smile replaced by solemn disappointment. 

"The horns of death..." he muttered grimly, "I reckon you need to board your ship, young Lord Tywin. As do I." he added, before turning and walking away, with surprising swiftness. Tywin swallowed and steadied his nerves. He had a war to win. 

****

Tywin did not enjoy sailing. Throughout the first day of sailing, he spent more hours emptying his stomach into the Narrow Sea, than he did asleep in his hammock. Fortunately, the frustrating journey concluded when his ship arrived on the Sapphire Island of Tarth - a boring island, that he was not in the mood to enjoy. 

Nevertheless, Tarth brought about a change for the better. No longer would he travel aboard Gerold the Golden, the flagship of the aged Lannister fleet. Instead, he was to travel with Steffon and Aerys aboard the Targaryen Flagship, Balerion, a great dromond from around the days when dragons still roamed the world - although it had had several parts replaced since then. While Aerys was infatuated with the ship, Tywin thought of it mainly as a relic of the past; a ceremonial ship, the last ship from the golden days of yore. No Targaryen king had wanted to be the one to let it go from the Royal Navy, its emotional value being too great for many. For this reason, he hoped that it would face destruction in the attack on the Stepstones so that it could be replaced by a quicker and larger ship. Yet it was a comfortable ship, one that wasn't fazed by the sea, to Tywin's great pleasure. 

"Seven hells, that man is a damn god!" Steffon exclaimed, once again speaking of the Gondorian general, Thorongil, "I would put all the gold of Storm's End on him in any fight, even against the warriors from the age of heroes!"

Aerys scoffed, "Nonsense, no mortal man can beat a Targaryen in a fight. Put this Thorongil against Aemon, Daemon, or Aegon the Dragon himself, and he would face certain defeat!" he yelled, mayhaps having had a bit too much wine - Tywin knew his friend enough to know that the wine always brought forth Aerys's thoughts on the superiority of House Targaryen. 

Steffon groaned and slammed his large arms into the table before him, his patience running thin, "Did you see him fight the White Bull himself? And that was after the score of fights that he had already won that day!"

Tywin nodded slowly, "Yes, the man is certainly impressive. He would be a great boon if we could sway him to our side. From what I have heard from his loyal men, he is also a great commander. Before their... arrival to Westeros, he had led the Gondorian Navy in a surprise attack on the Corsairs of Umber, a band of pirates not much unlike the Ironborn. He slew their commander in single combat and burned their fleet. I wish Westeros had had a man like him, to deal with the ironborn question." he said seriously.

Steffon sighed, "I'd be careful with such words, Tywin. Lord Quellon Greyjoy will soon join our ship. It would be most unwise to upset a man who commands a hundred longboats."

Tywin's mouth moved upwards in a way one might confuse with a smile, "Quellon Greyjoy? A boy of sixteen? I care not for his anger. Let him come, if he wishes; The Rock shall repel him."

Aerys chuckled, "Yes, it'd seem that the Westerlands need not fear the might of the Iron Islands - only common bandits and brigands."

The comment made Tywin frown. Long had the Westerlands been plagued by bandits, who undermined the authority of Casterly Rock. What was worse, was Denethor's comments about these raids, and their potential link to House Reyne. A curious look from Steffon, made Tywin decide to share his concerns with his close friends.

"I heard a troubling thing the other day," he said, drawing in the two young men's attention, "From Lord Denethor. He claimed that House Reyne was in some way allowing the brigands in the Westerlands to raid my father's lands." Aerys frowned, and set aside his cup, "I don't know how he knows this, yet he knew things that a stranger like him ought not to be aware of. I know that it is foolish to believe him, yet I do."

Steffon leaned in, stroking his small beard as if it was as large as his father’s, "Might it be that you believe him, merely because you want to believe him? You want to believe that the Reynes are betraying your father, and this man confirms your belief, with the nonsense he spews." he asked sincerely.

Aerys shook his head, "No... I am of the same mind as you, Tywin. I do not trust Lord Roger Reyne, for some reason - my heart tells me not to. My grandfather sent men to aid your family, yet it did nothing. Surely this aid would only have failed, if it was sabotaged from the inside, by disloyal bannermen?" he asked rhetorically, before continuing, "I say they need to be destroyed. Bring down fire and blood upon them, remind them of their place. Kill Lord Roger Reyne's family and any who sympathizes with him. Execute him on the plaza of Casterly Rock, a public show for all to enjoy." he added, before toasting in Tywin's direction. The heir to Casterly Rock liked it. There could be no mercy for the Reyne's, he knew. Too long had they troubled the Rock. Why his ancestors had allowed them to live, he knew not. Steffon, however, had dropped his jaw. 

"You would... massacre an entire family? An ancient house?" he asked in shock. Aerys nodded, to which Steffon put his cup to his lips once again. "I would advise a more cautious approach," he said, to which Tywin silently urged him to go on with a handwave. Steffon did so.

"Hostages. Take hostages from each family, and demand they repay their loans. Raise the sons and daughters of disloyal lords in Casterly Rock, publicly referring to this as a great honour. Send out the knights of House Lannister to deal with the bandits. Arrange for marriages between the houses of the Westerlands, ensuring the loyalty of all. There are many Lannisters, correct?" he asked Tywin, to which he nodded, "Then have Lannisters marry Reynes, and secure their loyalty. Eventually, you'll have a Lannister with Reyne blood, a Lannister to rule Castamere, without upsetting tradition too much. If they continue bothering you, smear their reputation. The pen is often mightier than the sword - or hammer, as my father says."

"Yes! Yes! That's the move you ought to make, Tywin. Marry a Reyne girl!" he roared, a bit too excitedly. Tywin glared at him, and clenched both fists beneath the table. 

"You know that that will never happen, Aerys," he said admonishingly. Aerys raised his hands in mock capitulation, "Now now Tywin, it was merely a suggestion! A diplomatic move, if you will. No need to get upset." he reasoned, yet Tywin saw through him. Aerys continued, "It would certainly be a better political move than marrying your cousin Joanna, wou-" he maintained, but Tywin interrupted him by jumping from his chair.

"Forgive me, your grace, I would like to draw some fresh air." he declared through his clenched teeth, before he gave a short bow in the prince's direction, and stormed off towards the deck of the ship, leaving his dumbstruck friends behind.

When he arrived on the deck of the ship, he felt the setting sun on his skin. The faint light from it illuminated the lands ahead, and he suddenly noticed how close to the Stepstones they were. There were several islands, some small and some large. The largest of them he figured were Sunstone and Bloodstone, two barren islands with large hills and few trees - the ones Lord Denethor wanted.

"We'll get there by dawn, I reckon." a voice called from behind him. Tywin didn't need to turn around to know that Aerys had followed him. He remained silent, causing Aerys to sigh, "Look Tywin, I apologize for what I said. I know you love Joanna," he groaned annoyingly, the words seemingly upsetting him, "And I shouldn't have said what I did. The future king of Westeros should know more about treating his friends with respect." he admitted. Did he mean it? Tywin wasn't sure, he never was with Aerys. His tone of voice seemed similar to when they had accidentally destroyed a dragon skull while sneaking around, and he'd had to explain the incident to the king. Yet at the same time, Aerys was his friend. His companion. And, above all, necessary for him. You need him, he told himself. And so, he turned around to greet his friend. Aerys looked in many ways similar the spitting image of Aegon the Dragon, although he often wore a lazy smirk, that would look out of place on the conqueror- Tywin Lannister towered over his smaller friend, who seemingly braced himself for a confrontation, his beautiful purple eyes narrowing. Yet he was in no mood for a fight - not when they had an actual fight coming up. 

"We need to stick together, my friend," he said, his voice so sincere he nearly believed it himself, "We can't fight amongst ourselves when we've got a war to win. Yet..." he mused, "Mayhaps we ought to put away the wine for now." he joked. Aerys guffawed, his tense shoulders relaxing once more. He walked to the bow of the ship and gazed at the waters ahead.

"Do you think they'll contest our landing?" the nervous voice of the prince asked. Tywin snorted, "They'd be fools not to. Yet one might've said the same 2 years ago, when questioned about them declaring war on us. I'll admit I know not what navy they possess, so perhaps they stand a chance at stopping the Royal Fleet of Westeros, as well as the Ironborn fleet and the Redwyne Fleet - as well as the various other ships your father's lords have brought with them. Yet if they don't possess such a fleet, it'd be wiser to allow us to land uncontested, and then attempt to crush us at land." he mused aloud. Aerys smiled faintly, "So what are you saying? Would they be fools to attack our fleet, or fools not to?" he asked, causing Tywin to feel a slight movement in his lips. 

"When you put it that way, I suppose they'd be fools to fight us at sea." he declared, to Aerys's great relief. They spent the next hour talking and jesting on the deck of the ship, not knowing of the horrors they were about to face.