Chapter Text

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In My Father’s Shadow Reprise

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It was almost admirable, Jon thought.

Scorpion bolts, and burning boulders came in volleys of dozens and more, even as oarsmen rowed furiously to keep their vessels manoeuvering. Staying still was a death sentence - slave or not, no one wanted to die.

Lady Jeyne’s younger dragon should have had trouble against such a concentrated assault - but she had two things Jon did not; an unbreakable bond with her dragon, and a complete lack of fear.

His dragon - insofar as any dragon could be anyone’s - was second only to Maelos in size. She streaked through the clouds, absorbing barrage after barrage that would have torn through Seasmoke .

-Take us down… nice and easy-

- Jon thought at Shrike. He’d found she responded best to gentle thoughts and a feather touch - if she accepted being touched at all.

Nice and easy still felt much like free fall to Jon, as silver-and-violet flame torched two archers who aimed for Seasmoke’s rider. Little Jeyne - all of two and ten - screamed out a war cry that her dragon emulated pitch-perfectly, putting fear into the hearts of the slave soldiers.

Yes, this girl is the maddest of us. Jon would rather Monterys’ Seasnake take on this duty, but the sea-green dragon wouldn’t be able to bear his weight for another two years, if not more. The Shrike grunted in annoyance.

Dracarys! A sphere of silver and violet flame smashed into the deck of a galleass, and then another and another, and soon, men were leaping into the sea.

Jon bade his dragon let loose; and the Shrike - in stark contrast to Seasmoke - loosed a torrent of emerald and lime flame, ripping apart ships like tinder.

They would dive then rise again, whereas Jeyne’s dragon remained in the air, preferring to swoop down and grab men like the falcon of their House.

A long winding tail shattered men’s necks - if it didn’t take their heads off entirely. Gouts of flame spewed in every direction. Shrike rumbled her annoyance, rattling Jon’s bones.

She’s like Argella - a warrior to her core.

As Seasmoke took to the sky, Shrike dove for an immense war galley; a four-masted monstrosity - and when she landed on it, the vessel’s entire bow sank into the water.

Doing his best to ignore the screaming slaves, Jon asked the Shrike to rip off the mainmast - which she did and sent all fifty feet of it hurling through the air.

-Take to the skies, Shrike!-

His dragon let out a roar of exhilaration as she hurled herself into the air, and Jon watched the ship listing to its side in the aftershock. Now comes the delicate part.

Jon took out a flint, and a cylinder, carved with a dragon head at its tip. Aiming it straight ahead, he tried to stow his panic of the thing exploding in his face. In practice, he’d burned his thigh once, and still bore the scar from that memorable evening.

The Shrike didn’t seem to mind the heat of the bao-shu - the wooden star, as it was becoming known - as it went off. The noise bothered her none either; the star soared high above, and exploded in a cascade of light; bright enough to see, even in daylight.

Morosh must have seen the signal, for the admiral began to move the Myrish fleet in, as they had arranged. The banner of House Targaryen flew proudly on the main-masts; the largest of them, the gift from the Aetheryons that they had named The Hungry Wolf.

Three years ago, I believed I might take the black, and now I have a Navy. A meagre one, compared to what his neighbours could float, but it was still his - and Dany’s. 

His opponent was Captain Khorane, who commanded the Vengeance of the Sea ; a war galley with a ram at her front, and two decks worth of scorpions and ballista.

She came up from behind the Hungry Wolf , just as Admiral Morosh’s artillerymen launched burning pitch from the deck onto a war galley, attempting to ram her. Seasmoke descended after a whistle from Jeyne Arryn, and a sphere of violet and silver flame blew out half the Captain’s quarters - and by the screams, ignited the whale oil stores.

This was the second engagement where slaves hadn’t turned ‘ere the battle went ill against their masters. Jon did not know why - what man would stand, unwillingly, against certain death?

Fire-ships were hurling pitch and fire arrows everywhere, and the sea churned until the deep blue waves became a foreboding pale white surf that leaped up over the railings as ships and men shattered.

At long last, one of the few remaining galleas struck its colours. Cries of desperation turned into cries of outrage, and Jon realized the slaves had finally begun to mutiny. Likely some of the freedmen officers as well.

A scorpion bolt bounced off the Shrike’s shoulder - up and missing Jon’s head by an inch. He almost vomited, as he watched the thing clatter over her wing, and fall into the sea.

Seasmoke was once again on deck, this time distractedly feasting on a fallen sell-sail while the future Lady of Driftmark strode to the Captain, demanding surrender. Mercifully, no one tried to riddle her nigh-defenceless self with crossbow bolts. From above, Jon could hear the calls for parley as the Shrike dove.

None of them had seen a living dragon before , Jon realized as he focused on their faces. There was wonder, awe, fear, and something he had only learned to recognize in Myr - worship .

When Admiral Morosh, at last, came aboard, with the six surviving captains in fetters, Jon ordered that the vessels be towed to Myr.“The Forts or the gallows for the captains.”

That had been a shock of shocks when Jon first learned of it; not only had the warrior-monks that manned the Five Forts sent envoys to the Wall, but they had sent a group of envoys to Myr.

Their leader, Zaifun Shen, grandson of their Lord Commander - or whatever they called the post in distant Yi-Ti - were not much dissimilar to the Night’s Watch recruiters that roamed Westeros. They needed men, and for once, were not averse to prisoners or those of low character.

An Uncle I never met, is raising an army to reinforce the Order. Dany had wept for a brother she never had the chance to know, facing perils neither of them could comprehend.

“You’d hang us?” One asked, in his Lyseni accent, lilting and musical. His eyes were of a blue so dark they were almost black, but his hair was golden.

“Such is the fate of pirates - in the service of slavers, who have brought unjust war upon our lands. Death, or the Watch; that is how it is done in Westeros.” Jon responded, doing his best to mimic his Father’s Lordly voice.

“ Our land,” spat the Lyseni Captain. “Your Grandsires made war upon us! You stole our lands, and brought your vile tree demons and rainbow gods to our shores; you made our way of life a crime! What right have you but the right of the blade? Brigand Price.”

Admiral Morosh strode forward and buried an axe in the man’s skull.

Jon suppressed his shudder; this was how wars were fought in Essos, as bloody - almost ritualistic - affairs. It had not changed in the last century, and seemed unwilling to change in this one as well.

“We will go east, Red Prince.” Spoke one of the Captains with haunted eyes.

“There is a ship bound to Yin in our harbour; they will bear you to your fate,” Jon announced, to much muttering.

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The surviving ships were seized to add to the Myrish navy, and the crew offered rank and land in the Eighth Kingdom. By midmorning, they boasted an additional eleven ships.

Seasmoke let out a sudden screech - the prisoners recoiling - and faced northwest, craning his neck. “What is it, boy?” Jeyne asked, stroking the fins on his neck to calm him.

Another fleet? A trap, perhaps - to get the dragons out of the air, and my commanders all in one place. “I warn you,” he shouted, “if this is treachery, you will die first.”

Amid vehement protests of innocence, Jeyne tugged his arm. “Maybe it’s Father’s fleet…” she whispered, hope and desperation in her voice. Jon grimaced.

Little Jeyne’s heart had broken, with each ship from Westeros that came through that bore neither the banner of the Royal Fleet, nor the Falcon Crest of House Arryn. Her father, Elbert Arryn, was as much lost as the rest of them.

“Banners!” one of the men, manning the crow’s nest of Queen Betha called out. With a whistle, Shrike took to the air, Jon cursing sailors and their remarkable eyes -

Until he saw the fleet and its tattered banners. , Gold and black; Selmy, Baratheon, Caron, Stormland Houses, and…. Above them all, ruined, yet proudly defiant - the banner of the Black Dragon.

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The River Prince

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The battle was everything - and nothing - like what Trystane Martell had imagined it.

Seven terrible days of storm had flung well within the Sea of Myrth, ten days off-course. The Captains were ornery, and the crews to a man utterly terrified.

The Martells were no strangers to sandstorms and the dry lightnings of the desert. But a storm at sea was nothing alike - when it hit, by the Seven Hells , it hit .

Each day, they endured a new and almost-certainly fatal terror.  Men got water in their lungs from the cold wind. Its howling in corners and corridors would drive even the most stalwart to bleeding from their noses and ears.

And the waves, Mother above! Every time Trystane dared to look ahead, he saw shadows.

Ethereal shapes, the echoes of what might have been men. Knights, merchants, horses, dogs; could they have been those the storm had killed?

Ser Willam Wells, one of the champions of House Wells, was smashed against the mainmast by a wave - and then a bolt of green lightning that tore through his flesh, leaving a hole where his heart had been. Trystane would not have believed it, unless he was there - and he was.

In the light, the future Prince of Ny Sar thought he saw a spectral Knight; a smoky skeleton in misty armour that was blown away by the wind.

Men grew ill; men cast themselves overboard. Two ships were set ablaze by lightning, and were pulled beneath the waves by something. Septons prayed to the Seven; Shagga, Son of Dolf, and his Stonecrows prayed to weirwood saplings - and slathered them with their blood.

Timet, Son of Timet, died of thirst, for he gorged out anything he was fed. Poor Deziel almost died, and Daemon Sand lost an eye when a hempen rope snapped, and whipped him in the face. There were times when they would lose a ship an hour, every hour; other times, they would return, and men swore they saw their dead friends still aboard, calling .

Once, they thought they saw Prince Daeron’s fleet, and Dawn struggling through the storm. Another time, they thought they saw Maelos on wing, screeching in desperation - but that could have been the lightning and the thunder, too…

And all through it that most wretched song .

The seventh day, the seas finally calmed, and they all slept the sleep of the dead - even through the miasma of pestilence borne of ten thousand men retching for days.

When the time came to beach their ships for repairs, they found themselves not in friendly environs - but in a land gripped by war. Only the barest of fortifications were erected before the first riders came.

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The Dothraki had come from the Flatlands - but these were no Dothraki as the Westerosi had ever seen.

Their armour was lamellar, and shields maneuverable and circular affairs; some even had longbows, and looked like they knew how to use them. No siege engines, mercifully, but Lord Elbert asserted that initial prongs would not be carrying them about anyway.

And they had foot; clad in brigandine and holding up shields that could’ve been knocked away by a stiff breeze. But what concerned his Blackwood companions, was the neat wall of spears reinforcing the host.  

The Khal who led them was a fine-haired brute of a man, on a horse that was no match to a destrier for size, but unmatched in grace - and Trystane prided himself on knowing his steeds.

Men and women on smaller horses ran up and down the lines, hissing and growling and moaning out their songs. To Trystane’s shock, he recognized some of the words - the only reason for that, he was reluctant to admit, that they had Rhoynish ancestry as well.

Shagga, son of Dolf, seemed to take their war chants as a personal offence. The men of the mountain clans in the barest bones of a battle hymn.

Axes slash, broadswords swing  

Horses run with polished steel

Fight those bastards til they yield!

Men pounded their armoured chests and banged their shields.

How many of them can we make die!

We be the elephant to your dragon!

Dragons, we are the Doom - made flesh!

The world became a-clatter with violence and hate, and a bloodlust infected every man that night.

They traded arrows in the night - the longbowmen found their marks by the bobbing of fires, and Trystane’s Dornishmen were not averse to slathering their own arrows with poison. Cries of maegi, maegi filled the night, and there was much cursing of heathen gods.

There were sorties in the night that went around the hastily-erected fortifications, hooves trampling down the beach intent on grinding them down. The Falcon of Summer and The Conqueror’s Fury unleashed a torrent of bolts, skewering horse and rider alike.

Trystane wandered the interior; while men slept where they sat, their squires busied themselves in cleaning their armor or helping to erect even more walls. Ser Daemon was assisting the Maesters and their novices and healers.

“Bah! Too many men still in their sickbeds,” Ser Daemon cursed, and Cletus Yronwood groaned as the mountain-men began to attack their own fortifications. “What the - the mad fuckers are letting them in!”

Some of their foot charged in, battering down the breach with tree-trunks - and tumbling straight into a sandpit disguised by a fishing net. Trystane would’ve expected them to give up, but they started tossing serpents instead - venomous ones!

Arrows dipped in night-soil put paid to unarmoured arms as Shagga cleaved the necks off horse after horse. That sent the Dothraki into a true frenzy, and the battle became butchery.

Lucas Blackwood, not one to be outshone by the mad valor of the mountain men, had gone out on a raid - and brought back Asher Forrester in tow.

Twenty sellswords were with him; a lass that went by Beksha won much regard among the men, by virtue of the many scalps of Dothraki she presented Lord Elbert.

The next day dawned bright on Shagga’s duel against their captain, an immense Pentoshi with a forked beard. With the entire army cheering him on, the mountain-man slew the fat-bellied giant with his own poleaxe. The Pentoshi was hoisted into the air to raucous cheers, as Shagga bathed in his blood and hurled innumerable curses down at the Dothraki.

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Lucas Blackwood brought word of yet another small Khalassar, that had linked up with the fair-haired Khal, and the Westerosi braced themselves for another long battle.

On the second day the foot came with grapple and engineers, to help pull down the walls.  The order went out  - by Lord Royce, Trystane supposed - to break them with the trebuchets, and the men to fall upon any survivors foolish enough to stand and fight.

What they did not count on, was for the foot to scatter before the onslaught, vastly reducing its potency. Dornish and Stormlander archers more than made up for the lack, feathering them with a torrent of arrows. The Dothraki reparteed with fire arrows.

Trystane suspected that were the ocean not hundred yards from the fort's rear, the ensuing fires would’ve taken them all. As it were, labourers worked to water the walls, braving the stray arrow and spear that would come their way.

This state of affairs could not stand; Bronze Yohn readied a sortie against the Dothraki. In pride of place in the vanguard was his heir, ser Andar - and unexpectedly, Trystane and both the Blackwood lads.

It was the first time he had worn his armour in war; his sand-steed, Nymor, he bore upon his breast as part of his sigil, and that was good. The Blackwood lads stood by him; stalwart in their red-and-black pieces, etched through with silver for the weirwood of their house.

With them were a hundred men. Daemon Sand led them as always, his silver armour shining in the moonlight. Trystane held his spear close.

Lamentation , the Royce Valyrian steel, signalled the charge, and battle-cries went up.

“For King Daemon! For Andalos of Old! For The Rhoyne! And for Home!” he roared, spurring his horse out the makeshift gate.

“Raventree Hall! - Runestone! - Grey Glen! - Yronwood! - Godsgrace!” and they were off, lances aimed at the footmen of the Dothraki - who split, parting in a disciplined fashion. A trap -

But whatever the Khal envisioned, the new Khal had never faced heavy horse; their arakhs could not hold against the sheer crunch of metal, aimed to grind them to marrow and bone.

Arrows bounced off plate for the most part, but arrows found gaps in some men’s armour, and the infantry that had split had begun to form up again and hem them in from behind. Trystane made a fair accounting of himself with his spears, he thought, but the battle was far from over.

The enemy began to retreat again, but this time, they were ready for the trap. Rather than charging, they let their horses fall upon the crudely-armoured infantry, and began to beat them into the ground.

Ser Andar reeled from a spear that had lodged in his armour - he pulled it back out and stabbed the offending infantryman through his throat. Beside him, ser Wallace cursed and charged alone.

Trystane - fool that he was - followed.

Wallace was not too bright - but not malicious, and good company once his nerves were at ease. Trystane deemed him a friend, and... I cannot, in good conscience, abandon my friends.

When the Khal himself rode out and began to duel Wallace ahorse, Trystane kept the spears from his back.

When the Khal savagely shoved a spear through Wallace’s gorget, Trystane took up the fight, deaf to all else. Edmund Blackwood, his squire, was with him, and they were fighting for their lives.

The Khal’s arakh had the force of ten men behind it; Trystane and Edmund alternated in parrying the blows off their armour and their own horses’ barding.

The Westerosi had stopped to watch, and oddly enough, the Dothraki had, too.

Trystane’s helm rung like a bell, and the world swam; but he did not fall. His arm was numb.

Something chipped on his visor after reflecting off a shield, and Trystane watched the tip of the arakh glance off -

And he knew it was his moment. He leapt, and the Khal’s skull-cap helm gave way, and Trystane’s axe buried itself into bone and brain.

Then they both fell off the Khal’s horse.

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The Dothraki did not kill him.

They laughed and beat their chests; yielding the day to the men of the Seven Kingdoms. Twelve of the Khal’s bloodriders remained, and pledged their blades to Trystane.

Come night, they all burned their dead.

On bent knee, Trystane was knighted by Lord Yohn Royce, at four and ten. Edmund and Lucas Blackwood knelt beside him , for they had fought as well as seasoned knights, and Edmund had fulfilled his squirely duties to the fullest.

Lord Elbert broke out the wine casks and bid a feast be held. The men welcomed it, but their mood was anything but cheery - of ten thousand, only a third were anything close to fighting form. It was only a matter of time, they feared, before sheer attrition did them in. 

On the morning of the third day, the Dothraki numbers swelled to six thousand riders and eight thousand foot, and those doomsayers were proven true.

Lord Elbert had donned his dragonsteel scale, and in his hand wielded a two-handed affair of blue and ivory; Honor it had been named, a creation of the sage-smiths of Dragonstone.

His blue cape fluttered as he addressed the men - Trystane thought he cut a rather gallant figure, despite his old age. His Arryn cousins were arrayed about him, looking oddly resigned. Gods, is he going to -

“Men…” Lord Elbert began. Seven Hells, he is! “I could ask for no more gallant a host, no braver men, for no greater brothers and sons save my own by blood than all of you. Ready a hearty breakfast, feast well! For tonight, we dine with the Stranger!”

Trystane chuckled, and cheered with the rest of his men. A Prince should lead by example.

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On the fifth day, the Dothraki came with fire.

All around them, palisades burned, horses panicked, and men fell back around the sick camps.

A camp dog ran past him - someone had set it ablaze, and stuck it with an arrow.

A horse ran past him with a decapitated Dothraki rider, and Lord Elbert was roaring into the flames at the head of a charge.

One suicidal charge was enough for Trystane, though; he stayed with those who had put their lives on the line for him.

Their foot roared in the distance as the horse came upon them. Knights were fighting screamers on foot, and the ships kept up volley after volley of scorpion bolts.

A quick blow from a battle axe disembowelled a horse, and sent its rider crashing to the ground. Deziel Dalt tightened the men up into squares, closing ranks with each death - but even those deaths they could ill afford. We’re being ground down.

The twelve bloodriders fell to a man, defending a wounded Cletus Yronwood - now encircled by spears. Something white and grey flashed, and Trystane looked away -

And then a shriek came from the heavens, and Trystane knew that the Seven smiled on them; for in the sky was a red-and-brass dragon. Were those forelimbs?

The dragon breathed fire, and men rallied - bolstered by the Myrish. Two hundred, or thereabouts, led by a Knight in Targaryen livery and - Hells, Edric Dayne! - with shouts of “MYR! MYR! FIRE AND BLOOD!!”

And then trumpets blared, and he saw the black stag on gold. The man beneath it needed no herald.

“LORD OF WAR! LORD OF WAR!” The Westerosi chanted. “ROBERT! ROBERT! ROBERT! ROBERT!”

He came on an immense destrier, barded in dark blue armour; a black figure, antlered and armed with the immense war-hammer, Godsgrief in his hand.

As the dragon took to the air, the Khal finally emerged to challenge him - and all of a sudden, arakkh and war-hammer were locked in a duel.

“Tend to Ser Cletus!” Trystane roared to Deziel, as they took the chance to retreat in the sudden lull. All was now focused on that one point on the battlefield.

And the outcome was not in doubt - as Lord Robert shattered the arakkh and took the Khal’s head off with a single blow of his hammer, he thought this must be what it was like to witness a legend.

Chapter Text

In the year A.C 301, the realm is sundered. Factions, some long in the making, have begun to draw sides on the map, and amongst the largest are those who heeded the call of Stannis Baratheon to strike their banners in the name of the hostage King. Their goal? To crush the powers of the West and the Reach once and for all. Their forces are composed primarily of Houses from the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale of Arryn. However, they are joined by some Stormlanders, men of the Crownlands, and those of the Reach who reject Mace Tyrell and repudiate the loss of honor brought on by the mass poisonings during the Blackfyre Rebellion.

Opposite them are those loyal to Tywin Lannister and Mace Tyrell, who view the Blackfyre reign over the Seven Kingdoms as having been founded on infamy. Tis they who view King Daemon and his allies, particularly House Stark and the Baratheon and Arryn Houses, as the cause of their loss of honor. They also recall the devastation to their lands and the loss of their power and offices as an injustice. Others, such as Tywin Lannister, Lewys Lydden, and Ser Aegor Sunfyre, believe that the existence of the Lord’s Council is an affront to the feudal order.

Some, such as the Lord of House Ball, want vengeance for their disgrace during the Marcher revolts a century prior.

Others, such as Lord Walder Frey, Tymon Stark, Jojen Reed, and Lady Shella Whent (the lady of House Whent Knights of Harrentown and Champions of the Gates.), see an opportunity to advance their Houses. While the Whents and Reeds strike their banners in the name of the Wolves of Winterfell and the imprisoned King, House Frey strikes their banners for the Old Lion.

The Cailin Starks, it seems, have a paw in every camp.

In the Reach, some remain neutral, viewing this conflict either as an act of insanity given the war in Essos or between two groups of people who have wronged their Houses or are busy fighting in Essos. And lands where Houses are of divided loyalties.

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The North/Riverlands

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The King’s Men:

Those who answered the call of Stannis Baratheon, Hoster Tully, and Robb Stark. Their war banner is the Blackfyre dragon in the Arbor Baratheon colors.

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Robb Stark:

Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, rider of the Dragon Stormcloud (Named After Aegon the Third’s Dragon.) rides south to avenge his father, rescue his mother and grandfather, liberate Maelys and Sansa, and bring Tywin Lannister to justice. Bonded to the Direwolf Greywind.

Tully auburn hair and pale blue eyes. Natural with a battleax or sword.

Princess Rhaenyra Blackfyre: Daughter of King Daemon, sister to Maelys Blackfyre, Lady of Winterfell, rider of Vaegon, trained by Syrio Forel in Water Dancing and skilled with throwing axes and dirks courtesy of Ser Bronn of House Blackwater. Wife of Robb Stark, bonded to the Direwolf Cryxus. Six and ten, born albino and mocked by her mother over that much of her life. Silver-white hair and eyes that are blood red.

Rickon Stark, Rider of the Dragon Obyroth, inherited his grandmother’s silver hair with streaks of auburn. His eyes are of a striking blue. Shaggydog is his Direwolf, and he rides a rust-red Skagosi Unicorn he named Gruff. Ferocious, clever, and fearless, with a love for befriending dangerous animals.

Nine years old.

Lord Bronn of House Blackwater: made the Lord of a Masterly House in the service to Winterfell, this former Sellsword turned palace guard, turned personal guard, and mentor of Princess Rhaenyra has moved up in the world.

Married a Dragonseed. Six and thirty.

Part of Lord Robb’s personal retinue

Baelor “Rooter” Blackwater: Dragonrider of Swyftwing. The only dragon in service not to fight wars but to ferry messages around the realm during a crisis. Four and ten, serpentine face, pale blue eyes, and dark brown hair.

Ser Raymun Darke: Knight of the Kingsguard who was ordered to remain with Princess Rhaenyra by the King. Two and twenty and a skilled Tourney Knight and veterans of the “Grand Hunt,” a campaign King Daemon waged between A.C 296 and A.C 297 against renewed banditry in the Kingswood.

Dacey Mormont: Lady of Bear Island, said to be of surpassing beauty and built like an Essosi Tiger. Sleek, tall, and fibrous with sky-blue eyes that denote her father being an Aetheryon. Said to be remarkably skilled with the mace, the battleax, and the morningstar. Also, an impeccable dancer and a prolific (if successful) gambler who once wagered Bear Island against Dickon Tarly in a stone-throwing contest. Though the Lord of Star Pike lost, he gained betrothals of Mormont women to his cousins in the process and earned a friend in the North. Eight and twenty

Mother of the twins Alysanne “Silver Aly” Mormont and Lyanna “Little Bear” Mormont, both three and ten. And Rhaegel “The Silver Bear” Mormont (five and ten) and his brother Jorah (ten name days.).

Commander of the Aetheryon foot and the warrior of Bear Island.

Alysanne “Silver Aly” Mormont: tall like her mother but inherited her grandmother’s looks. Said to be Queen Shaera reborn. Wife to Lord Auryn. Three and Ten, skilled with throwing axes, maces, and morningstars. Guards Rickon Stark, along with Nymeria and Obara Sand.

Lyanna “Little Bear” Mormont: Raven-haired andsky-blue-eyed, tall and slender. An archer with her father.

Saera Snow: Half-sister Lord Auryn commands a special detachment of seventy Mountain Clansmen and seven Wargs—one of the outriders.

Rhaegel Mormont: Called the Silver Bear due to his inheriting the classical Targaryen features. Purple eyes and silver-gold hair but possessing the physique of his Grandsire Jeor Mormont and the Height and strength of Maegor the Cruel. Rhaegel is nearly six and a half feet tall despite only being four and ten. Despite his ferocity in fights and his moniker, he’s a gentle soul who is known to sing in battle. Worshipper of R’hllor, much to his mother’s fury.

Jorah Mormont: tall and dark-haired, possessing more of the classic Mormont features. Squire to Robb Stark.

Daeron Waters: oldest surviving bastard son of Aerys Targaryen, six and forty, husband and consort of Dacey Mormont, skilled archer.

Shares command of the Archers and foragers with Jojen Reed.

Auryn Aetheryon: Lord of Sea Dragon Point, currently sailing the Aetheryon fleet to the Honeywine to blockade Oldtown.

Howland Reed: Lord of Greywater Watch, Leader of the Scouts and skirmishers, and sneaks. Veteran of the Blackfyre Rebellion, late thirties.

Jojen Reed: Heir of Lord Howland, Greenseer, and warg, who controls three lizard lions. Leads the Archers and foragers along with Daeron Waters. Made an honorary Barrow Knight when he slew a band of Wildling raiders that ambushed Rosyln Frey and her escorts when they were traveling to Barrow Hall.

Hugo “The Wull” Wull: Called Big Bucket, commanders the Mountain Clans. Vassal of House Aetheryon fights to avenge Rhaella’s murdered children and “To bathe in Lannister blood before the Winter takes me with a chill.”

Jon “The Greatjon” Umber: Champion of Rhaenyra, the Lord of the Last Hearth, commander of Robb Stark's heavy foot. One of the strongest men alive wields an enormous great sword and rides a dwarf mammoth in place of a horse. The Blue Bard of Highgarden once said the Greatjon possessed the finest singing voice he’d ever heard.

Osric Stark: Lord Commander of the Barrow Knights (otherwise known as Black Riders.), charged with defeating the outriders of House Frey in the field.

Ser Edmure Tully: Heir to Riverrun, rider of Aerax called by the Smallfolk “The King of the Wind.” A decent tourney Knight, well-loved by Lord and peasant alike. He made an oath not to cut his hair until King Maelys and his niece Sansa were freed from the Lannisters.

Married to Allyria of House Dayne

Allyria Dayne: Eldest daughter of Lord Elric Dayne of Starfall, when she realized she was never going to be heir to Starfall and had been set aside by her Lord Father, she contemplated becoming a silent sister, shunned her brother and younger sisters and became cruel. It was only after a long and heated argument in Lord Dayne's solar that she at last let go of her fury. She's a Sister of the Waters, a sect of the Faith that believes Mother Rhoyne was in fact the Mother Above and that her love can be found wherever there is water. From bitter noble, to kind and dutiful soul, what truly occurred to bring about this change is a mystery even to the servants of Starfall. 

Married to Edmure Tully, she's found they're both fitted to each other being "idealistic fools".

Hoster Tully: Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident. Master of the Office of the Treasury and leader of the Forwardist faction. Currently trying to keep the Riverlands from being invaded for the hundredth time.

Tytos Blackwood: Lord of Raventree Hall. Commanding the forces in the field for Hoster Tully, his duty is to slow the enemy advance for as long as possible. Four and thirty.

Brynden Blackwood: Heir to Raventree Hall, currently engaging outriders to the Hightower army. Nine and ten as of the second moon of the year.

Hoster “Hos” Blackwood: Seven and Ten, nearly seven feet tall, reads almost constantly. Was a squire to Tyrion Lannister in his youth, Knighted by Asha Greyjoy herself (Who was Knighted by Daena Tully in a move many still condemn.), though by his own admission, he isn’t much of a fighter, leaving many to wonder why the last living Greyjoy did it—disappeared with Jason Lannister.

Alyn and Robert Blackwood: nine and twelve name-days, respectively. Alyn Squires for Edmure, Alyn for Dala.

Val: descended from the last King of the North Hagon, the Warg on one side and Raymund Redbeard on another. She controls six foxes and a river seal named Bael, after Bael the Bard.

Part of Princess Rhaenyra’s honor guard.

Dalla: Survivor of the Battle of Tumbleton, sister to Val, controls six golden eagles. Her and Hoster Tully are in love, she serves as Allyria Dayne's protector as she waits for the Northern armies to come.

Warden: Ned Stark’s Direwolf rides into battle armored beside Tytos Blackwood with vengeance in his heart. Black and brown, with big ears.

Princess Rhaella Targaryen: Wife of Rickard Stark, mother to the Starks of Winterfell, Lady of Winterfell, and ally of Catelyn Tully within the North. Rider of Winter. She is said to be the most beautiful dragon of the Original Seven. Said to be the most experienced living Dragonrider, with only Robert Baratheon’s legendary defeat of three Dragons in a single hour during The Battle of The Trident exceeding her feats of bravery.  

Currently in Volon Therys, but may return.

Gaemon Tully: Lord of Harrenhal, now passing his eightieth nameday, in his youth, was said to be the greatest living swordsman, defeating not one but two Swords of The Morning. But old war wounds, the sands of time, and a gradual loss of his eyesight have left him an old warrior tired of waiting for death.

Jonos Bracken: Lord of Stone Hedge, assembling a force to reinforce the Stony Sept and keep Harrenhal from being invaded.

Leo Tyrell: A former friend of Benjen and Lyanna Stark in his youth and son of Ser Victor Tyrell, who died in battle against the infamous Smiling Knight. Wed to Alys Beesbury, they sold their lands in the Reach to a more prosperous branch of House Tyrell and uprooted their family. Moved with their sons to the domains of the Dreadfort, where they were ordered to take charge of the lands of a Bolton Vassal, which was annihilated during the recent uprising by the Karstarks. Lord Robb hopes their knowledge of farming, beekeeping, and commerce can bring new life to a floundering land that ought not to be.

In exchange for an oath of eternal friendship to House Stark of the Dreadfort. One of his sons rides with Robb Stark as part of his van.

*********************************

Reach

**************

Stannis Baratheon: Declared Lord Protector by the Lord’s Council after the disappearance of Ned Stark. Has called the banners of the Seven Kingdoms to war against the Alliance of the Reach and Westerlands, commander of the Arbor Fleet and leader of the King’s Men.

Jack “Little Jack” Bulwer: Lord of Blackcrown, Seven and ten, six and a half feet tall and built as a bull, named in honor of his uncle “Blackjack” Bulwer, one of the greatest Rangers of the Watch. Vows to avenge his father called his banners against the Hightower, denounced Lord Leyton as a traitor, and hung eleven of his cousins when they came to arrest him after the battle of Blackcrown (wherein several traditional Hightower loyal Knightly Houses turned cloak and turned the battle into a rout).

Dickon Tarly: Lord of Starpike, Dunstonbury, and Whitegrove. Took over the Peake Lands, flies the banner of Blackfyre and the Arbor Baratheons. Said to possess all of his father’s aptitude for war and hunting but is loyal to a fault. He refused to turn on his brother, even if that meant receiving Hornhill. Gained all the historical and current Peake lands for his loyalty and owes everything he has to Sam Tarly and Stannis Baratheon.

Currently planning a campaign, but none can say who or what.

Ten and four.

Samwell Tarly, Lord of Hornhill, served as Stannis Baratheon’s second and proxy and is often said to be “The second Lord High Justice.” Called his banners to prepare to give battle to House Tyrell.

Orys Baratheon: Rider of the young dragon named Vermithor in honor of the dragon of King Jaehaerys the First. Heir to the Arbor and newly made Knight.

Six and ten has the stormy blue eyes of House Baratheon and the reddish-brown hair of the Redwynes.

Margaery Tyrell: Wife to Orys Baratheon, future Lady of the Arbor. She is said to be one of the most beautiful women in the realm. She was seen as the ultimate bargaining chip for Highgarden as she embodied the carefully laid plans of multiple generations of House Tyrell and their strategic marriages.

Shireen Baratheon: Tall, Black-haired, said to be a beauty but for the long-jagged scar across her face and the false eye. Rider of a purple and blue dragon she named Vhagar after she overheard a Knight of House Crane call her “Aemond reborn.” In mockery of her injury and to imply she was a usurper for existing.

Married to Willas Tyrell.

Four and ten.

Willas Tyrell: Heir to Highgarden, planning to depose his father and put an end to this mad war.

Garlan “The Gallant” Tyrell said to be one of the best swordsmen of his generation and one of the finest Knights as well. Prince consort of Dorne, married Arianne Martell. Ending a blood feud between their Houses and uniting the Reach and Dorne in shared tragedy and loyalty to the Throne.

Alicent Redwyne: Wife of Stannis Baratheon, Lady of the Arbor, mother to his children.

**********************************

Neutrals

*********************

House Florent: due to commanding the Order of the Greenhand, Lord Alliser Florent ordered his House forces to stay out of the fight and work to keep banditry and broken men from turning the Reach into one of the Seven Hells. Commands a rather powerful host but has no love for House Tyrell, and while he had a professional relationship with Stannis Baratheon, they were not exactly friends. With Lord Stannis repeatedly rebuffing marriage offers.

Brightwater Keep has kept firmly out of the conflict.

House Rowan: While Mathis Rowan was so disgusted with what Mace Tyrell did to the Stormlands (indeed, he even withdrew his forces from the siege.), he believes the competing tradition of Chivalry that arose inspired by Stannis Baratheon’s notions of Absolute Justice may not be beneficial for the Reach either. As such, he has distanced himself from both sides of the conflict. He’s also unwilling to wage war on behalf of one King when multiple factions in this war possess dragons.

Instead, House Rowan has sent men east to relieve the battered remnants of the royal fleet and joined a Dornish expedition that departed on the second moon of the three hundred and first year after Aegon’s Conquest.

He has, however, sent men into the Stormlands, along with Mace Tyrell, for he believes waging a war where his Lord does nothing will keep him out of the fight - he also has a great deal of person enmity for Lady Lysa, believing her the cause of death for a lot of his cousins who are landed Knights in Essos. He may also be there to ensure that if Mace Tyrell attempts the same atrocities again, he can turn the army against him.

House Footly of Tumbleton: They’ve been ravaged one too many by Dragonriders and Valyrians.

In short, not interested.

Chapter Text

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The Lady of Castamere

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A silver sword arced through the air as it struck the golden Lion of Lannister.

Ser Lancel bore his faith around on his banner - he had married the sigil of his house to that of the Seven-Pointed Star on his shield, and with it he fended off his oath-sword liege, a black-armoured hulk with a wolf’s-head helm.

“A Prince will not harm himself; a girl may trust a woman in this.” Shae’s words were soft and melodic.

The Lorathi exile was in a gown of green today - with leather strips in place of lace on her bodice; layers of dark blue and silver in her skirts, and her flared cuffs had little pearls from Castamere’s pools.

Jeyne Westerling was almost her exact opposite, in appearance and dress. She favoured sky blues - of a linen finer than anything Sansa had seen - and streams of white silk. An abundance of seashell-shaped stones complemented her garb.

Lady Jeyne had been scared of Lady at first, but now she often read her books with Sansa, both laying by the direwolf’s side. There was a quiet strength and honesty to her, that Sansa found very refreshing - and quite at odds with the rest of her unsavoury family.

House Westerling was said to be indebted to the Spicers, and even Lord Tywin’s gift of land from what the Reynes had once held did not get them out of it. Jeyne and her uncle, Ser Rolph were both Maelys' vassals, but Sansa’s trust was in short supply these days.

When word came that what remained of the royal fleet and bodies had begun to wash ashore, Maelys had looked his Grandsire in the eye - and commanded him to reveal his own involvement.

The new Lord Protector’s denial was cold enough to send shivers up Sansa’s spine.

To her knowledge, neither had broken words since then. Lord Kevan, who remained at Castamere, seemed to exist to only fob off her enquiries with lies - but Shae, being new to the Westerlands, had difficulty in sifting lies from truth. We are hostages, though - that much is certain.

Viserys Tully - the acting Lord Commander in ser Jaime’s absence - kept a watchful eye on the sparring.  Lord Kevan’s endless cousins, all Lannisters of Tarbeck Hall now, Estrens, Plumms, Bettley, Doggett, Ferren, Marbrands, Baneforts, Leffords, Spicers, and Westerlings… all gathered round, eager to curry favour.

They said they were the King-to-Be’s loyal vassals, yet it felt as though enemies surrounded her sweet Prince.

The poisoning at the tourney in King’s Landing had left him scarred. Her sweet Prince took near a year to regain his old strength at arms. Lancel still gave fair fight - and he was one of the few she could trust to do so.

Fingers tapped on her hand.

She knew the patterns by heart; it was one of the ways Sansa and Shae spoke without speaking, avoiding the sharp eyes of would-be-spies such as Sybel Spicer and Dorna Swyft.

Lady had often grown wroth at their lurking presence when they were clearly not wanted - and took to scaring them off - but Sansa still worried.

“He’s very good, Lady Sansa, wouldn’t you say?” asked Jeyne Westerling. “Ser Lancel, I mean; he presses our Crowned Prince even now.”

Sansa shrugged ever so slightly. Lancel certainly did not lack for all the training Lannister gold could buy, but he could not measure up to her Prince in raw talent. Still, she was not so boorish as to deny skill when it was plain before her eyes.

“His weapon of choice limits him,” said Tybolt Crakehall, heir apparent and the Strongboar’s elder brother. He had the bushiest moustache Sansa had ever seen. “Does a girl have a notion.” he continued, addressing Shae, “as to which weapon Ser Lancel might be better suited for?”

Oddly, Lord Tybolt held no disdain for her handmaiden and her skill in combat - and so when Shae gestured to a rack of spears, Ser Tybolt nodded with approval. “A Lady sees much.”

Four more squeezes to her hand by Shae. They’re lying to you.

They had said Robb was going to be pardoned; that he had pledged to come down and swear fealty the moment the war against House Karstark finished.

Then they claimed the Ironborn had invaded the Riverlands, which was why their hosts marshalled for war.

No one would tell her what became of Father - save that he had fought Lutherites in Tumbleton, and that he had not been seen since.

Maelys, her sweet Prince, had not the sense to swallow such a bald-faced lie, and accosted Lord Kevan over it. The man explained that Lord Stark had ridden alone to hunt when ambushed.

Sansa had almost laughed in his face. Father never hunted alone - Dalla was always with him.

At night, she clung to her Lady and wept; for her Lord Father, for her brothers, for poor Arya whom no one had seen, and she mourned for Prince Daeron and Princess Rhaenys.

And through it all, Lord Tywin expected her to step into Rhaenys’ place. There was a half-smile on his face when he informed her; as if he had somehow won a game, and had been more than happy to trade away his own grandson to win. Does he truly hate the Red Dragon so, to invite such calamity on his own blood? 

Lancel at last yielded to his liege, and the hangers-on swarmed on their King-to-Be. I’ll see the Spicers expelled from Castamere if it’s the last thing I do.

House Plumm as well; Lord Phillipp set her on edge, and his hand was never far from his axe. He caresses it like a lover. His sons were off fighting in the Riverlands; did that mean they were fighting Robb?

As they were summoned to dinner, her mind lingered on the crowning to come. On the eleventh moon, her sweet Prince would be King, and she, his Queen.

But who would rule? Certainly not us, if Lord Tywin has his way.

Her handmaidens passed brushes through her hair, removing knots and straightening stray curls. She opted for black trousers and a form-fitting scarlet tunic.

Shae slipped rings onto her finger - topped with Northern diamonds, and helped her into her red-and-black surcoat. A gold band that evoked weirwood leaves went on her head, gemmed with seven garnets.  

A brooch of red-gold, in the chimeric shape of her Prince’s sigil - dragon, weirwood and direwolf sculpted together - completed the ensemble.

A small rebellion, but that’s how these things start.

#############

##########################

Precious few we can trust.

Sansa was reasonably certain Shae would rip her own eyes out rather than betray her. She loves me as though I were her daughter .

Rollan and Reynald Westerling were devoted to their liege, Maelys, and all but worshipped the knightly codes.

Harrenhal Tullys were honourable to a fault, and Sansa hoped the same held true for Viserys Tully. 

To her surprise, the Crakehalls did not seem to enjoy the farce, but they stalwart Lannister bannermen.

Ser Reynard Doggett walked around with a manner of perpetual outrage - but did he have the spine to go against the Rock ?

As Lady gamboled about on their way to dinner, ser Lambert Turnberry made the sign of the Seven. “My dogs do that as well! There are tin mines in Turnberry that my family stopped using centuries ago,” he paused to rub his dyed moustache. (He’d taken the time to emblazon all his hair with his House colours of green and red. The end result was predictably nauseous.) “The smallfolk say they are haunted, and the pups act much like your Lady does.”

Lady liked Ser Lambert, and his candied strawberries, but she followed her stomach as much as Argella did. Sansa smiled politely and gestured them onward.

##############

##########################

The great hall of Castamere was alive with courtiers and false cheer.

The men of the Reach were here in force. She saw a great many Tyrells; Lord Risley, and Ser Stackhouse from the spar among them. Men from lands with divided loyalties between Highgarden and the Vines - and even lords from the Crownlands, ser Daven Lannister the most notable among them.

When Maelys saw her, his stony countenance finally unfroze. “To my future Queen!” he boomed, his voice putting even Lord Robert to shame as it echoed about the cavern.

Lord Kevan applauded first, and others with cheers that sounded hollow in comparison. Her Prince silenced them with a stern look.

As she moved to her seat, Lord Robin Moreland hissed, gesturing to Shae, “Must the whore be seated so close?”

“‘tis affrontery,” added Lord Kevan, almost preening in the golden silk of the Westerlands. Sansa had thought him the more practical of brothers, but now he bandied about the symbol of the High Justice - the Father’s form holding scales and sword - while besmirching his predecessor as a pirate intent on reaving White Harbour, of all places.

No wonder his enemies flock here.

Maelys turned and affixed Lord Kevan with a dark and brooding stare. “I’ll not countenance such disrespect to loyal vassals. She was made a slave, and is one no longer - it is a keen reminder that even the highest may fall.” Her Prince’s gaze left no doubt as to whom he meant.

“As you bid, my Prince, ” replied Lord Kevan, the mockery in his voice evident.

Ser Viserys caught it, and seemed intent on teaching the man a bloody lesson - but Ilyn Payne and Ser Garibald Myatt stepped in his way, deliberately. Sansa hid her smile behind a raised hand .

There was an abrupt roar of laughter from Devan Lannister, who raised a comically shaking hand. “Come, come, Lady Shae! If a woman would grant it, a man would have her company! A blind man sees, when those with eyes are blind, after all.”

Shae smiled. “A man knows Lorathi sayings.” Lord Devan shrugged, and beckoned.

Shae turned, eyes wide and pleading, and Sansa nodded. The room visibly settled after that.

#################

##########################

Mid-feast, her sweet Prince leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss upon her cheek. “Tonight, I would have you in my solar, my Lady,” Maelys whispered, causing her heart to soar.

A troubadour began a ballad of the Second Marcher revolt; how a lone Knight of the Peace rallied men to stand beside Baelor, the-King-Who-Never-Was.

“I would like that, my Prince,” Sansa whispered, almost giddy.

Men sang along, lamenting the death of the mighty Prince, and praising the tragic Ser Arlan of Pennytree for his valiant stand. Ser Duncan the Tall his squire, a greater Knight there never has lived , Sansa recited in her heart.

She yearned for simpler days where all she had to mind was her poetry and her needlework, but it was not to be. The cantankerous Lady Olenna was right about one thing - her chance of being a girl was gone forever.

Sansa rested her eyes come the fourth course, and submerged herself into the magic that the Starks had inherited from the Warg King of old.

Her mind stretched, spreading out across Castamere’s cavernous halls; through the glittering waterfalls and veins of ores, and deep into the bowels and pools of water - up through the chasms and vents, that released the humours of the Keep and the gases from the mines.

She drifted towards the grand entrance. A cool autumn breeze scattered rats, and she gently knocked against one, and it let her in. Rats and lions were easiest to control - save dogs - but they required permission and respect, as an old grey lion taught her. 

This rat was sweet, inquisitive and eager, and went where she bid him gladly. She led him to the outer Keep where Lannister guards patrolled, and bid him listen.

“Eh? No Ser Wildstar today?” One of the guards mocked. “Glad he’s not here to take your money, Ty?”

“Bah! Between him an’ Haegon, I’ve had my fill o’ wolves and dragons!” “Ty” snarled. A stout man in crimson, with a missing tooth and partly notched ears. A criminal as a guard!?

The other shrugged. “The Prince sent him to Lannisport to retrieve something, him and Haegon.”

“Castellan and Master of Arms out at the same time? We oughta killed ‘em on the road.” The one called Ty spat and tossed a die, and another guard with a milky eye nodded. “t’would have been easier den gett’n rid o’them in the castle with that damn wolf and the river-rat.”

“Yeah?” asked the one with a milky eye. “What if da red wolf o’er in Winterfell, and his dragon bitch come down? I hear they got two dragons now, not just the freak.”

“bah…” Muttered “Ty,” pulling out a wineskin and taking a greedy series of gulps, thick red liquid dripping down his flabby chin. “Dragons or no, they’ll ne’er make it past the Twins, mark my words! I was here as a lad when Lord Tywin drowned da Reynes, the old Lord has a plan an’ mark me words, gents. They don’t get souf no mata what!”

Her eyes must have been wild as she opened them, for Lord Kevan stared at her curiously, until she mastered herself.

Her sweet Prince did know what had her so visibly shaken, but he rubbed her back nonetheless - fingers parting through her hair in soothing motions as Sansa forced herself to take deep breaths.

We are in an island full of enemies . She eyed her Prince, and her handmaiden. I must fix that. Sansa would not suffer to be caged.

#####################

The Lost

##########################

Not today -

The entirety of the ocean slammed into her being.

Something burst within her chest. Water mixed with blood -

Someone was reaching out to her -

And then it was black.

No, that was wrong. It was deep, and clear.

There was colour in the sea, and stars in the sky.

She floated in, beyond thought.

###########

##########################

 Something waited for her below.

Don’t look at him! Look at me!

She could feel it, yet she wasn’t afraid.

That’s because you aren’t paying attention.

Something tore inside her.

Are you dead, too?

She laughed.

Who says you’re dead, sister?

She tried to recall who that was.

She rested on green not-grass that slipped beneath her. The colour reminded her of the godswood.

She raised her head, and there, in front of her, was a heart tree. There were people beneath its boughs.

She clambered and slipped, landing face-first into the moss. Everything was numb anyway, so she tried again.

Two men watched her.

One was nigh a beast, hammering on something - it was too bright to tell. And on a rock there was another man - this one familiar, but his eyes were red. “You’re late!”

 “... what…” she tried to ask.

 The man banging a star against an anvil laughed. “Leave off her - she’s had a rough day, and she’s very small.”

She was too tired to spit at him.

And both men looked at her and bore into her with eyes so intense she wanted to shirk away. And then a soft breeze blew through the tree, and the men laughed. “you sure you need me, lass? You’ve a spark of flame in you to match the winter in your blood.”

 “Like her Father, that one is.” The other man muttered, resuming his hammering. It hurt her ears. “Lass,” he addressed her, “it’s time to go.”

 The red-eyed man smiled. “If you want to.”

That sounded odd. “Where?” She asked.

“Back to your friends, if you wish it,” the smith replied.

Friends? She wondered. “I’ll settle for you ceasing that hammering, smith.”

The beast-man laughed, and it was like the roar of a lion. “Not today, little one!”

He reached out and touched the hammer on her chest, and suddenly her world was on fire . The pain that filled her was a kind of pain she didn’t know was possible; it was as though everything within her was burning. 

Lord of Light,

bless this wayward Soul,

restore fire to her blood and breath to her lips,

or receive her in all your majesty,

though she may be a heathen!

So pleads your most humble believer.

She opened her eyes.

############

##########################

She was still dreaming for she had never seen this city before. It was of black, oily stone, each brick filled with an odd light.

A lizard lounged on a throne of bones, as apes howled and men toiled.

 She dreamt of Morgha and her rider, vermillion scales shining as she breathed fire. She dreamt her scales mottling before her eyes, blood ebbing from her immense maw.

There was a falling star, bathing in the heart of the old dragon as it died, and of a torch passing in the dark.

In a forest, she howled as rats circled a grey stag while a woman held back the tide.

And she saw a golden lion, amidst sea-lions that were black and gold.

In a castle filled with ghosts, a wolf with a wyrm’s body chafed at its chains as the lights of the North bloomed within.

###############

##########################

She woke to blinding pain.

There was someone poking at her feet with a dagger.

She tried to struggle, but her vision blurred, and she dreamed of green - greener than any she’d ever seen.

Sometimes, dark figures in the green moved at her, with teeth and claws, and she woke to a silver-haired girl curled around her, and she could not move.

The heat did not let her sleep. It was worst at midday, and she tried to move just to have something to do - and one day, to her surprise, she could.

Someone was keeping watch - or rather, snoring through watch. A white-cloaked man was somehow sleeping through the sweltering heat.

  Silent as the crypt, still as clear water.

She certainly didn’t feel that way. Her arms were sluggish and heavy, and each breath was a struggle - to keep herself from tipping over, and collapsing onto the floor.

She failed, grasping onto the rope bed for dear life.

The man’s snores suddenly ceased, and turned into a bark of alarm. as he shot up in his seat then gazed at her bed. “Oh… gods be good! Lady Arya!”

She grunted, testing that in her head. Am I Lady Arya?

“Don’t… call me that,” she muttered - and started, for she could scarcely recognize her own voice. “That’s not me.”

The white-cloak laughed. “Indeed, you don’t look like a lady at present. begging your ladyship’s pardon.”

She snorted.

“Please, stay where you are a moment. I shall bring the prince to you - he has been most insistent on it.” A Prince?

She would protest, but keeping steady seemed more important. “How long?”

“My lady…” The white-cloak… hesitated, and she was done indulging his mother-hen-ing.

“Good ser,” she rasped, “how long!?”

He swallowed and then, at last, answered. “Three moons and a sennight, Lady Arya.”

Her body heaved, and she retched - or she would have, but there was nothing to retch up. Everything burned. Gods!

She tried to move a foot, but her ankle twisted, and she wailed - back to clutching at the bed like a lifeline.

Still like clear water…

Aye, a clear puddle in a bed, she scoffed. When she found Syrio, she would gut him for his stupid sayings.

She extended her hand outwards, gesturing at the white-cloak as she’d seen ladies do. “Escort me to the Prince, good ser.” The good ser in question stared at her, incredulously.

She did not falter - if Lady Arya was what it took to get moving, she would be Lady Arya , a lady to rival Lady Sansa.

Wonder of wonders, the white-cloak - ser Arys - acquiesced, and locked his hand to her in a vise-grip. She tried to ignore how much it felt like being carried, rather than walking.

Together, they moved slowly from her cabin and then through the corridors of the ship. All around her, men shouted, “Welcome to the waking world, little wolf!”. Others took up the cry, but she focused on putting one foot in front of the other. 

After what seemed like an age, they finally clambered onto the deck, and Arya had to squint against the sun - it hurt her eyes to look, and try as she might, she could not open them wider than a sliver.

The silver-haired girl - Rhae - let out a scream of joy when she saw Arya, and the dragon above her whooped and chirped, breathing out gouts of flame.

The Prince - Dae - rose from his game of cyvasse, and bolted towards her, his mismatched eyes violet and green, wet with tears. “Arya!”

He pulled her into a hug, and she collapsed against him - and then they were a heap on the deck, and she could not tell who was laughing.

“Ahh! Look who rises from her dream!” From somewhere above, she could hear another familiar voice call down. “Syrio Forel is most pleased to see you among the moving!”

She groaned. “Gods, Dae, let me up,” she muttered, and the Prince helped her to her feet, smiling all the while. “Where are we?”

Six longships she could not recall, breached the surf like racing steeds. A crimson kraken, tendrils reaching up to a golden sun was their device - the Greyjoys of the Summer Isles!?

Yet she knew they weren’t in the Summer Isles. Trees, verdant and lush, with leaves the size of plates and a veritable cornucopia of flowers, bright and shining. And then her ears were finally assaulted by the deluge of… birdsong - and the chattering of -

At the shoreline, she could see furred creatures with long tails and hands in place of feet and -

There was a sudden screech, and the tree line to the west shook violently, and out flapped an immense horned green beast, screaming its temper above Dawn and then down into the tree line on the other side. A wyvern!

Somehow, the storm had swallowed them up and thrown them into a land no Westerosi had visited, since the days of Elissa Farman.

“Sothoryos,” Arya breathed.

Chapter Text

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Breaking Fast

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Sometimes, ‘twas hard to imagine this was all theirs.

Then the sun rolled in on a clear morning, as sea birds sang; while Ghost sunned himself on the parapet, basking in the sea breeze, and Jon could believe it.

Dany was in his lap, leaning against his chest, her eyes closed. “I could almost forget we’re in a war,” she whispered.

Zaifun Shen had been generous with his gifts; he had brought along two hundred of the much-coveted xipao garb of Yi-Ti - one for each of the colours known to man as their silk-worms could make.

And so, today, his wife was as blue as the sky and the mountains that made up her garb, only broken up by the occasional red that invoked Retaxes , her new-found dragon , and the moons woven in palest garnet. And the things it does to her form -  

Jon shook himself out, and Dany wriggled at the sudden movement. He wasn’t very comfortable in his own crocodile-skin affair, but between it and the underlying mail, it would hold up well against a hidden blade.

A frustrated bellow echoed from below, much too loud for any human.

“ Argella,” Dany sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. She’d still not healed fully from her fight with the Shrike . And the Shrike sulked because her sister had… let her off easy - making for tense stand-offs.

Jon would laugh, but he preferred to remain unburned.

Dany did laugh, gazing at him with her intense amethyst eyes.  “You were hardly ever a bastion of good cheer, Jon,” she whispered into a kiss.

Ser Perwyn Frey and the two Truefyres that flanked him tried their best to be impassive, in the face of shameless debauchery. “Where are your squires?” Dany asked, with a wry grin for their audience.

“Edric is with Monterys Velaryon and his cousins. They are fast friends - Grey Worm has been putting them to work.” And Edric needed to sniff out why the little heir to Driftmark and his betrothed were not at Driftmark. Monterys’ silence on that had been… disconcerting.

Dany’s enthusiasm was infectious, but he regrettably reminded her, “Podrick’s getting our... guest. Should we continue this… some other time?”

She turned beet-red, and it was Jon’s turn to smirk.

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While Jon would not have minded the xipao a little longer, an audience demanded… fanfare of a different sort. Dany had chosen a surcoat of black velvet, with daggered sleeves of a flaming red. A brooch of red-gold and niello, to invoke Retaxes , and velvet gloves - by Myrish protocol, a necessary part of their dress - completed the ensemble.

The dragon itself was racing Seasnake and Seasmoke , while Jon’s Shrike sunbathed on a cliff opposite Argella . “A brace of roast pheasant up with boiled tubers, bacon, and cold ale - actually, bring thrice that; our guards look hungry as well,” Jon bade one of the servants.

Ser Aemond Truefyre blushed redder than he’d done on the parapet, and Ser Perwyn Frey let out a cough. “My Prince is keen-eyed; I have not eaten since luncheon yesterday.”

Dany frowned. “Have we truly kept you so busy, Ser? Forgive us!”

“It’s quite alright, Princess. In the Twins, we were all fighting for scraps at the dinner table anyways - I believe our elders were quite amused at the sight.” Ser Perwyn frowned at two more Palace guards as they arrived, and Ser Podrick panting behind them. The poor lad still takes the long way around.

“My Prince, my Princess, I present to you, Simeon Stark, of the Starks of Moat Cailin! Captain of the Errant Wolf , a former knight of the Order of the Wolves, and master of the White Harbor Guild of Navigators.” Podrick finally stammered out, standing ramrod-straight. The green-eyed Stark, garbed in the bronze and green of Cailin, stared at him. “Ser Simeon, may I present Maekar and Daenerys of House Targaryen, Prince, and Princess of Myr… and -”

Mercifully, before he could continue, Simeon pulled at his remarkable chin whiskers, and muttered, “ Sach , boy - not knight!”

Simeon Stark was a cousin thrice removed from the ruling line of Moat Cailin. He’d made his name watching White Harbor, and the inlets and bays that the Reeds used to get into the Neck.

“ Azantyz , in Northron-Valyrian.” When the man in question bent the knee at being addressed, Dany ran to him and pulled him into a fierce hug instead.

Simeon had been a constant presence at Winterfell, and both Dany and Jon had spent hours upon hours listening eagerly to his stories. And so, the trappings and formalities of Myr fell away for them both awhile, as they conversed over their midday meal.

“Hah! Are you frowning again, Prince? I thought your sulking days were over!’ he teased, breaking bread to dab in the tubers’ sauces. Ghost trotted up and sat beside him, eyes round as Simeon reached up to feed him.

“You always had a habit of turning meals to ash with ill tidings,” Jon japed back. “Can you blame me?”

He seemed about to laugh at Jon’s expense, but suddenly sobered. “Tywin Lannister gave command of his advance forces to Ser Addam Marbrand,” he shook his head, “and his witch .”

“Who?” Jon frowned.

“Chan-yu, or some such?” Daenerys asked, her amethyst eyes far away.

“Zhan Fei, Princess,” corrected Simeon, gently as ever. “Best ask yer Aunt Rhaella about her.”

“I hear she’s a thousand years old,” interjected Pod, and reddened as they all stared at him.

Whispers of maegi came from the guards, but Jon shrugged. “So, he has a foreign sellsword-queen at his command. It's inventive, but ‘tis Ser Addam, I worry over,” Jon stated, even though he felt similarly uneasy. Maybe the old Lion had gone feral.

“What of Lord Stannis?” he asked. Simeon’s answer made him long for talk of Tywin’s witch.

“Half the fleet is scattered across the Sunset Sea, though they survived the storm - if Ser Orys and Vermithor are to be believed.” Jon felt like tearing at his hair. “They fly from ship to ship, then back to the Arbor. Some of the navy is holding the Lyseni at bay near Sunspear - the rest are sieging Lannisport.”

“Victarion Greyjoy’s plan in the Ironborn war. It must wound him to adopt such a strategy,” Ser Perwyn muttered.

“Last I heard, he’d burned the shipyards at Lannisport before the Sunfyre fleet drove them back to the Arbor. They’ll likely not be able to replenish their losses for another two years.” Jon exhaled.

“That leaves the Sunfyre fleet in the Riverlands. The campaign there is… going badly, to say the least” Simeon sighed, and Jon braced himself.

“The Farmans sailed their ships into the Blackwater, and the Sunfyres crossed through the Bay of Crabs into the Trident. They burned several of the holdfasts and sentry towers, and there were rumours Lords Tywin and Leyton are marching their forces to the Riverlands,” he continued, and Jon did his best not to panic.

“Why didn’t the Blackfyre fleet intercept them?” Dany breathed. “Surely they must see Maelys is a hostage, as Robb says?”

Simeon took a long sip of wine and gazed at the goblet in thought, looking older than Jon had ever seen him. “The King’s brother, Aegon Blackfyre has crowned himself. He says Daemon proved himself unfit in the Rebellion, and his line follows in his spirit.”

Bloody - “By what right then does he have to rule, then? Dragons?” muttered Jon, as the entire room gaped at Simeon as he’d turned into a lizard-lion before their very eyes. This coming from one of the more sensible Blackfyres - something is very wrong on Dragonstone, or perhaps…

Thinking on it further, Aegon’s position was essentially an admission that the leaders of the Rebellion were usurpers - and that Dany was Queen. Or worse, anyone with a drop of Dragon’s blood could make a play for the Iron Throne - the man spits on the entire Kingsmoot!

“Where’s Prince Jacaerys in all this?” Dany frowned.

“The boy sulks in the Sea Dragon Tower,” Simeon shrugged. “The son dares not go against the father; and so the Blackfyre fleet is at war with itself.”

That explains the silence from Tyrosh. The Stepstones seemed to be following their example, which took a critical part of Blackfyre power out of the fight. Things could not possibly get worse.

“In the Oldtown Council, House Magnar was granted Qohor if they could conquer it. Ten thousand Skagosi are bound here.” Their accursed Cailin cousin had turned the balcony as silent as a lichyard.

“Why are the -” Dany cleared her throat before Jon could say cannibals . “- they coming here, instead of Pentos?”

“If I had to guess, they’ll be billeted here by royal edict until it's time to take your campaign North to the other side of the Rhoyne -”

“No,” Jon responded flatly as Dany shuddered.

“No, they go straight to Qohor. The Burned Men and Black Ears shall welcome their company - they can raid to their hearts’ content.” 

Jon spent the rest of the morning heaping curses upon the Starks of Cailin, who bore blacker tidings than any raven he’d ever received in his life, and the morning hadn’t even ended yet, with court looming and yet another envoy from Khal Drogo. Gods curse any envoy from any of these would-be-kings.

At least Robb was well, the last Simeon had heard. Lord Reed had sent his daughter Meera with a contingent of crannog-men to protect Princess Rhaenyra, who had bonded with Vaegon .

In some ways, the North of a thousand years ago could not have imagined the North as it stood now - both the Starks riding dragons from Valyria. The North still held fast to its culture, ancient and sublime, but Jon’s ancestral home was changing before their very eyes. 

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Dany decided to hold court not in the Throne Room, but in the grand courtyard turned godswood. The young weirwood tree was now tall enough to cast shade over her, something many had taken as an omen - whether good or bad, she did not know.

Her throne here was more comfortable than the monstrosity the Dragonlords favoured - and the Myrish expected, but she would not get anywhere by doing what was expected of her.

Seated beside her was Jon, wearing his quartered sigil and a silver band about his head, with a single emerald at its crest. Hers was a mite more ostentatious - red-gold with a sapphire, an indicator of rank to the Myrish.

The attire served its purpose well enough, as did the presence of Retaxes, Seasmoke, Seasnake, and the other dragonets that had been blown across the Narrow Sea - to remind the foreign delegates here of the power at her command.

Jeyne Arryn and Monterys Velaryon were also present. Her bright blue eyes made her look like one of Sansa’s dolls.

Sansa… thinking about her and Arya was still hard; one dead and the other hostage -

The Shrike was mercifully patrolling in the air, for Dany didn’t fully trust her not to descend upon the Dothraki envoys and slaughter them and anyone else in her way.  Jhiqui was not safe anywhere near her, and Argella had to defeat the Shrike again to pound in the fact that sun-tanned Myrish were not Dothraki by nature. What would have happened to me, if I had taken after one of my Dornish ancestors?

Still, tolerance was better than fire-breathing, and their hatred of Dothraki seemed to be what won her over more than anything else. Some of the smallfolk had begun to leave totems at the mouth of her lair; straw Horse-Lords, pierced through the heart by pine branches.

Simeon had walked in with Arstan Selmy, deep in conversation about the winter just begun. Maester Runcewyn had announced that there would be a two-year autumn, and the Grand Guildhouse had flown the white ravens announcing summer’s end. The effects would not be harsh in Myr, Dany hoped, but it spoke ill for Westeros.

Ser Willem Darry was close at their heels. His eyes were always filled with sorrow, she saw, and Jhiqui enlightened her as to why.

“That one began as a squire for your Grandsire khaleesi .” How Dany was a khaleesi , she could not put together either. Dothraki were strange. “He says you remind him of your grandmother - Sharra? Shaera?” She whispered, and Dany nodded faintly.

Richard Lonmouth, Rhaegar’s other squire, was worse. He had turned on his Prince when he crowned Lyanna Stark at that fateful tourney. Whatever had happened between them still reflected onto her, with every cold, observant glance directed her way.

The third was Ronald Connington. He was tall and elegant in the colours of his house, and avarice dripped off his frame like a miasma of perfume.

House Connington had not been fortunate in the Rebellion’s aftermath; the King had ordered them to send two hundred of their smallfolk to the Wall every ten years, until he deemed otherwise - a punishment that earned him a rare, public repudiation by the High Septon.

And then there were the fines - a hundred thousand in dragons and twenty times that in stags. It was worse than if their lands had been stripped, Lord Ronald had to beg the Lady of Storm’s End for those funds, and Lady Lysa was remarkably unkind with the usury on the debt. He bears watching.

Lord Casper Wylde had drowned during the storm. Ser Ormund Wylde, a man of six and sixty, led their surviving forces; his grandnephews ser Gladden Wylde and Ser Morgan Storm were present.

Thrice now, her guards had to separate Ser Clifford Swann and Lord Laswell Peake physically. Laswell and his cousins ruled three castles along the road into Myr, and held lands along the Sea of Myrth. She did not need old grudges being revived with men who were but babes when they arrived in Essos. Especially with how proud the three Lords of Peake are…

Edric Dayne stepped forward, resplendent in his violet and silver silks. His pale hair was long and loose in the style Jon favoured, Dany noted. While she and Lord Robert had found one of the Princes of Martell, the other two were still missing - along with ten thousand men. The matter weighs heavy on him.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys and Maekar of House Targaryen, the Dragon in Myr, Prince, and Princess of the Eighth Kingdom...” a herald boomed, with all the force of a trumpeting elephant with their many, many titles.

Father only needed one title, and so did Mother and Aunt Rhaella. But this was not the moment to think of Eddard Stark - her Lords would not take kindly to a weeping Princess.

“My Lords and sers, I thank you for attending. Before we begin, I must remind you that as guests in my home, you should conduct yourselves as guests.”

She made certain to level her eyes at Ser Sebastian Errol, who kicked his boots and had the decency to look ashamed. The broken nose might have had something to do with it.

“Both our dominant faiths, as dutiful subjects, have the right to defend themselves - and they will make use of it, in the face of unpleasantness .”

There were coughs and nods of understanding, though she knew many a Knight present misliked the notion of the Battle Septons of Essos.

“Now, to crucial matters,” she waved a hand to Jon, who rose, gracing her with the lightest touch.

“Wargs have reported sighting the host,” her Prince began. “They shall be at Myr by nightfall - and the survivors of Lord Elbert’s fleet with them.”

Men whispered in hushed tones; the gossip was all over the city, but it must have been too fantastical to believe. Jeyne Arryn gazed at her, hopeful and desperate all at once, but Dany shook her head.

I need her here to help protect the city. She understood the girl’s pain, though; she wanted nothing more than to fly to King’s Landing and order Retaxes to burrow through Aegon’s Hill to find Lord Stark so she could run into his arms and call him Father one last time. He is captured, he cannot be slain! 

I hope her Lord Father knights her. Dames are rare; nevertheless, tis well within his rights as the Arryn of the Vale. “But ten thousand made it through that storm,” Jon announced, to much cursing and stifled gasps.

Jon raised his hand, and Dany spoke into the ensuing silence. “Lord Elbert initially thought they’d been blown back to the Crownlands. They were under the impression that somehow, only six days had passed - not three moons.”

Men murmured as Jon continued. “Of the ten thousand, only three of them are in fighting form. The others are still recovering; the vast majority will not be ready, till the turn of the moon.” Grey Worm and Osric could use the time to train the Silver Legion. And Lord Barristan Bracken and The Blackfish still need time to build our chivalry and our horse back up.

Lord Arstan assented. “We lost the heir to Nightsong and Lord Jack Toyne, in the storm. Myles Toyne is still in his convalescence, after Maester Runcewyn cut off his left hand.”

Lonmouth nodded. “Three of my sons are dead. If we march out ere we’re ready, I’d be burying them all.” Men solemnly nodded.

“We will not press you,” Dany spoke. “Lord Brandon and the Farwynds hold the Rhoyne in the South. If Khal Qoggo comes in force, he must cross hostile waters patrolled by Meric Seaworth, Quellon Lannister, and his Ironborn.”

More and more Ironborn were coming from the Summer Isles and the Iron Islands, but that stream might soon be stemmed. The navies of Volantis might close the Southern Rhoyne, and the reavers would have to come to Myr or Braavos through pirate-infested waters - and the Lyseni navy. Gods forbid Euron tries to slip his men into our ranks .

And Volantis will not dawdle forever - Bran and Shenron can only hold back the might of the foremost daughter of Valyria for so long.

“We have time,” Jon stated calmly. “When Pentos comes, that is when I believe they’ll make their move in force. For now, see to your men.”

“Tomorrow is Crone’s Day.” High Prelate Jasper began, his voice booming louder than the herald’s had, as Dany reflexively fought against the urge to clutch her ears. “It is customary on a day that venerates wisdom, for the Guild of Sciences to sponsor a grand feast at the Glass Sept; all of you here are welcome. Both to the feast and the Night-fire after.” Men groaned, while the more zealous stared at them askance.

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The rest of the afternoon was relatively uneventful, for a time. The sun had reached its zenith in the sky, and she had called for lunch to be brought out. She had learned of the custom from Lady Stark and Princess Rhaella, who often broke bread with petitioners and servants, as Lord Stark had.

Jon had a nervous look about him, no doubt hoping for Lord Gerion to collar his daughters; one was even flirting with Barristan Bracken in plain view of all. 

And then the trumpets blared again, and her herald began to announce a very late arrival - the cad, Gerion Lannister himself, and with guests she never thought to see.

Some men and women in attendance gazed with awe, others with confusion or suspicion, and others still with outrage. “You’re late!” “Is this one a king too?” someone spat.

Dany first saw Ser Aeryn Blackfyre, Grand Captain of the Knights of the Ash, and beside him, a corpulent man of Valyrian descent with short-cropped hair.

Beside him was a Velaryon of Bloodstone, a woman in armour. Behind them, proud and pious, stood Ser Guncer Sunglass. The rulers of Tyrosh and the Stepstones.

The Velaryon knelt to Monterys and Jeyne, and the fattest Blackfyre she’d ever seen addressed her. “Princess Daenerys, you may not know me, but I am Haegon Blackfyre. This is my sister-wife, Aerea.” His wife was about to curtsy, but Dany hurriedly bade her stand, noting her pregnant belly far too late.

Prince Haegon smiled. “My mother was Daenora Blackfyre, sister to Prince Valarr-the, the King-Who-Could-Have-Been; and to Rohanne Blackfyre, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms during the reign of your Father.”

My mother, they are my cousins.. 

“It has come to our attention that the two leading lines of House Blackfyre have either been taken hostage or gone mad, as is the case with poor Aegon.” His wife shook her head with the practiced melodrama of a mummer. Lord Guncer made the sign of the Seven and strode forward, his sword in hand. The Velaryon followed, and Dany’s blood froze.

“In light of this…indecision. I cannot in good conscience lead my King’s vassals into needless slaughter against their kin. Nor will I betray my kin and choose one side over the other. Mayhap, the Dwarf of Pyke will have the sense the Gods gave Old Quellon Greyjoy, and he’ll call another Kingsmoot.” Is he saying what I think he is?

“Nor will I shirk my duties to the realm…as such. Until such time as matters of succession are settled, I formally and unconditionally surrender the Stepstones and Tyrosh to the seniormost House of the Dragon and its head.” He bowed then as his direct subordinates presented their swords in capitulation. “We will fight the foreign foes of the Seven Kingdoms, but we shall not raise a hand against any man or woman of Westeros or its overseas domains.”

Dany sat there in total and utter shock. These were cowards looking for a political out, and should the Mad King’s daughter accept this surrender, it meant doubling the size of House Targaryen’s domains in a stroke. Those who fought against her Father might suddenly question her motives. In the middle of a war!

She closed her eyes. What would Father do, what would Mother do? What would Aunt Rhaella do?

She stepped forward, and set a hand on the shoulder of the rotund Haegon Blackfyre. “My Lord, I cannot accept what is not yours to give, but you have my word that I will never ask you to lay a hand upon a kinsman by blood, land, or Faith. Save that, he betray the Throne first. I accept Your navy and admirals gladly -” eyes locked on her, some murderous.

“- on behalf of Lord Monford Velaryon, whose son is my ward. When he comes to relieve Lord Stark of Volon Therys, I am sure he shall be happy to accept your blades,” It pleased her immensely to see those eyes, so vicious but a moment past, filled with shame. “Until then, my home is yours.”

Thwarted, Haegon Blackfyre made his obeisances, but Dany’s mind was already far away. She worried for her Starks on both sides of the Narrow Sea.

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Freedmen 

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“The fires have died down,” Buzzard remarked. The eunuch was tall and slender, hands calloused from years of holding a spear. Now they held a chalice of fine honeyed wine, and he wore silks as rich as any Wise Master. His slave name had burned away in the fires of rebellion.

“It’s the street cleaners; they want Yunkai to look marvellous, when the Golden Khal rides in.” It was said he’d ridden all the way from the siege of Meereen.

I cannot tell if he is my age or my father’s. Dyanna’s father must have been one and thirty by now, mayhap older. Does he even remember me? She was six and ten, already a mother to a dead child. One of Buzzard’s youngest Unsullied had killed her babe.

But then, Dyanna could not have expected much more in life. She’d come with the legion of Unsullied Hazlos moh Cazlos purchased, when the Wise Masters the Golden Khal’s march upon their walls nigh-imminent, despite the threat of the Dragon King.

Hazlos had been the High Treasurer of Yunkai, a man whose pyramid was filled with coin, silk and spice, wines, and bottles of vinegar and scented oils worth her weight in gold. Dyanna’s purple eyes might have let her pass for Valyrian, but she remembered who she was - a Dayne of High Hermitage, sold into slavery by her father, ser Gerold - for the crime of being a bastard. And my own father handed me over to the slavers.

Her mother died, and her grandsire looked the other way as it happened. And Hazlos Moh Cazlos had the brain of a slug, for Dyana couldn’t fake a Lyseni accent if a crossbow was pointed at her, and her hair was as dark as night.

Back in Astapor; Good Master Kraznys Mo Nakloz claimed that he loved her, and would grant her freedom once she bore his child. Instead, her baby was butchered, and he gave her over to the Wise Masters.

She had a good head for sums, owing to her first master. The old shrew had taught her the ways of a pleasure-slave, and the complexities of bookkeeping, after she saw Dyanna’s talent for it.

Hazlos Moh Cazlos, on the other hand, had no interest in the pleasures of the flesh, though he pleasured himself when she counted coppers for him. But not gold, silver, or platinum. She’d long ago given up trying to comprehend the madness of the children of the Harpy.

Buzzard had no notion of where he came from, nor who his mother or father were. He remembered the knife that cut him and the puppy he’d been forced to kill, but he couldn’t remember the baby. She knew that he rose high, for he was remarkably skilled, and in the two years they’d been in Yunkai, he’d gone from a mere Unsullied to being the commander of the slave levies, Unsullied and the personal guard of the Wise Masters.

She wanted more than the life of a slave; just as Buzzard wanted revenge for the puppy he’d been forced to kill, oh so many years ago .

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A year ago, men from the Dothraki Kingdoms began to appear in Yunkai. Some were holy men - garbed in green silks and gold turbans - who preached of the Horse God, and his glorious children in the flesh.

They preached of the Golden Khal, how he struck the chains of the men of Mantarys and left but three of every ten men standing. Slave guards quickly harried them off; the second group of them that came and urged the slaves to rise against their masters were taken to the pits and fed to dogs.

Slaves that had come in from Mantarys two moons later told a very different story. They said the Golden Khal ordered the death of every seven men, because the slaves hadn’t rebelled against their Masters.

From there, the rumours grew ever wilder, and the Wise Masters resorted to silencing every wagging tongue with mass executions. And then word came from the Sunset Kingdoms that the Dragon King those barbarians bowed to had died, and one of his sons had drowned.

Dyanna had grown up in the ruins King Daemon had made of High Hermitage, so she was glad of his death. Hazlos Moh Cazlos wept, for the Ghiscari believed there was nothing to hold Drogo back anymore .

His wailing made her wish that the Black Dragons truly did come - Yunkai deserved to be ruined.

When Buzzard heard of the tale, he bade her meet with an incredibly odd number of people. First came the scribes, scholars, and factors; slaves who managed the wealth, information, and governance of Yunkai, and they told her things that seemed incredible at the time.

It was said Khal Drogo had proscribed the consumption - or even mistreatment - of dogs in honour of his father, Bharbo. Cooks would rather serve rat than dog; the Meereenese were outraged to find that one of their favourite delicacies, unborn puppies, would not be served, no matter how many times the cooks were flogged.

There were other little defiances that added up; slaves stopped bearing palanquins, or when they did, they would trip and fall. More tales of the fall of Mantarys and Yaros reached the city, so did the extent of the Golden Khal’s disdain for those he considered weak. He’d brave the poison water, as no Khal has done before! Ran the wildest rumours.

When the Dothraki came, at long last, she walked with her Master to Krazadan’s Tower, the mightiest of the sentry towers that were built into Yunkai’s walls.

There, in the shadow of the great pyramids and their stone walkways, she witnessed the banners of the Golden Khalasar; the gold starburst on a storm green field, and below the immense banners, she saw what she thought was a Westerosi sigil beside a Dothraki one, a  violet triangle on a blue field.

“Khal Jommo!” wailed Kazdiz Mo Nakriz, the Wise Master who was to oversee the city’s defences, shaking with a fear he made clear to all present. “And Vorsa Sajak!!!!” His scream echoed from every battlement and bounced off every pyramid.

Even in the birthing bed, I did not holler so. The wind had begun to blow from the west, casting the smell of the sea through the air and sending clouds of sand everywhere.

Vorsa Sajak , this Jon the Andal, rode up first with an immense banner that he thrust into the ground with the intensity of a man possessed, and in High Valyrian, he shouted.

“Men of Yunkai, surrender now and receive the glory of Khal Drogo! Or we shall invest you in a siege! Three moons shall we take to batter your walls, and if you do not surrender, then we call upon the slaves! Take up arms against your masters! Conquer the city from within, pay in blood and steel what you were denied by iron chains and his Grace, the Golden Khal! Drogo, son of Bharbo, will honour any property you seize and make a gift of the children of your masters as your slaves! Fail to murder your masters before we take this city, then we shall kill seven of every ten of you! All of you, slave and master alike, shall die together! DECIDE!”

The Wise Masters held on for eighty-seven days.

On the eighty-eighth, Khal Drogo came, and he came in force. A mighty and most puissant host behind him, war elephants carrying siege equipment, siege towers and builders, and mountains of timber for siege engines.

They heard the pioneers and builders at work for four days and four nights without pause, and the monstrosities rose higher than she thought possible. And then the Golden Khal finally stirred from his tent.

He roared, “Loose!” in a voice that sounded like it could belong to a god.

Boulders the size of elephants pulverized the great sentry towers in an instant, but failed to make a breach - for the towers were only partially built into the wall. In one barrage, she saw two hundred men disappear under rubble.

Another hit the mighty, unbreachable yellow walls of Yunkai, and the walls shook. And when they landed behind the walls, they shattered whatever building they landed upon. “They’ll run out of rocks that big soon!” shouted Cazlos, who seemed to be descending into a gibbering simpleton.

But the blow that crushed the Masters' spirits was the rock that smashed into the golden harpy above the central gate. She folded, crumpling around the boulder as though she were silk and not solid gold. Dyanna could hear an unearthly scream echo, coming from the very walls of Yunkai, as the Masters finally went still in silent horror.

A second boulder flew over their heads and struck the harpy off the nearest pyramid, and when she fell, she tore thousands of yellow stones off the blasted things, raining down onto the streets below. The Masters retreated into their pyramids, cowering.

That night,she and a thousand others wandered the streets free as birds, dressed in their finest garb - such as they were. She walked hand in hand with Buzzard, as she imagined her mother might have, had her father been anyone but Darkstar .

She’d oiled her hair so that it shone in the light and wore the silks that Cazlos’ wives favoured. Buzzard wore a tokar and not his Unsullied armor, and that night, under a date palm, they swore themselves to each other, and he took the name Buzzard. And then he told her to hide.

So’ketsu started it, Dyanna thought. Their seven-foot cook slave from Leng, unparalleled in skill, started with the Master’s wives without any of his usual grace. Once they were done burning, he started on the Master’s most beloved slaves - Dyanna near the head of that list. She ran to the Master’s vaults to hide - and found Hazlos Moh Cazlos cowering amongst his gold .

After he was dead, and she was covered in his blood, her pretty silk dress was ruined.

The slave levies had brought out artillery of their own, but rather than aim them at the walls, they aimed them at the pyramids - a grand gesture of defiance, but a silly action in Dyanna’s mind. We need the city, not to tear it down and cower among the rubble!

Her teeth rattled from the quake the Pyramid of the Ghalazas caused as it fell. Even the doors shook, dust fell from the vaulted ceiling, and a mountain of copper coins became a hill.

In the morning, a ram battered the doors open, and she grabbed her knife - not to end herself before they made her wish for death, but to fight to the bitter end. Must be the Dayne in me.

But it was Mantis, Nutria, and Moldy Cheese - Buzzard’s lieutenants - that found her. “Buzzard say you noble-born?”

“Half-noble,” she muttered.

He grunted, “It’ll do, come, come dis way.”

Cazlos’ less-favoured slaves had set up a grand feast, in which they served the Master and his family - cooked to perfection, the Lengii claimed. Buzzard’s men must have found them mid-banquet, but they made no effort to stop it. She could not make herself look too closely.

They cleaned her, dressed her, perfumed her - but she refused both the golden band upon her head, and the tokar . Instead, she wore the silk tsong-sam of a Yi-Tish noblewoman.

It was utter madness; the Council of Freedmen - and those Masters who were much loved by their slaves, and had fought beside them against the other Masters - voted that she and Buzzard speak for them, but would they even parlay? They had been given seven-and-eighty days; it was now eight-and-ninety days. Still, better than nothing.

So, she rode out the gates of Yunkai, with Buzzard at her side, and met the griffin-helmed Vorsa Sajak , who rode up on a magnificent red destrier. “I am Ser Jon, the true Lord of House Connington, father of the Knights of the Dothraki Sea, and Champion of Khal Drogo, his Golden Majesty.”

Jon Connington? Of the Stony Sept? The Bells that tolled the doom of Lord Tarly’s host? The memories flooded back to Dyanna, of her father describing the battle, for he’d been on the periphery as a freerider watching.

“It is said you almost killed Robert Baratheon,” she remarked, and he raised an eyebrow. “Jin Thir Vaz was wounded, and he and his dragon both hid. How do you know this?” Jin Thir Vaz? The Dothraki call him the Living Storm.

“I am Dyanna Sand, daughter of ser Gerold Dayne. I speak for the people of Yunkai, by order of the Council of Freedmen.” She gestured to her right, “This is Buzzard, my companion, my friend, and the Unsullied Master of War.” Jon Connington regarded her with searching eyes, ignoring poor Buzzard utterly.

Two riders crested the shallow hill, then - and Dyanna forgot to speak, for they were both near-giants, and rode horses to match.

The less impressive one came first - round-bellied, but with arresting green-flecked almond eyes. Khal Jommo bore a triangular banner ahead of the second giant, who needed no introduction.

He was built like a Hrakkar; lean, fibrous, and incredibly powerful, with a braid longer than any she’d ever seen, braided with countless silver and gold bells. His Qohorik armour shone like finely polished gold, and bore weapon upon weapon; a long slender blade was on his left hip, and two Arrakh and a Valyrian-steel-tipped spear hanging from his shoulders. Trophies, one and all.

The Golden Khal, Drogo, was utterly magnificent. But what astounded her were his eyes.

They were of a green so vibrant and piercing that they almost seemed to shine in the light. In this very moment, she could believe all the stories sung about those eyes.

“She comes from the Star Riders I told you of; I believe her.” Vorsa Sajak , who had once been Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost and Hand of the King, spoke.

Buzzard between them, protectively, and eyed them without fear, and the Golden Khal laughed a deep, dark laugh. 

“You are said to be descended from the Last Hero. Yunkai is now ruled by this Freemen Council?”

“Such as it is.” She responded.

Khal Jommo grunted in relief. The Golden Khal roared with laughter. “This fat fool and his fifty wives shall be the… Lord of Yunkai; he shall rule it and its lands in my name. But his writ is thinner than the paper that bears it, and in truth, it shall be your Council that will rule.” Jommo grunted in relief, and Dyanna stared at the man who would be so willing to let others rule for him.

“The slaves who slew their masters are entitled to their master’s property and any of his blood that still lives,” the Golden Khal announced. “Those who fought in the rebellion are free henceforth, and those that did not will remain in chains. And you will tell them this and prepare the city for me, for I shall ride its streets and show them their new Khal and his new Council.”

He then locked eyes with her, and graced Dyanna with a wolfish grin. “Do you wish to return to the Sunset Kingdom, and to your kindred there?”

“Only death awaits me there - unless I find strength enough to bring death to others,” she responded with vehemence.

Something flickered in the Golden Khal’s unnatural green eyes. “Then come with me and bear me strong sons. My children would have the blood of Hyrkoon in their veins, and your clever mind would teach them what is important in life.”

She gawked at him. Is he mad? Does he imagine men can be bred like dogs? Just because I’m half-Dayne doesn’t mean my children will come out as Swords of the Morning!

Could this Golden Khal be as shrewd in politicking as he was in carnage? “I’ve no wish to be a hag imprisoned in Vaes Dothrak, Golden Khal,” Dyanna stated plainly.

  “My scribes tell me of a Dyanna Dayne, who was mother to the Dragon Khal that fathered the new race of dragons -”, Dyanna wanted to curse whoever told him that , “- and you are one of the minds behind this rebellion.”

Connington seemed about to curse, but had visibly bitten down on his tongue, till blood poured from his pinched lips. Paying him no heed, the Golden Khal continued, “Why would I want such a mind dwelling with my Lyseni whore-mother, amongst the Dosh Khaleen? Why would you remain in this city that enslaved you? Come with me, and make a new future for yourself. That is my promise.” 

He extended his hand, and the world went still, and she could hear nothing but the blood pounding in her head.

“Very well, my Golden Khal, I accept,” Dyanna heard herself utter, changing the course of her life once more.

Chapter Text

************

Scions of the Wolf 

***********************

The valley was bedecked in crimson, speckled with dark evergreen as the seasons turned - and joined by the gold of the sun. Mighty winter sequoias, and the occasional Goldenheart towered over them all.

The valley of Harrion was the southern gate to Karstark land. Soon, it would be split between Umber and the Stark in the Dreadfort; half of it to go to Alys and Harrion. If they saw sense.

Elia Sand and Bronn were with him - she was surveying the land ahead, and he was smoking a drako against Stormcloud’s leg, perfectly at ease. His dragon was growing swiftly, but Maester Luwin said he was only near Rickon’s age.

Robb tried not to think about the fact that he’d flown a hatchling younger than Rickon into battle. Or how big it’ll get.

Vaegon soared overhead; his new barding shimmered in the sun, seeming to breathe some pride back into his ailing form. Soon enough, ‘Nyra landed, and Ser Raymun Darke with her - him breathing a not-so-subtle sigh of relief.

Wun Gun Weg Gundabar - or Gunda , as she urged people to call her, ran to Vaegon like a squire awaiting her knight. “Come, little dragon - Gunda feed!”

Mighty Mag had many daughters, sons, and grandchildren, and many of those were often dragon-keepers. Vaegon only stopped briefly to sniff at Cryxus - getting his snout licked for his trouble.

Mag the Mighty himself was seated upon his mammoth, a bare ten paces away. The Old Giant would ever make for a majestic sight; Mag alone could break an enemy, and never need aid from his two dragons, four thousand foot, and six hundred horse. Should they give battle, it’ll be a massacre.

Robb didn’t think they would. At least, he hoped they wouldn’t. Gods, Ursa was his aunt - by blood if not name!

Lord Rickard had sired her when he was still alive, and Ursa’s granddaughter, Arya was heir to Wolf’s Hold. She knelt to Osric - another distant cousin, and they’d grown up together at Winterfell with him and Jon. I’ll not send another Arya from this life - not even the Gods could compel me to do so.  

“Sarella tells me this Harrion was a famed hunter as well as a warrior. She won’t shut up about your lineage; she finds the older Houses of the realm as fascinating as Ser Wendel does a leg of ham!” Elia nodded at the man in question, and Ser Wendel laughed good-naturedly.

Robb shrugged. “Harrion’s sister married the Greenhand’s son, Brandon of the Bloody Blade -” he began, but ‘Nyra captured the rest of his words with an icy kiss.

“My husband’s apt to bore you about as much as Sarella does, if you’re not careful,” His wife teased as Elia laughed. 

“The Wargs were right,” her expression turned grim, and Robb’s stomach turned. “There’s six thousand foot, and five hundred horse, ready to give us battle.” Shit.

The majority of Robb’s men were with Rickon and Lord Manderly. Willas Tyrell had tied down two thousand Karstark soldiery along the coast - he’d volunteered to command the four thousand Reachers with him, and with Shireen and Vhagar in tow, they were doing well.

Lord Rickard’s confession had kicked up a hornets' nest of other traitors, and the Lannister letter proclaiming him Warden of the North was too absurd to be anything but forgery. Why continue to push us when we’re already at war?

“We should have brought more men.” Obara resembled nothing more than a block of ice. Her half-sisters were smitten with Rickon and his menagerie of strays, and had, wisely, chosen to remain at the Dreadfort.

“We have two dragons, and some of the finest warriors in the realm,” Ser Raymun casually remarked, eliciting a deep-bellied laugh from Wendel Manderly. The Smalljon let out a belch but nodded in agreement with the Kingsguard.

“Should not fight Northmen… without first speak,” said Mag the Mighty, his rumbling like the stirrings of the first winter storm. His words were sparse, but they touched the matter as keenly as a blade.

‘Nyra fears the war in the South shall stretch on well into winter. The last time the North had fought a protracted war, the Skagosi cannibals and Dagon Greyjoy were assailing both East and West. More Starks had fallen in that conflict than Robb wanted to recall. 

No, better to end the war - and right soon . War in the South - and the East - yet beckoned.

“Alaric Wolfsbane is my cousin. Try not to kill him, if it comes to a fight,” Robb ordered

Bronn grinned at him wolfishly. “What’s the cunt look like?” Robb frowned - he couldn’t recall, and he’d never seen Alaric before, and his grin turned to full-blown laughter. “I’ll keep an eye out for the long-faced cunt,” he wheezed, to general laughter.

Perhaps Robb could have joined in, too, once - but he was the Stark in Winterfell, and he had duties .  

“They come.” Mag rumbled. 

*********

***************

House Sixstreams - of the black otter on a six-striped field - garrisoned the bulk of the force that defended the valley at their keep beside the waterfall that flowed into the Last River. Gods, this may actually demand dragons - the Old Gods might actually forswear me for such an abomination.

The host arrived as the sun began to dip westward, their mail gleaming in the wan light. Myriad banners fluttered in the wind that he could not recall. The heat of battle robs men of sense and memory , his father had said, but Robb did not truly believe it - until now. 

Three horses rode up before their host, white parley flag aloft. Robb and his people rode forward to meet them, Stormcloud shadowing them on the ground - a threat more imposing than effective on the ground. If it causes them to quail, it’ll have made all the difference.

Leading them was the canny Lord Osric, as bald as he’d ever been. Even at Winterfell, Osric had lived in fear of lice, and bathed thrice a day - and deemed it not enough.

He looked at Stormcloud and whistled - in admiration, Robb noted, and so did his dragon, who preened under the attention. “My Lord Robb,” he began, “we’ve only received word of what happened to your father.” 

Osric reached into his cloak pocket, and tossed Robb a scroll, spitting on the ground as he did so. The seal of the Lion was broken, and Robb read it out aloud. “My new daughters desire wolf pelts for their winter blankets and would pay a handsome sum, if a sun could adorn one.”

Cries of outrage broke out at the words, but Robb shook his head. “Lord Tywin would not be this foolish. The man is vengeful to a fault, and mindlessly petty - but not a fool.”

“Someone plays a very foolish game, down south,” Osric sneered. “You are the Stark in Winterfell, and my ultimate allegiance goes to you. Yet, I still find it vile - these lions have set us loose cousin against cousin.” Good old Osric - mayhaps we can still avert battle this day.

“You have my oath, Stark in Winterfell.” The silent giant that accompanied Osric spoke, with a voice as deep as the sea and hard as flint to the ears. He removed his helm - only to reveal the Master of House Wolfsbane, for who else could he be, with such a distinct blend of Stark and Redwyne?

“Hullo, cousin. House Wolfsbane will not fight you, but we shall bar this valley after you have passed. Pray spill no Northron blood, unless it is deserved.” Robb knuckled his head in chagrin - he had taken him for a man-at-arms, more fool me.

For the first time in what felt like a moon’s turn, things felt a tad less heavy. “Aye, then you have my thanks - cousin. What of the Karstarks?” Robb asked.

Lord Osric hissed in annoyance. “Not much better. Arnolf’s grandson, Roderik pursues Alys relentlessly. He’s slain two of his cousins at their longhouse - for the crime of stalling his host .” 

The Ramshead accompanying Osric audibly gnashed his teeth. “They were good men, and did not deserve to die at the hands of a kinslayer .”

Mag the Mighty thumped his chest in approval, and the sound of it reverberated in Robb’s chest.

“Arnolf himself has raised ten thousand men and holds the pass into Karhold proper,” Osric continued. “But - he’s a damned fool. The Skagosi have blockaded the estuary, and the mad fuckers burn and pillage all they come across.”

“They bloody themselves on Karstark lands? They’re set to be off to aid in the conquest of Qohor under Prince Maekar.” Muttered Ser Ryman as he marked himself. “Seven preserve us.”

“Jon.” Robb lowered his eyes for a moment in thought. You have more than one storm on your hands.

“Jon Snow? Is that what he’s called now?” Osric replied, seemingly surprised. News of the overflowing of tensions to outright war in the Dragonlands had not gone unnoticed.

Robb nodded. “One and the same, unfortunately. The King,” his mouth twisted, “has saddled him with a new name, and new lands.” 

Osric leaned back on his horse, rubbing his bald pate. “Poor sod.”

Robb pulled the discussion back to the situation at hand. “And Lady Alys?”

“She has fled - to the Skagosi!” They all stared at Osric incredulously. “She’s called on all loyal men to rally behind us, and to join their arms with yours.” Ah, so she’s recused herself. But running to the cannibals?

“Does Harrion say why he defies us?” Nyra asked, as grave as any headsman.

“He believes you have tortured a false confession out of his father, and murdered his brothers,” stated Osric baldly. “I believe you to be intimately familiar with his state of mind, Robb.”

So that’s why he bade me read the letter aloud. Robb wanted to bristle, but Osric was as endearingly canny as always. And so, he spoke plainly.

“Rickard Karstark deserved what happened to him, as you bloody well know, Os,” Robb began. Some started, and Alaric’s eyes narrowed, but he continued heedless. “Alys does not, and neither does Harrion- but I cannot let them walk away from this. Their lord let rot fester in his house, and in his mind.” I’ve not touched a hair on the heads of Torrhen nor Eddard…They’re wall bound.

Osric assessed him for a moment, and nodded. “What happens now, my Lord?”

“None here shall kneel to Karstark any longer,” Robb announced, as ‘Nyra rubbed his back with soothing motions. “You shall owe fealty to the Stark in the Dreadfort - my youngest brother, Rickon.” Ramshead, he noted, did not like that.

 “And House Umber,” announced the Smalljon at last. Osric and Cousin Alaric’s eyes twinkled with interest; mammoth wool and cheese were absurdly lucrative, and the Last River - and its towns and mills - would be in the offing. House Wolfsbane might see itself fully Lorded, before the year was past.

“The banners will hate bending the knee to this old miser!” Osric said playfully, slapping Alaric’s shoulder. “Nevertheless, I shall see it done.”

Robb nodded. “Thank you, coz.”

“Let us camp here tonight and feast, my Lords,” Nyra offered, with her most charming smile, “and discuss matters of land and fealty,” she added, the smile turning wry.

“On the morrow, we make for Karhold.” Robb noted that none had asked what would become of Alys Karstark.

*************

Myrish Skies

*****************

On the back of a dragon, high in the air, she was just Dany.

She wasn’t the Queen of her city, or a Princess of a dynasty, or future mother of dragons. There was no looming calamity, or a thousands-strong army of sellswords poised to pillage Bran’s city.

Only the autumn air lingered in her chest, a sure remainder of what was to follow. Winter is coming - with Fire and Blood.

Retaxes kept her mind on the here and now.  Her relic of a dragon had started out barely horse-sized, and now could rival a singing whale in size - if not in sweetness of voice.

Bonding with a rider seemed to affect a dragon’s growth, one way or another.

She let out a sharp whistle, inviting Seasmoke to come out of hiding - but it was Jeyne who responded, her wail eerily similar to her dragon’s.

Seasmoke beat her wings and levelled out alongside Retaxes , as Jeyne waved - almost cheekily, Dany thought - before spurring her dragon up into the clouds, where violet and silver flames met the unending blue of the heavens. 

“Oh, she shan’t outdo us! Up, Up!” Retaxes heeded, and raced after the pair.

Near as Dany could tell, Retaxes was actually not female - but nothing fit him in her mind as well as the legendary red-scaled mother of Balerion , the Black Dread. Dany’s Retaxes was brass-bellied, but her coat was as red as a bloody dawn.

Up in the sky, she missed Lord Stark more than she could have imagined - no! Not now!

“ Retaxes ! Down!” she roared, and the dragon abruptly pulled itself into a dive that Seasmoke traced.

Retaxes wasn’t mad like Seasmoke or daring like Aerax ; he had no name to draw off, yet Dany already knew who he was. Her dragon had put himself in harm’s way to save her from the Shrike - he was noble.

She was not being very noble right now.

As both dragons neared the water, they abruptly pulled upwards locked into a dance. Their tails trailed in circles, creating a swirling jet of water that would have been the sight of a lifetime for any who could have borne witness. 

The pair roared in unison as an eager Seasnake approached to join the spectacle, as eager as his would-be rider. 

*************

***************

She bid Retaxes follow the dragon-keepers, who were to remove his saddle and barding, and groom them to their heart’s content.

He and Seasnake eagerly stomped off, as the Shrike watched from her perch on the rocks. She rather liked sunning herself near the ocean, splayed about in twisting emerald coils.

She still seemed more than wary about Argella - tensing whenever her sister drew close, as if itching for a fight. On Argella’s part, the blue dragon seemed to be in no mood for such antics. Why is she so tense?

Then Jon crawled out from within the Shrike’s coils, with his cheeks red and stained with tears, her body trembled. His gait was slow, as if Jon were forcing his body with every step. What’s happened?

If Princess Rhaella had been killed… no, Argella would have known. What -

Jon clutched at a piece of paper as if he meant to rip it apart - but at the last moment, he handed it to her, wordlessly.

She took it - and began to read, words blurring through the haze of tears.

Father is dead, murdered by Aethan Sunfyre, will march South to avenge Father, for us, for us all -

Love to Dany always -

Rickon misses you both -

Mother is heartbroken, she keeps you both in her prayers -

I know he was proud of you Jon.

- Stay the course, brother; win Essos -

- I promise you both a reckoning.

But what truly made her believe, was what came after.

Robb,

the Stark in Winterfell,

Warden of the North.

Dany threw her arms around Jon and sobbed. She took refuge in him, as they mourned the father they had lost, and the Shrike mourned with them.

***********

****************

This evening, Elbert’s feet led him to the Godswood of the Palace of Myr, as he thought of years past.

Eddard Stark, Robert Baratheon, and Daemon Blackfyre; three boys he’d helped raise, and been an uncle, a brother - whatever they needed.

Now, one was murdered in an alley, and the other slain by a false knight he did not see fit to bring to heel.

When plague claimed his family, Robert had beaten his hands bloody against stone walls.

Ned had prayed for them in the gardens of the Eyrie.

Daemon sang the funeral dirge as they were lowered into the crypts of the Eagle’s Roost. 

Northron Godswoods always held an aura of foreboding to him. Even the great Lords in their keeps had let them run wild, and he had never been at ease walking in them - not like Ned had been.

This Myrish godswood was practically a garden in comparison, but what Daenerys had done had somehow imbued it with the same feeling. If he listened, he could almost feel the old gods whispering, just at the very edges of hearing.

New shoots were already clearing through the ash of the ruined grove, where two dragons danced. He had hoped to find something of Ned here - mourn him, and perhaps remember him. But there was nothing - only the gentle swaying of branches, and the bleeding eyes of the weirwood.

Someone was there before him - a slight girl that he would know anywhere. Her shoulders heaved with barely suppressed tears; the only other sound in the grove.

Then a soft rumble came that made Elbert smile; glowing green embers peered from an enormous brace of rose bushes. Retaxes , in his opinion, was a most elegant dragon.

Only then did Daenerys notice him, and donned a tremulous smile that broke his heart. “My Lord, I hadn’t realized -”

Elbert shook his head, and bowed to the dragon as one might to his liege - Retaxes bowed back, and let him by. “It is… such a day, your Grace.” 

He produced a silk scarf, which she gracefully accepted.

After a long silence, Daenerys hesitantly spoke. “He spoke of you, you know? He said you were the strongest man he knew, of heart and muscle.”

Elbert laughed at that. “Our Ned was ever a gracious one, wasn’t he? When he wasn’t getting into mischief in any case.”

The princess seemed gobsmacked. “No. Truly?”

“I could not count the amount of times nuncle Jon had to tan his hide. A maelstrom of chaos when he was bored.”

Daenerys continued to gaze at him as though he’d sprouted a second head.“Ah, his brother Benjen never told you? Well, Eddard Stark once launched rotten oranges into the Eyrie’s guest quarters - on a trebuchet . Not even the first time - he’d refined his aim with sausages first!” 

The Princess laughed, and Elbert’s heart lifted. It does no good for children to be sad.

“Oh, indeed, true terrors - him and Robert. One day, they found a foundered ship on the coast; the fruits within its hull had begun to ferment, so they threw a husk of burnt lamb into it, and called for Argella.”

Daenerys began to laugh hard enough that tears returned. “Have you ever witnessed a drunk dragon? Argella broke the tip off the Giant’s Lance that night. Come sunup, we found the lads - sleeping next to her!”

“Aye,” Elbert sighed, “they were my family, after my family died. Ned called me uncle, once - before Brandon died.”

He waved off the questioning gaze. “A tale for another time. Just know this - Brandon succumbed to the wolf’s blood and Ned tried to freeze his veins, after he saw where Stark recklessness led his brother. But he failed; you have known his love, as if you were the child he and Ashara had dreamt of.”

His frankness seemed to have stunned her into silence, and so he laughed, trying to clear the air. “Excuse an elder his ramblings - today, I feel my age on me. What I meant to say is this: I would be honoured to look after those he raised as his own.”

“Thank you… thank you, my Lord. In truth, I was worried you would not like me.” the Princess admitted, sounding every bit a girl of seven-and-ten. “I know what the Mad King was, and what -”

Elbert gripped her shoulder. “None of that, your Grace. Your father was a great man; he had his future ripped out from him, but he soldiered on, and raised wonderful children. Honour him, in word and deed, and he would be glad for it.”

She fell into his arms. “I miss him, Elbert; it hurts, and I miss him, and it hurts -” 

Gods, but she sounds younger than my Jeyne.

Elbert realized he was weeping, as well. “I know, Princess - I know.”

 ***********

A Howling Tempest

********************

On the back of a dragon the size of the Shrike , it would take him half a day to reach the Rainhouse, and from there he could be at King’s Landing by nightfall the day after.

In the Myrish heat, Jon dreamed waking dreams. 

Smooth-covered stone bridges on snow-frosted mornings, of the laughter of brothers, the warm and stern voice of the only Father he ever knew. A warm, calloused hand cupping his cheek, a low deep rumble telling him to mind Old Nan’s stories, for all crib-tales had a grain of truth. 

The heavy, dull blade swept across a strawman, and its head shattered. The Shrike shared in his grief, and rage, and she mourned with him.

Rides through the Wolfswood to sit beside a brother and a Princess as Father dispensed justice and mediated disputes. Of nights by the hearth, of warmth to be found even when through the dour stares of Catelyn Stark.

He was not looking forward to her letter; her grief would be… keener.

I want their heads! I want their fucking heads! The words repeated over and over in his mind; he wanted them screaming .

Dany had been inconsolable. Some days, she refused even his company - those were the worst ones.

Ghost perked up, lips curled into a snarl. He’s feeling what I feel . “Leave me alone! For gods’ sake -”

His direwolf leapt at him - but suddenly stopped, staring at something behind Jon. And then he went on his back, showing his belly in a clear gesture of submission

When he turned, he was not at all surprised to see Robert Baratheon standing there. Something about his antlered helm put fear in the hearts of men and beast alike - the Demon of the Trident, men called him. And here in Essos, Jin Thir Vas , the Living Storm.

But Jon did not recognize the man in front of him; he had never known Robert Baratheon to look… confused.

He’s likely lost his son and heir, and a good-daughter he raised from the time she was a tot. And , Jon realized, he still mourns my mother. That made him angry.

“Lord Robert, I’m in no mood for a spar -”

He barely blocked a mailed fist the size of a tree stump.

Jon’s boots skidded across the ground as Lord Robert advanced on him, once again implacable. “We had three things in common before today, you and I.”

“Your mother!” he roared, slamming a practice sword into his shield - this time, Jon flew backwards.

His shield was in tatters - Jon abandoned it, and leapt out of the way. Dirt exploded around the dull blade. “Your father!”

Fury filled Jon’s heart. “Damn you!” he shouted.

“And what he stole from us both.”

Jon held up his sword in a low guard. “Lord Robert…what are you -” Say no more you miserable giant!

“And now we have another. The man who raised you -”

“HE WAS MY FATHER!” Jon roared, launching himself towards Robert with a downward strike. Robert pulled up his shield, an immense thing the length of Jon’s upper body. 

Robert sent Jon rolling from his shield. “So said Maekar Targaryen -”

The world blurred, and Jon lunged, slamming his shoulder into Robert’s shield. “Mine!”

Someone was yelling. “Mine! Mine! Mine!”

Someone roared, and Jon was vaulted through the air. “No, boy - I killed your father!”

Jon roared.

“I crushed his skull! When I did it–I WHISPERED YOUR MOTHER’S NAME!”

Jon raged, and struck.

“By what right do you mourn a brother, the only father I have ever known, because of YOU!”

What manner of son am I – to celebrate my sire’s demise, and grieve for the man who helped put him in the ground?

“I….” Jon stumbled back and slumped into the ground. “I want to burn King’s Landing to the ground.”

“You should be going to your grandmother instead, boy - and your half-brother,” Lord Robert mocked. “Gods, but that wildling wife of Jory’s was right - you do know nothing.”

Lord Robert rose to one knee, lifting him up from the ground. “Your shame does not matter. This confusion is cowardice, boy - you cannot be unburdened of grief.”

“We are men who were born to endure. We’re fucking blessed by the Gods - to have women who can keep us from becoming joyless husks. Feel what your wife feels,” he spoke, as intense as Jon had ever known, “share her grief, and grant her yours.”

Jon thought about that.

“Three half-sisters, two goodbrothers and a father. And you a daughter and a son and a brother and a good-daughter,” he murmured. “How the fuck do we come back from that?”

Robert shrugged. “Make our own?”

“Dany’s been demanding children…” Jon conceded.

“Aye, then you best get to it,” Robert clapped his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “lest tongues wag you’ve Rhaegar’s blood and … tastes.”

Jon gagged. “Fuck you, my Lord.”

Lord Robert laughed.

Chapter Text

**********************

Greyskull 

****************

This was all going wrong, so wrong. A scorpion bolt struck sparks off Stormwind’s side, steel grinding against dragonscale.

“ Dracarys! ” roared Gendry.

With a snarl, Stormwind set the sky alight with green flame, that rained down - while Gendry covered his eyes, frantically trying to preserve some of his vision.

Somewhere a pot of pitch caught fire and exploded, taking a scorpion with it.

With a swift crack of his whip and a bark in High Valyrian, Stormwind dove, his club-tail toppling a row of ballistae, and his fire lighting up a siege tower like so much kindling.

Men held his peasant blood as to why Gendry resorted to a whip - but he’d found out the hard way that his dragon much preferred the feel of steel on his skin, and the whip moving through the air rather than any spoken word; he was half-deaf, after all.

His other senses were far sharper, and Gendry had found Stormwind could even read human lips!

But in a storm of fire and blood, that worked against them. Gendry held his whip-hand before his eyes, trying to wipe away the white spots in his vision.

Lord Grandison had thought a token force would come - something to assuage the Fat Flower’s pride; but by virtue of the sheer numbers the Reachers could field it would still be an army to reckon with. Still, the blowhard boasted that Grandview would be sufficient to bog them all down.

Still, Lord Greystorm, should the fat flower manage to acquire for himself Dragonriders? As much as it grieves me, you must bring fire down on its walls - if only that we might make good on our escape, he said, a single tear falling from his eye.

In these moments, Gendry was keenly reminded that while he might be the son of Robert Baratheon - he was not Robert Baratheon.

For when five and sixty thousand men issued forth from the Reach under the golden rose of Highgarden, he knew he was well and truly out of his depth.

Instead of a frontal assault against Grandview, they first unleashed colossal trebuchets to shatter the castle's walls, and block the coursing stream below. The men of Grandview had watched helplessly as their land drowned around them. Then, they brought out the siege towers.

The Reachmen pressed on – a ceaseless tide of soldiers clad in verdant and ashen hues, with sporadic flashes of bright colour, surging forth like a colossal wave of water. Grandview stood on the brink, even as they made the Reachers pay for every inch ceded with blood .

Create chaos, a maelstrom of violence, to grant us the chance to escape, and then ignite the castle.

Such were the words of the old Lord Grandison - a final defiance against the hordes of the Reach; his castle set alight by the hands of a bastard. He gritted his teeth, squinting, before letting off three cracks of his whip in what he hoped was the right direction.

As the garrison trooped out, backs bent with the shame of defeat and retreat, Stormwind dove onto the castle, hurling green and black flame onto the armoury -

Sound vanished.

Below them, all was white and red, and Gendry’s dragon screamed, fleeing the inferno.

Only after a blazing column pierced the clouds, did he realize that the flames had reached the granary.

Red Dawn

The blue-and-brass banners of House Buckler burned in pyres, ‘neath the tower-keeps of Bronzegate.

Bronzegate’s walls had stood sentinel for Storm’s End since the Age of Heroes, and the intervening centuries had seen only more and more fortifications added; two forty-foot-tall walls, tower-keeps scattered through the town…

All for naught, against the might of the Reach.

And House Crane would reap the rewards. The Bucklers’ coffers overflowed, and the soil was rich; his cousin, Rycherd, would be set for life - or so he had thought, until he witnessed the Stormlanders’ fury.

************

****************

The last moon of the year marked Mace Tyrell’s banners setting out on a campaign set towards the Stormlands. The domains of their enemies had been drawn up on the war table, each one replaced with banners of the Reach. 

War had long been on the horizon – the death of the old Hand had simply made the red dawn bloodier. The scars of the Rebellion lingered, ills kept at bay only by the fear of King Daemon and his dragon.

But with Daemon’s demise and Maelos’ disappearance, the new Hand had vowed to settle the debts of honour the Reach owed the realm. Nearly two decades of humiliation would finally be resolved – with righteous vengeance, upon those who had shackled them ‘neath the teeth-grinding madman of the Arbor. 

None questioned why the new Lord Hand was tasked with this invasion, rather than aiding the Lannister and Hightower forces to the north - or if they did, they kept their counsel to themselves. Ser Vortimer, Highgarden’s Master at Arms wondered who, rather than why.

What if the Old Lion has another motive?

But it was not the moment for such thoughts - they would be ill-received, as the men gorged themselves on dreams of revenge.

************

****************

In the span a moon, a host five and sixty thousand strong embarked upon great barges along the Mander. Rowers and supply trains alternated with the sun’s rhythm, a show of deadly efficiency for all who would stand in their way.

The host marched on through Caswell lands, encountering an army of sellswords bearing the banner of the Arbor Stag. These bastards lack the courage to send their own steel before us. 

“‘Tis a good omen!” shouted Uthor of Oldflowers, a revered knight and former student of the Faith. “The Seven are with us!” The man’s martial prowess was only enhanced by his knowledge of the Holy Book – his words moved the heart of many a soldier.

At Tumbleton, they came upon the ruins of Eddard’s Folly – and the decaying corpse of Aerion Aetheryon. The once dreaded rider of Vaegon had been crucified at the town’s entrance. In the face of House Sunfyre’s cruelty, Lord Tyrell had ordered his body removed and given a proper Dragonlord’s burial.

Not until their force arrived in the Stormlands did they encounter resistance. House Grandison had torched their lands, and their smallfolk, bereft of worldly possessions, fought fiercely against the knights of the Reach.

The taking of the castle itself was an ugly affair; made more so by the once-bastard of Greystorm and his damned dragon. Even their combined might was certainly no match for the strength of the Reach - and perhaps they realized this, for they burned Grandview and fled the field as best as they could.

As the Reachmen entered Grandview, the grim aftermath of Lord Greystorm’s dragonfire became evident. The sight of men nearly melted in their armor stirred cries of outrage among their ranks.

Lord Mace seized the moment to rally his Lords, denouncing the cruelty inflicted by the boy and his dragon upon their own sworn swords. His words lit anew their determination as the army advanced toward Felwood.

There, they encountered the combined Houses of Fell and Grandison, who fiercely resisted the Reach host. The unwavering defense of Lord Harwood Fel and Ser Narbert Grandison forced the Reachmen into a half-moon long siege, culminating in the Lords’ nocturnal escape for Storm’s End with five thousand men.  

Felwood had been granted to a Hightower cousin of twelve namedays, whose brief rule was marked by a gruesome end. The vivid details remained etched in Parmen’s mind. Seven Hells, and they scraped his poor mother from the walls.

During one fateful night, a local Septon accused Lady Alerie of sorcery and hurled a glass lantern at her. In a twist of irony, the army’s own Septons promptly beat her accuser to death. 

It wasn’t until they approached Bronzegate that the Reachmen found vassals willing to align with their formidable forces. Minor Lords and knightly houses all, but all had been badly slighted by the Baratheons.

They spoke of Lysa Tully in the most bitter of tones - for while the Master of War was unmatched in combat, to them, it was his wife who was the architect of their fall from grace.

Parmen resolved to keep an eagle eye out for the woman’s machinations.

Bronzegate was indeed a worthy prize. Full coffers and high walls capable of withstanding their great trebuchets; its defenders were ferocious, and their defiance admirable. Three thousand dead, in the end, had been a small price to pay to balance the scales.

However, the fifteen thousand that suffered maladies of the gut after drinking from the town’s poisoned wells was not. The poisoning of young Jarmen Oldflowers, his siblings, and their mother by a milkmaid hardened their hearts.

Perhaps, men thought, Lord Mace’s poisoning of these cravens was justified in the face of such atrocity. They began to believe, as their Lord exhorted - that no matter how the smallfolk prettily begged when the knife was at their throats, their transgressions must be repaid tenfold.

The iron and bronze plated gates of the keep were melted down, and the milkmaid in question met a blazing end in a cauldron of the stuff. The chivalry of the Reach cheered, and Parmen Crane dared not look away.

Next came Lord Ralph Buckler.

By then, the gathered armsmen and chivalry did not need the speech that Lord Mace gave; the smallfolk stared on as an Oldflowers strangled Lord Buckler to death with his own belt. The great gold buckle on the thing cut his throat quite neatly - men could not decide if it was the strangulation or the throat-slitting that did him in.

Parmen understood the danger of such acts; alas, he also knew of the necessity. If we fail here, the Reach of old fails, and shall be consumed by the abomination of an Empire the Black Dragons sought to create.

************

****************

“I intend to occupy Bronzegate as my seat until the conclusion of this war, wherein I shall bestow it upon Ser Rychard.” 

Parmesan pondered his cousin’s precarious fate, though he held no affection for the man. “My Lord, should we not instruct our own builders to initiate repairs to the walls and town? 

“I shall see it done.” Arthur Ambrose replied. “We must demonstrate not only our superiority, but our piety.”

Lord Mace, his golden hand replaced by green filigreed steel, rapped the table in agreement. “So you shall.” 

Alyn Ambrose, serving as his squire, stood among twenty other youths who would be assigned to Bronzegate during the war. Mace beckoned to Sage-smith Damon, who was most proud of forging Rhaella Targaryen’s battle-armour.

“I want twenty scorpions and as many smaller ballistae on those walls. Make use of the forges here to craft new ones if necessary!” Mace thundered. “Should Greystorm enter the fray, we cannot afford a repeat of Grandview!” He relaxed and necked for young Luthor Tyrell to fill his chalice– one taken from House Buckler’s treasury.

“Would Lord Greystorm dare attack another castle with a single dragon?” Ser Luthor Tyrell asked. A cousin to Lord Mace, he was draped in the green and dark red of the Roseroad cadet branch. 

Lord Warryn Beesbury sneered derisively. “He displayed the ignorance of his commonborn heritage at Grandview. Truly, what does he know of the ways of war?” The old Lord was a proud vassal of House Florent, who had chosen to stay neutral in the war. Still, he supplied six thousand swords, and provided the honey used in treating various battlefield wounds. 

“He is the Demon’s son,” Ser Magnus of Oldflowers cautioned, drawing a bristled response from the Lord of Honeyholt.

“His blood is half-piss, from the arse-end of King’s Landing!” Lord Warryn repeated, loudly and insistently.

And yet a dragonrider he remains, fool. Like any sensible Crane, he knew the Honeyholts were but upjumped beekeepers; good only for their mead, and honeyed cakes. If the whole lot turned to the culinary arts instead of the aspirations of true Reachmen, the realm would be indelibly better for it.

Mace Tyrell cleared his throat, drawing Lord Matthis Rowan’s attention from the town’s fading fires below. Lord Matthis’ countenance was grave, and his cheeks were uncharacteristically flush. Though his forces could not be used in the north or against the Arbor, his brothers had fallen victim to the free flowing poisons of Lysa Baratheon.

“Lord Mathis, you shall command twenty thousand foot, five thousand horse, and one thousand of our finest knights. You will march to Griffin’s Roost and join forces with House Connington.”

The declaration drew murmurs from around the table. Parmen knew the matter of House Connington was sensitive given that its Lord and heir had sailed with the royal army, seeking new lands in Myr. Their domains under the eastern Starks, thrice the size of their current holdings, drew suspicion.

While no man knew the King’s motive, many feared that Griffin’s Roost might not be entirely loyal. Raymund Connington’s true intentions remained uncertain, and the possibility of vandalism on their way into exile loomed. The blame would then fall on Highgarden, surely.

Or worse… Parmen’s mind moved to darker possibilities. Could it be they simply wish to meet the Stranger having taken as many of both sides as possible?

He refrained from voicing these grim thoughts to the Lord of Highgarden.

Lord Mace continued. “You shall unite with other discontented Lords and unleash havoc upon the Marches. Seize Harvest Hall, Blackhaven, and Nightsong.”

Matthis Rowan’s expression tensed, considering the perils of deploying infantry into a land known for its formidable archers and unforgiving terrain. Lord Rowan bowed and struck a gauntleted fist to his chest as he departed.

Mace’s gaze shifted to Branston Cuy. “From here, raid the lands around Storm’s End. Subdue Lord Robert’s vassals or, if necessary, burn them out. If they do not yield, spare none– neither smallfolk nor highborn. House Baratheon’s domains must be shattered.”

So it begins. Parmen thought. Here, vengeance will truly be unleashed.

“And you, my Lord?” Warryn Beesbury’s eyes bore a frigid intensity.

A faint smile graced Mace Tyrell’s lips as he contemplated his adorned hand. His once robust form had turned to a bloated, haunted visage, and his once rich brown beard appeared dull in the morning light. “From this point,” he began, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty but his gaze did not waver. “I shall oversee the war’s progression into the Rainwood and the impending response from Tarth and Greenstone.”

“The Rainwood…” Ser Luthor seemed poised to invoke the Seven, as if to ward off evil at the mere mention of the place. The ancient forest had grown thrice in size since the days of King Daeron the Second and harbored colossal trees that supported a thick canopy. Even the harshest winters could not fully conquer its lush, verdant depths.

The creatures that roamed within seemed otherworldly as well; red wolves rumoured to speak, straight horned deer, menacing black aurochs, and even its people were shrouded in mystery and those dread black Aurochs and forest elephants– and then the men and women of the Rainwood.

Queer folk they were, some of the oldest surviving First Men Houses in the South. Even Andal conquerors who ventured in found themselves succumbing to internal conquest.

Between them, the Baratheon cadets, and the traditional Rainwood Houses, the Reachmen would face resistance like none they had seen since the start of the war. 

And over them all stood the bastard Gendry Greystorm, his dragon, and his fortress– a stronghold second only to Storm’s End during the days of House Greyskull.

“My Lords,” Lord Mace declared. “While the Lord Protector and the Master of War subdue the traitor Robb Stark and his fishmonger grandsire, we shall achieve the unprecedented: we shall conquer the Stormlands, and hold them in perpetuity!”

Cheers erupted, ale and mead flowed freely, and bards swarmed the war council with hearty ballads. Yet Parmen Crane could not assuage his mind of the impending challenge. 

And the rivers of blood we shall carve.

********************

Demons of the Wood  

*************************

The winged shadows of Daeros and Whirlwind passed over them, obscuring the precious little light that broke through the deep forests of Northern Essos.

They reminded Barristan of the Rainwood - and perhaps, of the Wolfswood of his youth, when he escorted Princess Rhaella through them to Winterfell, and the new life that awaited her.

Whirlwind put him in mind of Winter , from those days - though she was growing faster in Essos, as dragons were wont to. Daeros was now exceeding one hundred feet in length - four times over Whirlwind , and to Barristan’s eyes, quite sweet on her.

Some days he struggled to recall what he’d had for breakfast, but dragons he could never forget.

Barristan stroked his beard. His hair had grown long, long enough that it fell to his lower back and his beard to his navel - a boon in these woods, where the night’s chill was bad enough to kill horses outright. On dark days, the lights of Lorath could be seen in the distant horizon.

Two moons they had spent on the Axe, a place many believed was the cradle of the Andal people. They had welcomed the survivors of the doomed fleet with open arms.

A bare six thousand of theirs remained in fighting shape, and another two trailed behind in axled wheelhouses - ingenious invention, that.

On the Axe, a daughter of Duke Argos of the Starry Hill had braided it in the traditional Andalic style - for those who swore a vow of celibacy and devoted themselves utterly to the higher of chivalry. The Cult of the Warrior was… rigorous of such things.

Barristan could only marvel at what was familiar, and what was not. 

Their castles reminded him of the oldest Septs in the Vale; that they called their Septs bastions and their Septons Shepherds and Lances…

Rather than risk civil war, the great Dukes of the Axe agreed to share power. Duke Argos had been the most powerful of them, first amongst equals, and their aid saved the lives of the Westerosi.

Though how they’d ended up washed ashore in the bloody Axe of all places, none of them could say.

He hugged his white fur seal cloak tighter about his shoulders, grateful, once again, for Duke Argos’ generosity. He'd said another five and thirty days of marching along the coast before we make for a hidden road into Norvos.

Even these mighty Andal Princes were… wary of the slaver and his ilk.

All along the hidden road, he could make out signs of settlement; homes carved into the great trees, and entire villages dug into hills to escape the bitter cold. Fair-haired Andals lived there, with men of Rhoynish or mayhap even Dothraki stock - but there were no proper towns, and certainly no cities.

The Horse-lords had seen to that.

Most Andals ran from dragons; others came curiously, and when they saw the Septons, they realized they weren’t slavers and would share knowledge of the land and their journey ahead.

Food was hardly scarce. There was an abundance in these woods that shocked Ser Barristan; forest elephants as large as mammoths, deer, and elk and a type of long-nosed pig with white and black fur. The dragons feasted infrequently on washed-up whale carcasses, and enough blubber was left over from their meals to render into barrels of oil.

Gigantic, short-tailed rats swam in rivers and creeks, barked like dogs, and the locals swore they made the finest leather known to man. A herd of those rodents had been following them for a fortnight now, keeping their swine and goat herds company, and most of the men had taken them as a good omen.

Nigh on half a moon, Barristan had seen none of Khal Qoggo’s outriders - though they were on the edge of his Kingdom. Where are they?

The young heiress to Greywater Watch seemed to have noticed his preoccupation. Meera Reed had abandoned her scouts to ride up beside him, and stared at him with those eerie green eyes. An odd sight she was, in her lamellar and green linen, all ridged and dyed to resemble the lizard-lions of the Neck. Her stout garron, too, seemed more lizard than horse.

Behind them, the banners swayed in the breeze, drummers spurred the foot on in hypnotic rhythm. She spoke first. “Take heart, Ser Barristan, we’re alive and made friends,” and passed him a wineskin.

“As you say, my lady,” he replied. Jyanna Reed had fought him in the Rebellion; she’d shot his horse out from under him, and managed to get poison into him with her trident. He’d returned the favour by nearly shearing her arm off at the shoulder.

“I only fear for the others. Did the Crown Prince and Princess survive? Did our Master of War?” She sounded… sorrowful, as if already in mourning.

“I worry for the King,” Barristan conceded. He had left his liege in the hands of Jaime Lannister and Presten Greenfield, and was now starting to regret it.

The wind kicked up pine needles around them. But it was the Kingslayer that saved the City with his treacherous blade. What would the Cult of the Warrior say of the Knight, who stayed true by betraying his vows?

Worse, Ser Aghorro had disappeared; his ship had vanished in the storm entire. For two score years, they had been friends, rivals, and grand opponents.

“Come, Ser, ride beside me away.” Lady Meera seemed as insightful of people’s moods, as her mother before her. “Young Ser Steffon scouts ahead, so I would actually welcome the company of whitebeards.” Barristan winced.

Young Steffon happened to be a nameday older than her, but that wasn’t the only reason for her high spirits. A thousand Crannogmen had come with them; and they’d all been deemed lost, save Meera and her band. Yet with each passing day, more of them would appear, seemingly unharmed.

The latest scouting had happened upon Lord Theomar Smallwood and his two hundred surviving men, who were with Lord Elbert’s fleet. Peculiar storm - the stink of sorcery abounds.

Jeffory Mallister had somehow brought in an entire Dothraki Khalassar - numbering only two hundred, but still - who were most enthusiastic about serving with knights. Steffon had told him they’d broken out in song, once they heard Barristan the Bold was leading the army.

For his part, Barristan was sorely reminded of Aghorro, and let the matter lie - allies on this side of the Narrow Sea were most welcome, and their maps even more so.

************

********************

He washed away the day’s muck and grime in a brass tub that the soldiery used explicitly for such purposes. Aerys I, ‘twas said, had made mobile baths and latrine-digging popular amongst the soldiery of the Seven Kingdoms. A quaint notion, for the practices had been around in Westeros for at least eight centuries.

The steamhouse, though, was pure highborn indulgence. He sat on a fine wooden bench, as Velaryon and Massey lads oiled his limbs and shoulders. Are these my squires? Barristan hadn’t taken any in years, he was reasonably certain.

The lads kneaded out old aches and massaged the scars that dotted his body. There was tension in an old wound to his left shoulder; if not properly tended, it caused his shoulder to lock up at the most inopportune times.

The barbers were unfortunately engaged under the venerable Maester Colwyn; they’d spent the latter half of the afternoon lancing boils and draining pus, and would have no time for soldiers in dire need of a shearing. Alas, the war council would have to tolerate it, as they did so many other things.

“We should march to Andalos,” exhorted Ser Andrew Estermont, currently being groomed by his Andal maidservant - and occasional lover, as he liked to boast. Barristan ignored him - he would have his say at the council, and plenty of it.

Still strong of limb and hearty of spirit, and endurance unmatched in the Kingsguard - except the lad who grew up swimming in the Trident. But how long can I last? As the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, I am currently in dereliction of my duties.

They dressed him in fresh white linen - the laundresses would curse him, he knew, for muddying them, as they inevitably would be - and a silk tunic. His armour, the Valyrian steel cuirass and broadsword - and greatsword - of the same rippling material.

All from Dragonstone, bearing the colours of the Seven. Barristan still couldn’t ascertain if that was blasphemy or not.

He donned his white cloak, and made his way by both their dragons - who but snored contentedly - to the hill upon which Ser Steffon set his camp. The dragons had feasted on a herd of elephants, and the men had their fill of meat and leather and ivory, but Barristan worried. How did they die?

Ahead, the banners of the host fluttered in the breeze. The golden haystack on the orange of House Errol, the triple spirals of House Massey.

The gyronny of red and white stripes and the fool’s hat of House Follard.

The crimson Seahorse on a dark blue field of the Velaryons of Ironhorse Keep in the Stepstones. The Green Turtle of Estermont.

The white shield of the Kingsguard, in his honour.

The black lizard-lion on grey-green, for House Reed. The forked purple lightning bolt of Dondarrion and, above all, the black-crowned golden stag that was the personal standard of Steffon Baratheon, heir to the Stormlands; and beside it, the black dragon.

He could make out the faint sound of hammering in the distance as the men who erected palisades around their camp began to complete their work. Steffon means for us to remain here for more than a sennight, Barristan realized.

They were close enough to fresh water; plenty of their provisions survived, and the forest was rich with game. Much as he misliked it, the men needed rest, and the injured needed the respite. A march down the Rhoyne shall only grow more and more dangerous - we have no barges, and we set fire to our ships, in fear of the Norvoshi commandeering them.

Within the tent, the Heir to Storm’s End feasted the commanders of the host. No meagre stews for the chivalry - the geese were overlarge, to the point of being giants, and off to the side, a boar was being roasted on a spit while a serving boy glazed it with honey. I wonder how long it will last.

Princess Visenya greeted him with a hug, and looped her arm around his.“We may not have time to feast as we run to Myr - now seems as good a time as any.”

After the Blackfyre rebellion, King Daemon promised the twin daughters of Rhaegar Targaryen to wed his heir, and the heir of his Lord of War. Visenya had been raised at Storm’s End, but it was Barristan who had protected her for the first five years of her life.

He had objected, at first - as the Lord Commander, his duties were with the King - but the girl had won him over, and the resemblance to Black Betha only grew more obvious over time - in word and deed, and not only in appearance.

“A full belly will not ease our trials - beyond this night,” Barristan conceded. Even Lord Dondarrion was indulging in a drako; he sailed solely for the love of his Lord, unlike so many who were captive of the vision the King had conjured. The Lord of Blackhaven would never leave his lands; his land in Essos would, Barristan expected, go to his second son.

Beside him sat Andrew Estermont - mercifully clothed, and armoured. His great grandsire is nearing his hundredth nameday, and his son Ser Eldon is in his seventies. The Estermonts always had been a hardy bunch; no doubt Andrew hoped to make his own name in Essos.

Steffon Baratheon seemed at ease - he had evidently just walked in, for his short-cropped hair was rain-soaked. His garnet-riddled tourney armour was nowhere to be seen - which already makes him wiser than Rhaegar, come to think of it - for instead he wore black armour, and bore a greathelm decorated with the antlers of an elk he’d slain.

Ser Stelos, the son of Duke Argos, accompanied him. He’d guided them through the land, and for that alone, Barristan was ever thankful.

Visenya pulled Steffon into a kiss, and the two took their seats at the head of the table, partaking of steaming bread and salt as was custom. The bread, Barristan knew, came fresh from the clay ovens the quartermasters favoured. The things would more than pay for their weight, in the months to come.

“We flew for hours, must have crossed thirty leagues head ere we doubled back,” began Steffon. “No sign of Jon Cafferen and Prince Oberyn.”

Disconcerted mutters filled the table; they had found a discarded banner bearing the sigil of Cafferen, but little else.

“Much about the storm was… I fear, unnatural.” Sighed Ser Wallace Massey.

Malentine Velaryon, Steffon’s squire and heir of Ironhorse Keep, shook his head. “Sers, the road ahead is perilous - and our guides will leave us soon.”

Stelos nodded. “There is evil in these woods, more than just the shadow of the slaver.” He shook his head, golden curls cascading like rivulets about his shoulders. “no, my people will not venture further south.”

None would dare call Ser Stelos a coward, nor gripe within earshot. The scepticism about the table irked Barristan; the doubt with which these men of Andal heritage looked upon their distant kin was… hypocritical. Still, would not the crannogmen have spoken of this evil?

“We have dragons,” Barristan interjected.

Ser Stelos nodded. “Yes, and that will help - lest the Ven be madder than we think.”

“ Ven ?” asked Meera Reed.

Ser Stelos’ eyes were wide with fear. “We first encountered them… ten years past. Wildmen, one and all; they eat the living and the dead alike, and carry off whole families.” He made a sign with his right hand that Barristan recognized - a prayer to the Seven, to ward off evil.

“Are these savages under the banner of Norvos?” asked Wallace Massey, his eyes oddly disdainful. Fortunately, Stelos did not take note - he just shook his head.

“No, Ser - they’ve killed Norvoshi raiders as well.” The table went silent at those words.

A mad foe that makes war with everyone - we only need endure them till they die. “Good news, more or less - they can count on no reinforcements. ‘Tis better to face a foolish foe.”

“Even dragons can be felled by luck. Whirlwind is young, and she is not yet accustomed to combat,” cautioned Steffon. Good, the lad has sense in his head. Besides, I’ve seen enough dead dragons in my life.

Barristan would never forget the dragons Argella and Robert Baratheon butchered over the Trident. And Syrax… whatever Rhaegar was, his dragon didn’t deserve such a fate.

“Alas, Daeros is accustomed to fighting ships at sea; I would not use him in a forest unless it were of the utmost necessity.” Visenya further cautioned. “For dragons, this is unfavourable ground.”

“Which brings us to our next problem,” Lord Beric Dondarrion spoke at last. “Do we try to march towards the fork of the Noyne ; perhaps ford it, and make for Ny Sar?”

Wallace Massey laughed mockingly. “The Noyne is a tributary of the Rhoyne, my Lord! Where it forks, ‘tis deeper than Daeros is long.”

“However, it can be forded closer to Pentoshi lands,” Barristan cut in before Lord Beric would chance to take offence. “And if we are fortunate, the host under the command of Prince Oberyn shall be at Ny Sar.” Reinforced by the Knights of the Vale and Prince Maekar, and the hosts of Myr - if we are even luckier.

In the flickering lantern light, the endless leagues of marching seemed to finally settle on the assembled masters of the Host. 

After a moment, Steffon paused and then smiled. “Well, that’s settled; we camp here a fortnight, and then begin to mar-”

The sounds of war cut him off.

Armsmen and archers were rushing to their posts by the palisades, and the Andals from the Axe were forming ranks around the tent. And over it all, an odd, rushing noise that Barristan had never heard before.

Visenya took up her Valyrian steel, Tempest , and Fury , Steffon’s double-headed battle-axe followed suit, and the chivalry were up in arms.

Outside, the dragons bellowed; their elephants trumpeted, and boots rattled, but they sounded hollow and muted in the deep fog that had come over them.

“The hissing - it’s all around us,” Barristan warned, as looks of realization dawned on their faces. Maelon had brought him his shield, and his greatsword stood ready, as ever.

Whirlwind’s nostrils let out smoke as blue and violet as her scales, and beside her, Daeros rose, arching his long neck like a giant swan. He let out a short burst of lime-green fire above the tree line - a warning.

One of the Crannogmen in a tree barked an alarm. An archer from the Marches loosed an arrow, and something let out a hiss.

Something tumbled off the wooden walls, crashing twenty-five feet below into a cookfire. Two others leapt down - bringing massive bronze weapons to bear, and strong enough to cut through steel armour like paper.

Barristan saw a sentry neatly bisected by a massive axe, while his companion shoved a pike into the attacker’s face. The other one did not wait - it grabbed a man and twisted his head off.

By then, the battle had begun in earnest. The things were four-limbed, but they acted more like bulls than anything else - arrows did not slow them down, and one made straight for them.

Ser Steffon and Lord Beric faced the bull-man first - the creature screamed at the kiss of Valyrian steel, and Lord Beric took the chance to promptly silence it. But more had come, and Barristan swung his shield up - just in time to catch a savage blow from a bronze blade.

The blow was fierce and strong - the bull-man could have given Robert Baratheon a run for his coin. Only decades of experience let him roll with it as his shield shattered on his arm, exploding into a world of pain.

But Barristan was no stranger to pain - he gritted his teeth, and replied with a quick thrust to the monster’s shins, to take him off-balance.

One more - and then another, and another, and then a quick slash, and the bull-man vomited blood from his cut throat, and Barristan rushed forward, a thrust, another thrust, his broken blade barely parrying and shavings of bronze flying all about him. Forward, forward and then a quick slash, and the beast was vomiting blood.

And then he realized his shield-arm hung useless, and he’d been wielding his Valyrian greatsword one-handed.

Not a good place to be in - the steel might be light enough, but the length could easily be exploited to overextend, and then expose the knight. The Smiling Knight had almost put paid to Arthur Dayne in the same manner.

Suddenly he was spinning; as the world turned upside down, he saw Daeros trying to shake off the bull-men off his back as he lay there, stunned.

Whirlwind let out a frantic cry as one of the bastards managed to get a spear into her thigh - and was hurled bodily into a tree for his trouble. Archers barely pricked the rest, and the she-dragon scampered up Daeros’ back like the world’s biggest gnat and started snapping, slashing and biting. Utter madness…

Whilst his would-be-squires fought off the bull-men that came for the downed knight, a lot of them managed to get great chains around poor Whirlwind and were dragging her off, inch by bloody inch.

A sudden shadow leaped in front of him - a crannogman? “Up, bold knight! I never knew you to be so fearful, in the face of your enemies!”

Barristan froze. I know that voice!

A spritely girl, with flowers in her hair -

- a Prince without peer -

- an albino dwarf -

A green bow loosed a dart of violet, that ignited in a bull-man’s chest. And Barristan the Bold felt younger than he had in years.

“For King Daemon!” he shouted, as though he were a boy again. 

“For Aegon King!” he roared as he carved through a bronze cuirass on what must have been one of their leaders.

“King Jaehaerys!” another attacker slumped into the rusting grass, his head gone from his shoulders.

“Aerys!” he called, though he would not name him King. 

Another foe fell, and he spoke the truth he feared. “Daeron! Daeron King!”

His crannogwoman companion was ever-present, her obsidian a deadly retort to all who would seek to maim him.

But then the world stopped again - with a single, keening wail.

All fighting ceased, and the defenders - even the dragons - stared in confusion as the bull-men melted away, as if they had never been.

Steffon Baratheon held out Fury, and the men cheered, but to Barristan’ ears they sounded muted, for his eyes were captured

- by twin spheres of frozen fire, blazing as blue as the Wall. 

***************

The Winding River

*************************

Her hair had grown long again, and the urge to shear it off was nearly irresistible.

You’d have to lift your arms without getting tired first. A mocking voice echoed in Arya’s mind, prompting a frustrated groan.

The tree canopy - even thicker than the Rainwood’s - still allowed intermittent rays of sunshine to pierce through. A constant wind carried the oppressive heat away, replacing it with a myriad of floral scents wafting from the riverbanks.

The Gods had returned her to a fractured vessel, and Arya could not help cursing them for it. For moons she languished in her bed, as Maester Thorfryn bent her this way and that, like Sansa would a doll.

On the first day

I can barely walk more than two paces without feeling exhausted - and Thorfryn was amused - amused! - by her cursing. “Gods are fickle fuckers.”

He was also one of the few who knew how to survive in these awful lands.

“Boil your water afore you add it to your wine; keep lanterns burning at night, and I’ll set the servants to the making of perfumes,” he’d proposed, and when men scoffed, the Archmaester told them of flies that would grow in their flesh, if they gave the things a chance.

“How’re the dreams, lass?” he whispered.

Dreams, Arya thought with annoyance ; of course, he’d ask about them now . ‘I dream of the Rainwood, of Nymeria and Castle Greyskull and wolves. I think Gendry is at war, and I think Nymeria is helping him.”

“A Warg with dragon dreams,” Thorfryn whistled. Arya shared his scepticism and would have - wanted to - dismissed them as dreams.

She sighed as he lifted her up, and set her on her feet. Arya refused to use a cane; she also refused to be carried around in a chair - so she stuck to Thorfryn’s forearm like glue. “One does not ordinarily possess both traits.”

Arya caught the meaning. “Ordinarily?” Maester Thorfryn regarded her a moment, while she put on her best pleading look.

Thankfully, he laughed and then leaned forward. “T’were rumoured that Bloodraven was both. Might be that it was pure conjecture.”

Arya must have shuddered in relief, for he laughed as all the pieces came together in her mind. It isn’t me; someone else is establishing the connection, but who and why? As if sensing her thoughts, Thorfryn mouthed, “That is the question, aye?” but said no more, running a meaty hand over his bald head.

A great pink-and-blue bird landed on the crow’s nest, chattered with the lookout, then flew away. They quickly learned the things ate the bugs and vermin that could infest the flesh of men, and the flowers they ate produced a nectar that could purify water.

Alas, their blue-feathered cousins bore spurs that had a terrible venom, which melted flesh and caused terrible agony - and they ate anything they could get their claws on. The red kind seemed similarly dangerous, if the looks they got were anything to go by.

“Do you know if they -” Arya gestured ahead to the longships, “- if they harbour any ill will, for Pyke?” she asked, chewing her lip.

Thorfryn seemed to consider, as they walked along the deck towards Ser Justin Massey and his sextant - that the krakens had given him - and Rhae, who watched Dawn swim through the waters ahead.

“So far, we’ve not seen a single Greyjoy,” the Maester finally responded. “Only their vassals. I cannot say how they will react.”

Rhae embraced her as Dae retrieved the sextant from Massey, dismissing him unceremoniously. “Poor Ser Justin - off to Myr to claim lands along the Rhoyne, so far he is down the line of succession,” Rhae teased, “and he ends up in Sothoryos.”

Daeron laughed. “His valour in the storm has won them already, as far as I’m concerned.” Arya joined them at the rail.

Ser Justin and Ser Godry had rescued Ser Arys Oakheart from drowning in the storm, for which Dae had been ready to ennoble him then and there.

“So far, our escorts have been nothing but kind,” Rhae muttered. A silver streak of hair fell into Arya’s eyes, and she puffed it out.

“My concern is what they’ll want in exchange for their… kindness,” Dae stated, his mismatched eyes focused on the far horizon. “We have a war of our own to fight - mayhaps more than one, if my dear Mother had her way.”

Rhae flinched.

**************

*****************

The river did not, in fact, feed into the sea.

The lake was larger than anything Arya had ever seen - or read about. On the horizon, they could make out three islands.

“Ho! Captain Xakala!” Dae called down to the man at the front of the lead Longboat. “How big is this mighty lake?”

“Two hundred and fifty leagues, my Prince!” Gods, that’s deep. I could throw part of the Wall in there, and it would sink all the way in.

Dawn abruptly burst into the air in alarm, wailing and snorting fire. Men ran for their weapons as the dragon landed, water boiling off her body as she tried pitifully to hide behind Rhae, her tongue flickering nervously as the men in the longboats laughed.

“You have heard of Riverwyrms, yes?” called Captain Xakala, as the water bubbled with gentle song.

What rose out of it was a drake so massive, its neck was as thick as Dawn’s hind quarters. It had a proud and long snout, yet it wasn’t draconic to Arya’s eyes - for one, it had no wings! Its skin was a vibrant green, with stripes of brown and darker green throughout, and within its mouth was a veritable grove of kelp being lazily chewed upon. More aurochs than dragon, really.

“Surely this can’t be a wyrm, Captain!” Arya called back. Dawn had gotten over her initial fright, and was now poking at it inquisitively.

“‘Tis not,” the man shouted back. “But there are Riverwyrms further north, and they are deadly.” The Maester seemed doubtful, but Arya believed him.

*************

********************

They arrived at the first island just before nightfall.

Lights from a port city dotted the horizon, and behind it rose two immense hills. To her surprise, there were as many pale-skinned Iron Islanders as there were summer krakens - men who had chosen exile over the Dwarf of Pyke.

Distant banners flew in the air; Arya could make out a silver skeletal hand - House Drumm of Koj, famed for the finest sailing ships in the Known World, greater than even the grand man’o’wars that the Azure Emperors could bring to bear.

There were Blacktydes and Orkmonts and Houses formed by Summer Islanders that paid the Steel Price for their name. But above them all was the crimson kraken, with its tentacles reaching up to envelop a golden sun on a black field.

The banner was everywhere; every nook and cranny bore the kraken, and the very chains that guarded the harbour were held aloft by kraken statues, larger than the Westerosi vessels. Men who once looked upon the Greyjoys with hatred, now seemed relieved to see the kraken banner.

“A gesture of power, as much as an offer of aid,” Dae said, and Rhae nodded. “I’ll fetch my armour, and we ought to fly in on Dawn together.”

**********

********************

“It looks like Pyke,” remarked Archmaester Ebrose. The old man resembled nothing less than a wandering pilgrim, with a beard fit to match. He lamented that Archmaester Gallard did not send him to Myr with each passing day.

And Arya lamented that the doddering old man could still walk on his own two legs, while she was stuck being carried on a litter. His knowledge of Sothoryos extended only so far as the ruins of Zamettar, or so he explained while Arya dozed in the heat - that suddenly abated inside the castle.

The doors that swung open were some of the largest she had ever seen, and the hall within was able to accommodate Dawn  in all her armoured glory. Arya could only hope they had not been told of her decided lack of courage on the river.

Torches and lanterns were held in place on odd statues, and chunks of basalt held aloft tables packed to the brim - with men who had dark skin, light, even some of the tanned gold of Yi Ti.

There were Lengii traders, but most were unquestionably Sothoryoi, though some had - and she had to blink to be sure of what she was seeing - brindled skin. Some were as elegantly dressed as any Lannister, others wore simple tunics, and others wore nothing, save the brightest diamonds she had ever seen.

“This reminds me of Greystorm,” she whispered.

Rhae nodded her head, a hand reaching down for Arya’s. “A trading Keep, yet larger than any such keep I’ve ever seen,” she admitted.

At the court’s rear, high on elevated steps, sat a man with tanned skin and a long face, a proud aquiline nose, and eyes darker than anything she’d ever seen before.

His chest was left exposed, proudly bearing scars of blade and claw and… sucker ? Even without the wounds, Arya would know who he was.

A herald banged a heavy metal rod upon the floor, calling out in the Summer Tongue, then in languages Arya had no idea how to define - and with each call, more and more men relaxed, in comparison to when they’d been staring daggers at the dragon.

At last, he began to speak in High Valyrian.

I give you, Prince Daeron, son of Daemon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, the Tyroshi, the Men of Myr, the Valyrians and the First Men. Lord of the Narrow Sea, protector of the Realm, and Master of the Empire where the sun never sets.

To Prince Daeron, son of the Great King of the lands that know no night, BEHOLD! DAGON! PRINCE OF WALANO! HEIR OF HOUSE GREYJOY OF WALANO, SON OF THE HIGH PRINCE! DAGON THE EMERALD KRAKEN! DAGON THE CANNY! DAGON CORSAIR’S BANE! DAGON, M’BUAN KILLER!

To her shock, he grinned and spoke - in near-perfect Common. “Welcome to my hall, Daeron King . We would speak.”

Chapter Text

 *********

The Hostage Queen

 **************

Sansa pulled a lock of hair behind her ear, away from the breeze.

"Tis windy, Your Grace," Balian Redrivers remarked. He stood tall, a man well into his fifties, his skin bronzed by years under the sun, commanding skiffs along the Trident's forks. His once-sandy brown hair had faded to an ashy hue, yet he skillfully guided his quant pole through the stream. 

To Sansa's left stood Viserys Tully, his armour gleaming with a polish so immaculate it seemed to refract light in shimmering ripples. 

On the opposite side, Lancel Lannister remained a still and vigilant sentinel, his gaze fixated on the stream ahead, despite his current lack of armour.

Today, he donned long azure silk robes adorned with the silver lion of House Lannister of Tarbeck Hall, resplendent upon his daggered sleeves, its mane hued in the colours of the Faith's Rainbow. His cascading golden locks bore blue feathers from a peacock, a deliberate choice to provoke his father. I rather like it on him.

The lantern adorning the vessel's figurehead swayed in the languid current, its shimmering light casting a tapestry of oranges, reds, and golds upon the pristine blue waters. It was a surreal sight, one that defied the ominous surroundings of death and treachery. Within the vastness of the caves, their ceilings had long disappeared from sight.

Today, their destination lay in the mines situated at the rear of the vast hill and cave complex that formed Castamere Castle. However, their first stop was a place the men had dubbed the Isle of Sighs , where the original underground Sept was.

Amid the ongoing castle drainage efforts, an unexpected revelation emerged—an ancient Weirwood tree had sprouted within the Sept, its branches stretching to the cavern's roof. Even more mysterious, someone had clandestinely ventured into the cavern in the past two years, carving a face into the tree.

“A woman believes the spirits of the dead linger here.” Shae murmured, seated in the skiff beside Lady Jayne, who reverently made the sign of the Seven. 

Jeyne nodded in agreement, drawn to the older woman’s company as of late. Lancel had questioned their growing closeness, prompting a blush from Sansa but she insisted it was no more than a filial bond. She had taken Sansa under her instruction as of late, for which she had ever more cause to be grateful. 

“Ghosts do not concern me.” Ser Viserys, hand resting on the dragon-shaped pommel of his Valyrian Steel longsword, interrupted their contemplations. He reminded them of their impending meeting with miners, emphasizing the need to understand these unfamiliar men. Above them, misty clouds played tricks with the light, casting a surreal glow upon the earthen-tiled roof. Castamere, beautiful and newly theirs, held an air of tension.

Lady emitted a solitary howl from her place on the second skiff, next to the heating chamber Sansa insisted on bringing. A sense of foreboding hung in the air, though she could not quite grasp what had compelled her to keep the construct so close. 

Maelys grasped her hand, though his gaze remained fixed ahead of them. When he had left and taken Blackfyre, it felt as though she had lost him as well.

He does not accept his brother’s death, not yet.

The lights of the lead skiff flickered ahead as the boat began to slow, its light illuminating an island roughly twelve acres in size; at its centre rose a great spire of rock that shimmered like polished onyx rising to the top of the cave. Images of the Seven and their heroes were about its length, girding the column and bolstering its weight. 

The Crone’s lantern glowed with veins of silver, while the Father’s beard shone like gold– and his stern sapphire eyes held an unwavering gaze.

The eerie form of the Stranger seemed to be made of a constantly striating indigo that stretched skyward in an unsettling manner.

Most astonishing was the young Weirwood– its pale branches and blood-red leaves spiralling around its thick base. It emerged from the ruins of the Sept, carrying with each root a piece of stained glass and bones– remnants of the brothers who had both worshipped and perished there.

Six more saplings joined their brother, sprouting from the earth. Though their branches were thin, they were a sign of the Old Gods.

“Seven Gods, seven trees,” Lancel whispered, making the sign of the Seven. “Do you see, Lady Jeyne? The Lutherites are fools. Even here, the Old Gods pay tribute to the New.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying the Gods of my father are subservient to those of my Lady Mother?”

Lancel appeared flustered, but Sansa playfully swatted his wrist. “Peace, my Lord, ‘twas merely a jest.”

As they approached the burgeoning grove of trees, Sansa let out a sigh. She found solace in the views of the Synchronist Septons, those shared by Thoros of Myr and the mysterious Alyn Waters, who preached penintently within the Night’s Watch. She married those with her father’s teachings of calm hands and patience – especially when dealing with those of the Faith. 

They reached the shore, and Lady leaped out, eager to stretch her legs. The skiff bobbed behind her, and one of the polemen tumbled into the water, drawing laughter from the rest.

"She's no monster, lad," the Captain remarked as one of the men pulled his comrade up on the boat. 

After that, the servants made their way to the heating chamber, undoing the bolts and lifting the top. There, seven eggs rested, but somehow Sansa knew only the pink and sky-blue ones should be taken. Their time had not yet come— they would awaken when the moment called for blood to be added to those yet unborn.

Sansa’s knowledge of the Higher Mysteries paled in comparison to her siblings, and for most of her life she had cared little for them. But deep beneath the sky, trees, and brooks of her father’s gods she had felt a stronger connection than ever before.  

It had begun with the ability to enter Lady’s mind, but quickly grew beyond that. Sometimes in quiet moments, she could not only see through animals, but heard voices as well. Some came in her brothers’ voices, while others seemed to be echoes– shades of those who once dwelt there. They despise you. They said, He has poisoned our lands, but we shall be your refuge. Here, you shall find home. 

Initially, their song filled her with fear– a soft whisper, a chorus of a thousand shades. But as time passed, she realized they could do her no harm. They would not abate, however, so she relented to their words.

She learned the song of the rats first– creatures with an aptitude for unseen knowledge (espionage maybe?). 

When Lady slept, she had discovered a pride of lions and listened to their music. Like her direwolf, they welcomed her, but their ways were distinct. They had their own set of honour and ceremony, and paid respect to their grey father and mother– who were adorned with white manes and stood watch over all prides. 

Sansa soon understood that penetrating their minds would be a grave insult. Those beings held no love for the vicious mockeries that the golden lords of Casterly Rock had coddled. These creatures were ancient– and only held to the discipline of tooth and claw. 

Though such knowledge of her gift had left Sansa assured she would never soar the skies upon dragonback, she put her faith in all the gods that her children and their descendants would. 

 ****************

 **************************************

Maelys and Sansa walked side by side, each adorned in the deeper shades of their house colours. Their sigil, a winding wyrm in with a direwolf’s head, bore Weirwood leaves rather than flames. 

Each of them carried a handle for an egg warming bassinet, and only Ser Viserys and Lady accompanied them on their private duty. 

“You know that I do, my Lady.” Maelys replied, flashing her a quick smile. His head… shimmers, in this darkness.

They reached the centre of the Sept, where a colossal Weirwood face greeted them at last. It wore a surprisingly sincere and gentle expression, however, its eyes carried a sorrow that betrayed such a youthful visage.

There they knelt, and placed the eggs in the soft earth between the ancient roots. The couple traded small cuts on each other’s hand, allowing droplets of blood to water each egg.

In silence they sat, their palms pressed against the stone ovals as they hoped– prayed, even, for their survival.

“I do not believe my brother is dead.” Maelys finally spoke, breaking the sacred silence. “A twin would know. Queen Cersei knew when Uncle Jaime had been wounded at Pyke.”

Sansa could not disregard the way Maelys referred to his blood mother, the wicked woman who had named Tommen– the youngest son, as King as she seized control of the Crownlands and parts of the Narrow Sea domains. Though Lord Tywin had promised to bring his daughter to heel, she knew Maelys had little faith in his grandfather. 

“I know.” Sansa answered. 

Maelys turned to gaze into her eyes, and she saw within those amethyst gems an unwavering determination.

“We must overcome Grandsire,” he declared. “But I promise you this– when my brother returns, if anyone declares me the rightful king, I will end him where he stands. If he is my own blood, so be it.” Maelys sighed. “I would not tarnish my rule as Aerys or Maegor did. As Daemon the True once did, I shall remain loyal to my brother.” 

He lowered his eyes. “Dae is the only reason I am alive, to the fury of our ‘mother’. I would never betray him.”

Sansa’s heart filled with grief at the thought, and she squeezed his hand. “We can discuss this later, my life. Our first goal is survival.” They shall kill us all then, my love…

To her surprise, Maelys pulled Sansa into a kiss. It was her first, and amongst the fallen Godswood of a broken house, illuminated by the scant sun rays which bounced off the walls, she was carried to a different world.

It was everything she’d dreamed of; she leaned into the kiss, her palm pulsing as unexpected sensations coursed through her body. “Oh…” she whispered, breaking the kiss before things escalated further. “I feel… hot.” 

Maelys blinked with a puzzled expression. “I merely kissed you.”

Sansa’s cheeks flushed red as the rubies of their new home. “No, it’s my palm. The egg – I feel heat!”

Maelys did not hide his mischievous smile. Cad!

 *********

 ******************

An hour later, they reached the mines, their small fleet passing between two grand waterfalls. Towering lion statues flanked the enormous entrance, and water cascaded around their intricately carved paws to fill the underground pools and streams of Castamere. 

“From here, we shall continue on foot.” Balian explained, his voice echoing through the chamber. “These waters are vital for transporting the mined gold and gems to the surface.” He had once guarded these very mines during their early years of reopening.

As they approached the shore, a tall blond youth came into view. Standing beside him was a shorter, slender woman, and both were dressed in green tunics with red lions. The woman bore a striking resemblance to Arya, though without the Tully or Targaryen features. With eyes that gleamed like molten copper and wavy light brown hair, Sansa recognized her as a Cailin Stark.

“Ser Lucien of House Lannister of Castamere and his wife, Ursa of House Stark.” Lancel announced as they approached the couple. My cousin– I wonder how many Stark-bred Lannisters Father managed to slip past Lord Tywin?

“They are your stewards, your Grace. Or rather, the steward’s line for your second son.” Lancel added. 

“My Prince, my soon-to-be King.” Lucien greeted, lowering himself to one knee upon the shoreline.

Maelys extended a hand to help him up. “There is no need to bow, coz. I am not King yet, and we are kin.” Beside him, Sansa embraced the couple, who returned the gesture with sincerity.

May this be another reminder that not all Lannisters are of Tywin’s ilk. Though Daven could be boisterous, he was only one man. Lancel had proven devout and loyal, as well.

No, we are not alone. 

 *******************

 **************************************

They strolled through the mining villages, passing stone houses with tiled roofs. Some were ancient– surviving from House Reyne’s early days, while others were freshly constructed.

“These islands boast access to the richest veins of gold and silver.” Ursa explained. “They number nearly two dozen, and each yields roughly five and twenty thousand dragons per day– surpassed only by the Rock itself. The precious metals are then transported upriver to the villages on the opposite side of the hill, where they are refined and sent to the royal mints.”

Lady trotted alongside Ursa, shielding the woman’s belly in a manner that indicated she might be with child.

“So, Castamere does not keep any of its own gold?” Maelys asked.

Ser Lucien shook his head emphatically. “Oh, indeed it does,” he gestured towards the furthest harbour, only visible by lantern lights and beacons that illuminated its path. “Every quarter of the year the crown mints, located on Castamere lands and inspected by our men, return two and twenty million dragons. That is our share after royal taxes.”

Two and twenty million dragons, and how much of that is paid to the Rock in taxes, I wonder?

Castamere was the third wealthiest castle after Lannisport, and they rivaled the likes of Houses Aetheryon and Manderly. Though she was no stranger to comfort in Winterfell, the Stark coffers were filled by taxes and partnerships rather than the riches of their own castle.

“The precious stones they’re uncovering will add another three million to that sum. However, we are unlikely to realize such high figures, Your Grace. Jewellers, much like merchants, take their cut.” Lucien’s voice rose above the curses and hammers of the workmen around the docks.

From Sansa’s left came a mighty roar that sent Lady leaping into the air– a trumpeting bellow from what must surely have been some kind of monstrous creature from the depths of the mines.

It was a stout, big-bellied man with thick brown hair and piercing blue eyes. “Clear the road!” He commanded. Sansa realized they were between two iron tracks, reminiscent of the rail wagons she had seen in Casterly Rock. These wagons ferried fold up winding paths, while Lannister bastards chewed sourleaf alongside their grumbling donkeys who pulled each load.

A deafening roar ahead marked the arrival of six elephants, hauling a massive load stacked with thick iron bars. Men rushed forward, securing ropes around the haul as they pushed on out of sight. 

"Tracks," Ser Lucien explained, while Shae clapped her hands and murmured something in High Valyrian to Jeyne. "Our men are clearing the old, rusted tracks and laying new ones every day. By the end of the moon, the entire old mine will be fully covered and ready for excavation when you give the order, my King."

Beneath the waking world, Sansa discovered a realm that echoed the familiarity of her home. It was a place where east met west, where the ancient blended with the new, where science and magic converged. A new world had grown out of the roots of the old.

Amidst the marvel, a thunderous shudder reverberated as a massive iron track fell into place, eliciting cheers from the labourers.

A commanding foreman quickly quelled their celebration. “Just because none ‘ya lazy buggers lost a limb don’t mean you got cause for celebration now! Da King and Queen are here! Get back to work ya scurvy bastards, and don’t let me catch ya pilfering no gold!”

Men gazed at the couple with expressions from wonder to admiration. Among the crowd were Northmen, golden-haired bastards, and others with dark hair and blue eyes that held a  mixture of mistrust, while others looked upon Maelys with pity.

Sansa felt a nervous unease as she clutched Maelys’ hand tightly, and he responded with a reassuring squeeze. Before them was a multitude of people that toiled like ants, serving a King and Queen they didn’t know, striving for survival in the shadows of the deceased.

What have we done to earn this? Ahead of them, a statue collapsed in a dimly lit square.

“Roger Reyne,” Lucien explained, though it did little to quell the hostile glares. 

Sansa pushed through the crowd and knelt before the fallen statue, studying its features. It was a handsome face, with a Stark-like austerity that lacked Tywin’s harshness. Her gesture confused some– and outraged others.

When Sansa rose and turned from the ruined figure, she surveyed the crowd. So passes the last of the red lions…This place is theirs no longer.

“Witch!” Someone hissed from the group. “Heretic!”

A sharp crack cut through the air as a Northron foreman struck an offender’s face with his staff. Blood and teeth littered the floor as the man crumbled before Sansa could react. 

Viserys drew his sword before the gathered crowd, his icy gaze unwavering. 

Lady growled softly, and Maelys took a stance in front of Sansa– daring anyone to speak ill of his lady love.

They hate us.

 **************************************

The Winter Queen 

 *******************

The sun’s golden light pushed through the stained-glass windows, into a cascade of colours; over her blankets, and her face and hand.

Her hair was perhaps more grey than silver, and her hands a hair more wrinkled rather than calloused, but it was Rhaella’s broken heart that most keenly belied her age. When was the last time I lay abed like this? Ah, Ned…

Her children had claimed their pieces, and ran off to where she could not follow, even on dragonback. I’ve only the one left, and he’s fled to the Wall with nary a word. She’d been waiting on him for seven-and-ten years.

Though Maester Luwin advised her to wait, Rhaella Targaryen - nay, already Stark - was ten and six, and knew better. And so, Ned quickened in her barely eight moons after Brandon’s birth. It had been easy enough, but her solemn little pup put such a lethargy in her -

Poetry had brought him into the world. Lord Rickard’s terrible, incapable-of-rhyming approximation of chivalric poetry, that would have made even the Maiden look on in horror. Rhaella had taken pity on the poor man.

Now, she had outlived a husband, two sons, a daughter, and a granddaughter. She closed her fists around a feather pillow and choked back her tears.

At the end of the war against the Emperor in the East, Jon Arryn had dubbed her a Dame, a she-Knight of The Vale, champion of the Seven, Mother of Chivalry, and Warrior of Virtue. A Knight of the skies, who outlives everyone she loves.

Uncle Aemon would turn one hundred and three within half a moon, and she intended to fly there to see him if the war permitted. What else shall I lose, if I live as long as he has?

She lay awake at night, unable to sleep. Sabitha Farwynd managed to disarm her - over and over - when she would have swept the rushes away with that girl not a year past. She even shunned Winter .

Here, they call me the Breaker of Chains…But the chains of fate I cannot break.

Volon Therys was a mighty city, but she was determined Bran would not fall to the same fate. She remembered the vow she made: I shall teach Bran, safeguard him, and guide Jon and Daenerys. She could no longer afford to languish in her sorrows.

And so, with a grunt of effort, she rose and summoned those meant to clean her. Mother, Grandmother, Lady, but before all of that, I was a Princess.

If she focused hard enough, she could convince herself her family were here with her; rather than Irri, the Dothraki slave-turned-handmaiden for Leylia Dayne, and spymaster for her dear Grandson Bran.

The Naathi girl of one and ten who led her to her baths, rows of waist-deep pools cut into ever-warm granite. Irri and her companion Jhiqui both fought over which would convince the brooding Sandor Clegane to take them to wife.

Rhaella almost enjoyed the Hound’s discomfort. Irri and Jhiqui were two girls who grew up on the Dothraki Sea, where scarred hounds were considered harmless strays, and fun to play with.

Blue-eyed Doreah was also here; she was serving as an envoy for Dany and Jon, and doted on her grandson, and Bran enjoyed the attention, as far as she could tell.

Evidently the daughter of Lord Elric Dayne was still resting, though - but the mystery of the fallen Ashara Dayne’s youngest niece could wait. Irri and Jhiqui were agog about Quellon Lannister, who had led a hundred of his Ironborn to the Rhoyne and sacked one of the islands that lay between its shores - overrunning ten times their number in Volantenes, and driving back the Windblown.

To the girls, Bran’s welcome feast for Quellon reminded them of The Stallion’s Triumph - the Dothraki Khals bestowed it only on the most madly valourous riders.

“Stupid, boat is not horse!” Jhiqui groused as she scrubbed Rhaella’s back, careful to avoid her inkvine-like scars that crept up her back.

“But Ironborn ride the waves like our sons ride the plains! See you not how they act one? Crew and boat, blades and arm? They are fearless.” Irri protested.

“They are fish people!” Jhiqui insisted. “Fish are weaker than sheep, it is known!” Rhaella laughed. 

The Naathi bravely interjected, “Young Lord Quellon is of a tribe of men who worship the Sea and slay all upon it and beneath it. This one believes such valour fits the Dothraki notion of… mad courage.”

Both girls considered this in silence.

So far, the second son of Tyrion Lannister and Asha Greyjoy had been Warrior-blessed. He and Sandor Clegane had kept the Volantene fleet at bay with only ten thousand Ironborn; the other twenty-five all being women and children.

Rhaella would wear her Valyrian Steel armour today, along with her red and silver Valyrian Steel, Tyrant's Bane, at her side. a parting gift from Aegon Blackfyre. “So, is it settled then? Does Quellon not merit some recognition?”

“He does, Khaleesi .” conceded Jhiqui.

Rhaella paused in belting on her sword. “Why call me that? Khaleesi. ”

“To be Khaleesi is to command, while a Khal leads.” Irri stated boldly and without any fear. Rhaella found herself smiling, all the same. “My Jon, a Khal,” she whispered.

Her grandson was a bright boy, but his doubt and honour could sometimes get the better of him. I shall fly there lest he bring himself here. And Winter had a right to know her sister, the Shrike ; so long absent from her life.

Bran had been so deep in grief those first days - till he had gone to his Thunderwyrm, Shenron , for counsel. And then, he’d reemerged, appearing to be his fearless self again.

At first, Rhaella thought he'd buried himself in his duties, but it seemed as if the boy was now simply refusing to accept his Lord Father’s fate. Then again, strange are his powers, mayhap...  

No, that way lies madness.

 ********************

 *******************************

The wind that slipped through the columned walkway was chilly by Essosi standards. Early autumn here was always the rainy season; it had been so even in the final days of the war. Cool breezes and winds that could be called cold - and then rain that lasted a moon’s turn.

Bran would be breaking his fast in one of the Palace yards, likely the one closest to the Godswood. And he’s likely with Shenron and Ser Loras - they had grown bold after their success on that wretched little island.

She had learned long ago not to underestimate the sheer might the Reach could bear down on their enemies; they were knights of summer, true, but deadly all the same. Ser Loras was said to have fought as though the Warrior himself, and Rhaella held no doubt that it was true.

She could see the relief in the eyes of her men-at-arms, for they had not seen her in armour in so very long - buried in her grief as she was. In Winterfell, she was Mother and Grandmother, Lady and Princess and Arbiter…

But everywhere else, she was Dame Rhaella Targaryen, Dragonlord and Breaker of Chains, the first warrior-knight anointed in the light of the Seven, since the days of Visenya. A legend.

SIn the Godswood, a familiar shadow blotted out what light remained of the day, and Rhaella’s heart broke once again at the sight of her dragon.

She reached out, setting her hand to the dragon’s snout. “Oh, Winter …” she murmured, as the two-hundred-foot-behemoth tried her best to nuzzle her, as if she was a hatchling again.

Winter had watched over so many Stark children now, but Brandon and Ned held special places in her heart, Rhaella knew. “My sweet girl, I am sorry for staying away for so long…” We’ve seldom been apart since Summerhall -

A rumble - that felt almost like a tremor - rang out, and she turned to behold a veritable mountain at the end of the fifty-acre courtyard that was the Godswood of Volon Therys. Coils upon coils of bright blues and oranges and reds shimmered like polished steel in the stormy light. If Winter was large, Argella gigantic, and Aegos immense, then Shenron was a true titan.

Something slid out from the coils, sliding down what must have been hundreds of feet of dragon. Bran took a tumble, lost his sight, gained another sort of sight, and now fears no height.  

Winter bounded happily alongside her rider, to a tent erected to cover a series of tables laden with teas, cakes, oranges and other fruits. Bran was picky now - it tied into his keen senses. Ser Loras greeted her with his usual reverential bow. 

She bowed back, and then handed him Blaze  - for it was a blade most believed lost after The Battle Over Summerhall, and Ser Loras had been most eager to see it. “Practise with it, dear boy, whilst I break fast with my grandson.”

Loras looked as though he might weep - he made to bow, but she pulled him into a hug. “From one warrior to another. Now, off you go.” She embraced Bran tightly, and he kissed her on her cheek ‘ere he moved to take a seat.

Rhaella resolved to try and reach out to Lady Alerie, and let her know her little boy was safe here in Essos - and living up to all the tenets of chivalry the Reach aspired to. It would likely be taken as a threat, but she knew that a mother would understand.

“Grandmother, good to see you out and about in armour again,” Bran began, ever worried - as he had reason to be. “I’ve spent much time learning from Shenron. He’s… truly remarkable, but but that is no excuse to forget my Lordly duties,” he blushed sheepishly, then hastily added. “- he reminds me as much.”

The nature of their bond was foreign to Rhaella, for Bran’s ryon’sei was ancient. Ten centuries worth of battle experience, knowledge, and insight into the bond lay within his being. Bran would be able to see into a world that no longer existed, but learning together alongside your dragon, she knew, was a luxury denied him.

“But you’ll stick with Aunt Winter .” Bran said as if sensing her thoughts. Ser Loras looked puzzled, but resigned to the abrupt leaps of his squire.

“Lady Shireen calls Vhagar her sister, and Orys does much the same for his Vermithor,” The once-Lady of Winterfell explained. “The bonds between dragons and their ilk run deep. But you, Bran, do you not wish to pray with me by the Heart Tree?”

Bran looked at her then, a mouth full of a slice of cake with grape jam. It was an almost absurd look, and her heart began to ache again. “Why?” he asked, his tone incredulous.

“Because they’re dead!” Rhaella snapped and bit back tears, taking a breath. Control yourself; Bran is a boy; he is your last Bran. Seven Hells, she felt ragged.

“Grandmother, Arya -” Rhaella closed her eyes.

A hundred memories rushed back; the desperate fear and uncertainty, the rage, the prayers that Lyanna would return.

The hope she felt when she flew to the Tower of Joy, only to find bones, and a babe in arms she was told was Ashara Daynes, who turned out to be Lyanna’s. Not again!

“Grandmother -”

 **************************************

The Man at the Bottom of the Well

  ***************************************************

Someone rattled on their door, screaming and begging in the dark.

The pits echoed cacophony; cruel laughter, and jeers, and roars in other pits just as dark.

The denizens of this circle of the Seven Hells were pitiless and cruel. They delighted in the cries of despair, in the sobs and supplications, the screams when the goalers inevitably came and brought silence about again.

Today, the man screaming was some merchant who sold gold silk from the Westerlands.  Who knew what he would do if he was truly guilty? Under the last King, under the last Hand, he liked to think most in the dungeons were truly guilty of their crimes. Yet I was charged with treason when the last Hand ruled.

Some of the screamers were kicked near to death - and then left to die of thirst. This one was lucky today - he got the cudgel, but he got the cold water to bring him back to his senses. 

At least he never dreamed of the pits.

At night, he dreamt of old friends, wife and family - but they were no escape, for they taunted him with things he feared to be true. 

One night, they told him his daughter had drowned. Other days, they came and told him his son was dead, beheaded with his head placed on a spike. On other days, he was alive but had agreed to take the Black, and it was over - if he but confessed, to his treachery and apostasy.

Sometimes, they woke him every hour, pounding on the bars with noise and piercing light. Other times, he slept for days undisturbed til someone came in and poked at him painfully and asked, “Are ya dead yet?”

Those were the worst days, for they always poked him in one of his wounds. His wounds ; a half dozen gashes, slashes, and cuts. The poultices given by the Grand Maester before that rodent’s disappearance had kept him alive, but without their constant ministration, his wounds wept, grew angry, and began to fester.

Fever and pain warred with uncertainty and grief for the champion’s place in the worst of the worst. Later, he overheard guards cursing them for cowards, for they fled to Duskendale an entire clan of dragonseeds, upended and gone in the night.

Why hadn’t Stafford Lannister turned them in? Stafford meant well, mule-stupid as he was, and would likely ignore the Queen in favour of waiting for Stannis to do something other than brood in the Arbor.

Mayhap. It was a hope.

Though that was a hope for other men, inside the darkness, wrapped in the black, he was simply a prisoner. One whose wounds had gone numb, and now itched - and he feared to scratch at them.

How long had it been? He knew not.

He was alone in the dark.

Chapter Text

***********************

A Boy and His Dragon

************

“HODOOOOR!” Walder roared as the sachamar of the Barrows charged upon his armoured bull. The beast roared, and the gigantic pair tore down a hillside toward a line of sellswords.

Osha pulled her spear from a Lyseni’s gut, and wondered what the battlecry meant. Passing odd.

To her left, two hundred of Wisp’s Keep lay dead, though they had a heavy toll upon the sellswords and brigands before they fell. Men of Bones pressed their right flank, driving back the levies of some minor house.

Bolton vassals, desiring to atone for their failings in battle - as if that makes up for their treachery off it -

Shaggydog rushed past her towards the sellswords. One attempted to spear the direwolf’s side as if t’were a wild boar, but Ser Llewyn’s mace put paid to him before Osha could gut the fool. The wolf clamped his jaws around the hapless foe's throat, ripping off both gorget and flesh.

The right flank of the Karstark host gave way before the fury of Walder, and the Whitewolves; no sane man would fight the bull could gore them and pulp the remains on equal terms. They scattered - but far too quickly.

Yhago Whitewolf was the first to notice, but far too slowly did the Whitewolves turn; certainly not swiftly enough to dodge the scorpion bolts. Walder’s bull had somehow pivoted on its hooves - but a bolt still scored an ugly gash down its side, and the towering man had been thrown off, and the bull was in a rage. No! He’ll get trampled!

Shaggy somehow darted through the chaos, and had bitten down on Walder’s shoulder - managing to drag him off like a rag doll. Gods - that might have just saved his life.

To her left, there was a great thunder in the ground -

Armoured riders, their tabards black with the white sun of Karstark blazoned on their chests, banners above their heads billowing in the wind, the tips of their lances gleaming like stars slammed into her men.

With horror she watched as the entire flank crumbled, and the famed discipline of the men of Bones evaporated.

“Bastards! Cravens!” she screamed, even as her archers sought to blunt the charge. Several wargs were dead, she noticed; their animals had gone feral and charged into the oncoming horse. Gods -

Hard were they driven, hard and harder, horse and men were being surrounded, she could feel the press of the foemen at her front and the boots of her men at her back. The Whitewolves were trapped.

High above them to their North, the white sun banner of House Karstark - and absurdly, a gold dragon on red.

Osha felt something ram her shoulder and glance off her armour, and she struck out blindly. The spearhead hit something, but room was fast running out -

Her vision was blurred, but she could see Shaggy surrounded by men with spears ahead of her. No! He yelped as a spear got through his armour -

She lost sight of him as something massive charged through the circle of foes. A striking black and red eagle pierced through the haze of her vision. A fire eagle of the Freehold - Rickon!

A colossal shadow enveloped the field of battle.

Its deafening roar shook the earth, silencing the chaos below - till all that was left, were screams of agony.

Its gleaming scales resembled onyx, with a deep purple underbelly and jade green wing membranes. Its tail lashed through the air with a resounding crack, and the sky wept not rain, but blood. The corpses of the creature’s victims littered the ground like fallen leaves as its sinuous neck thrashed through the air at another group of men. 

Obyroth had come, and with him, the Hungry Wolf.

Osha discerned a small figure perched on its back. Rickon’s face was contorted in laughter, amidst a hail of arrows.

A scorpion bolt narrowly missed a man beside her just as the boy and his dragon turned in her direction. Fools!

“Obie,” Rickon’s reedy voice came high and clear. “Dracarys!”

***********************

Beastmaster 

************

“The Night’s Watch is for life,” Lord Torrhen of the Barrow-Starks cautioned, as a frail Lyseni was brought before them in chains. The aged man had fought Ser Aron Santagar to a standstill - no small feat, against the Red Keep’s former Master of Arms. 

“My choice is made,” the Lyseni chuckled. “Beyond this Wall of yours, I’ve heard, cannibals and demons dwell; A life in service against such evil would not be wasted.”

Seated amidst his furs, young Lord Rickon leaned forward and extended his hand. “I accept your surrender, and I am grateful for the duty you will shoulder for the realms of men.”

The freedmen commanders had chosen the block, save three knights hailing from exiled southern houses. Two elected trial by combat, and would soon Sers Santagar and Walder.

The other desired a trial by ordeal - which, once Osha explained to Rickon what it truly was, earned him naught but a swift beheading. "Torture me, if the Gods judge me guilty, I'll scream -"

Osha had no desire to ever see it again.

Cregan Karstark was… more complicated. Ser Osric Stark, Captain of the Black Riders, argued that he be sent to the Wall to avoid the taboo of kinslaying, however remote. Jon Vance contended that faith and the field would view matters quite differently. "No Stark should end the life of a Karstark, regardless of Northern customs."

Rickon’s eyes still burned with the same battle-fury that had been unleashed upon the Karstark host - but at least he was listening. When Maester Godfrey attempted to explain the reasons for the Karstark betrayal, and their attempt to coerce Winterfell into a Karhold marriage, it only enraged him further. “I will see Cregan Karstark.” he abruptly announced.

The room fell into an uneasy silence. A cruel smile tugged at Ser Llewyn’s lips, while Ser Aron’s expression was tinged with worry. 

“HODOR!” Walder interjected, but before he could stammer a response, Lord Torrhen offered an apologetic smile.

“My Lord Rickon, I–” he paused, to sip from an intricately carved goblet. “Perhaps, that may not be the wisest course of action.”

“ I want him brought before Obie and Shaggy… after the trials on the morrow.” Rickon’s voice was tinged with a ferocity that even gave Torrhen pause.

***********************

************

A column of one thousand five hundred marched north to the Wall, escorted by Giants and their mammoths - along with both the Order of the Wolves and Ser Denys Mallister of Eastwatch. The black shield of the Night's Watch waved triumphantly in the morning breeze.

An early autumn snow had turned the battlefield grey, as thousands of crows feasted upon traitors. ‘ Tis a good day for crows.

The night before, Rickon had slept soundly in Osha’s arms. Today he might curse himself, and she could do nothing to gainsay him if he chose to feed Cregan Karstark to his dragon. Unless I put myself between dragon and treasonous cunt.

Not far from the camp, there was a Weirwood grove that bore faces. Between them, Obyroth’s amethyst eyes gleamed in the morning sun.

Banners were erected in a great circle. The Martells - and Obara Sand - sat at high benches erected by the pioneers; a gallery of sorts had been made during the night so the salt might also partake of the coming spectacle.

Judicial duels of this sort were rarely seen in the North, for there were fewer Knights, and any Sachamar that went renegade oft did not survive the Order of the Wolves. Even the ravens and crows seemed eagerly expectant for their next feast.

All the while, the spearwives of the Whitewolves sang their ancient songs, and the drummers set the beat.

Rickon presided over the duels from atop his unicorn, its mane of fur fluttering in the wind.

The prisoners were brought out in their armour, a light affair of lamellar and layers of silk; one wielded a halberd, and the other twin swords. He had faded green dye in his hair, Osha noted, and amber eyes.

Aron Santagar put them out with his rondel, and she put them out of her mind.

The other man thought to use his halberd to keep Walder at bay; but the nimble giant matched him blow for blow and pivoted faster than the other could anticipate. Soon, the halberd’s shaft shattered, and then the foreigner’s helmed skull caved in with frightful ease.

It was a barbaric sight, for the Knights of the South. The chanting and ululating, the drumming and the dancing - men were alternately horrified and captivated, Osha saw.

Beside her, Lord Torrhen muttered, “A bare thousand years ago, their champions cut stars into their foreheads and sang The Warrior’s hymns. Now look at them!” he scoffed.

***********************

************

The day’s duels done, Lord Torrhen and Osha followed Rickon toward the grove of Weirwood trees.

Rickon had leapt from his unicorn, to land upon a napping Shaggy’s side. Now, the boy of eight was wrestling with a direwolf , as a dragon and unicorn looked on, and the Little Lord’s household guard despaired.

The snow had finally stopped, and the pale white branches were now laden with crows - come to stand witness. Ravens as well; some were quite large, and she narrowed her eyes suspiciously as one chanted, “Lord! Lord!” What was Jeor fucking Mormont’s raven doing so far from the Wall?

“Behave yourself, my Lord; you’ve a prisoner to meet,” Osha called, as Shaggy and Rickon bounded to her.

Osha embraced, and lifted up the Lord of the Dreadfort with one hand, while she pet the wolf with the other. Obyroth let out a low, slow grumble, and Rickon bounced from her arm and ran to the dragon to soothe it.

Torrhen was admiring the carved faces, his features contemplative, a gloved hand tracing over the jewelled pommel of his blade nervously.  “I wonder if these faces grow - as our children do.” He knelt before a Heart Tree, and muttered a prayer for the men who died in the battle.

“Old Nan says a Heart Tree speaks of the House it grows in,” offered Rickon as he pulled leavings from Obyroth’s gums and teeth with a dagger-turned-toothpick.

Lord Torrhen craned his neck, an eyebrow as slender as the rest of him arched ever so slightly. “And the Heart Tree of the Dreadfort, my Lord?”

Rickon sucked on the inside of his cheek, curling his hair unconsciously about a finger. “It has seen things, Lord Torrhen, but -” He smiled a bright smile. “It doesn’t have to see them anymore!” Shaggy’s ears perked, and Rickon’s entire posture shifted. Gone was the eager boy, replaced by a child that was all fire barely restrained inside a wiry, jittery frame.

Cregan Karstark was being carried in a litter. Shaggy whined, and Gruff, who’d been grazing, turned and let out a bleating cry and turned further into the grove in disgust - for the stench of flesh-rot permeated the grove.

Golden-haired Maester Nelwyn, a youth fresh from the smaller Citadel in the Riverlands, and Lord Jon Vance led the procession, looks of pure consternation on their faces. “He contracted greyscale !” Lord Vance burst out, without further ado.

Osha reached for a spear, but the Maester stayed her hand. “Peace, my Lady, he partook of the cure Maester Ebrose discovered! But therein lies his problem,” he lamented . “He had healing burns upon most of his flesh, and he donned armour before they could heal properly.”

Osha understood, and when Rickon blinked curiously, she knelt. “He’s not long for this world, Little Lord - best make peace whilst you can.” She leaned down to kiss him on his head.

The sickness had turned Cregan into a frail, feverish thing that even Osha could not help but pity. His hair was matted grey and brown, and his once-proud beard was ghostly. He was muttering to himself, as men were wont.

“Little Lord…” Cregan’s face twisted. “I would have slain your monsters first, Beast!” In his litter, his chest heaved, lungs straining from the effort and he shuddered in spasmodic agony.

Rickon looked at him pityingly - a boy of seven, Osha knew, would not know to take offence. Instead, he asked “Why did you lie about Jon? Why did you say my mother killed his?”

Cregan laughed, weakly. “Perhaps your nanny will tell you, one day.” Any pity in Osha’s mind fast evaporated.

“I understand you would rather be a kinslayer, than not,” Rickon almost growled.

“Kinslayer?” Spat Cregan Karstark. “Lannisters, Aetheryons, Targaryens and Blackfyres are the roots of your bloodline now!”snapped Cregan, pink phlegm dribbling from his lips. “ I am more Stark than you, Beast!”

Rickon yawned, bless his little heart . “Kin is kin, no matter how far; and the Gods curse kinslayers,” he stated with unflinching certainty. “That is why you lost.”

“You speak of kinslaying and divine judgement and yet you slay my nephews!” wheezed Cregan, eyes blazing. “Our spies in the Dreadfort confirmed it!”

“I fed your spies to Shaggy,” Rickon responded mildly. “Someone’s lied to you, I think.” Cregan made to move his mouth, though no noise came from those bloody lips.

Rickon turned and looked at Osha and Torrhen. “Can anything be done for him?”

“Nothing, save a quick death, Little Lord,” Osha responded, without an ounce of sympathy for the dying.

Rickon shrugged. “Then I leave the matter in your hands. Grant him mercy,” he pronounced, “or leave him to the Gods.”

***********************

The Black Bridge

* ************

“Wish we could have stayed at the Inn a bit longer.” groused the newly knighted Ser Grenn of Long Barrow, hugging the furs of his cloak tighter about his neck. He felt twice the thief; once for the undeserved knighthood, and once for the fine cloak he’d never had a dream of owning.

Rowan’d died, and only he lived - cause of being big and dumb, and good with an axe. If that’s all it takes to make a Knight, then we’re well and truly fucked.

Satin took a sip of Arbor brandy from his wineskin, and offered it to him - but Grenn, thankfully, knew better than to accept. “How can you drink that shit?” He asked, for what felt like the hundredth time.

The former boy whore shrugged, and snow slid off his silky black hair. “Keeps me warm; this Maester I once knew, said Tyroshi brandy can give you bad humours. Besides, it’ll help with your knightly duty, Ser!” He consoled as the clouds darkened.  

They’d been riding for a sennight, stopping only at inns and way-castles. Black Brothers always ate and roomed at barely any expense - but the many inns and towns were far behind. There was only one town this far west - at the base of the Shadow Tower. Pity that we’re headed even further west.

Alliser Thorne and Bowen Marsh, however, had crossed lines the Lord Commander could not ignore. It would be the block for Marsh; Thorne, however, was another matter.

“He’s gone bad,” opined squire Donnel Hill for the hundredth time, the very image of a Lannister - in word as well as looks. “And not just because he’s killed Lannisters!” Grenn couldn’t understand why Ser Mallador didn’t shut him up.

“Ne’er you mind that! Carrying old vendettas is against the code,” Ser Mallador growled, as they passed a crow-cage hanging off a leafless tree. The Order of Wolves had caught another one of Mance Rayder’s scouts, and the bugger had been given over to the beasts.

Grenn gazed at the Wall’s distant silhouette, where oxcarts and peasants were returning from the fair in Aemonton. “He ought to be judged by the Captains of the Keeps,” he muttered, throwing in his two stars - not that anyone paid him any mind.

Sweet Donnel hugged his cloak tighter. “Wake me when we get there. If I’m to do any killing, I’d rather be rested.”

“Lazy bastard.” Ser Mallador muttered.

***********************

************

They managed to reach Aemonton by nightfall. Though modest when compared to Southron grandeur, Grenn knew, in these lands it was always a most welcome sight.

From a high hill overlooking the town’s tower keep, one could see the distant lights of Dragonton, and the imposing Sea Dragon Keep.

To the East, in the shadow of the Wall, lay the immense Shadow Tower. Aragor had rebuilt it thirteen centuries ago, in the shape of one of the legendary Five Forts at the other edge of the World.

And to their west was the Bridge of Skulls - watched by Westwatch-By-The-Bridge, and Ser Alliser Thorne. The man we’ve come to execute.

Past Aemonton, the endless fucking Wall finally came to an end beside an enormous gorge. In the moonlit shadow of the Wall, there lay a lone tower. But Mother’s Mercy, what a tower!

Some three hundred and fifty feet it climbed - the square tower managed to reach up almost half the Wall! In the light of the full moon, the only sight half as grand was the immense Bridge of Skulls, that loomed black in the far distance.

***********************

************

They were met at the great ironwood gates by the Castle Maester, Dagon, who bid stewards get their horses below.

Satin formed up rank beside Ser Mallador, both looking equally off-put. “Whose idea was it to place every bloody golden-haired ponce from the Westerlands under the charge of Alliser fucking Thorne!”

Rich, coming from him . “Present company excepted, of course,” Satin added, and Donnel laughed - and was suddenly struck silent by distant lightning.

“Lord Steward Bowen Marsh,” groused the Maester. “And the thunder’s the Milkwater; it runs ‘neath the Gorge and into the sea beyond.”

“We’re here to see the Commander,” Grenn interjected. Bowen fucking Marsh again!

“Westwatch’s supposed to have six hundred brothers,” Ser Mallador asked, on an entirely different train of thought. “Are you saying a hundred of them are out on that blasted Bridge?”

Maester Dagon shook his head and his shaggy grey mop of hair swished about with it. “We’ve suffered… losses.” He ground out reluctantly, gesturing at the empty spots where shields had once rested ‘upon the far wall with a surprisingly strong hand for a Maester. “A hundred fell to Wildling raiders.”

“How is that possible?” Ser Mallador asked, horrified.

Grenn thought the answer was easy. The men here were gaunt, and under-provisioned - and he could not ascertain if it was Ser Alliser to blame, or just being out on the backside of the World. I suppose we’ll know when the deed is done.

Men stared at them; some looked hopeful, others outraged - but all Westerlander. Satin’s thought of intentionally weakening the Wall’s defences suddenly loomed large in his mind. Is this Mance’s work!?

Try as he might, Grenn could not forget the day Mance was declared renegade, and Mormont was acclaimed Lord Commander - and some of Mance’s men brought daggers to his person, in the dark of night.

Jeor Mormont had torn them apart with his bare hands. If this is more of that shit -

“- we’ve been short on proper armour for two years now, Ser Grenn. Chainmail does well enough, true,” Maester Dagon seemed not to have noticed him blanching, “but our men are oft outnumbered - one, to their five .”

Satin laughed. “Behold, I am proved right!” Ser Mallador slapped his hindquarters hard enough to send him off squealing.

The Maester eyed them quizzically before slowly nodding his head. “I shall escort you, Sers.”

Grenn smelled a trap. “Thorne may have knowledge we can use to unravel this shit.”

“Ser Alliser is damn fine with a blade,” Donnel stated, his voice suddenly as cold as the Wall. 

“If he draws, we kill him.” Ser Mallador pronounced casually.

***********************

************

They were as silent as a lichyard on the way up. Even the Maester caught on to the mood, and soon enough the only sounds were the creaking of rope and the chill winds of the Wall that could cleave flesh from bone.

They got off two floors below the Lord Commander’s chambers, and made their way swiftly up. Ancient suits of armour the only witness to their passing.

When at last they came to his door, Grenn raised a gloved hand, and they all drew simultaneously. Donnel had his shortbow ready, and the Maester had the good sense to back away.

“SER ALLISER THORNE!” Grenn shouted. “Under orders of Lord Commander Mormont - SURRENDER NOW, YOU ARE ARRESTED AND CONDEMNED!”

When a great crashing sound was heard inside, Grenn assumed  the worst, and so he and Ser Mallador smashed open the door and Donnel Hill let loose his arrow -

Only to hit a raven.

Alliser Thorne was on the floor, his throat bloodied and raw. Blood and jellies oozed from his eyes and mouth, and he was gasping for breath - back arching like a bowstring.

“Poison!” Satin cried. Grenn was shaking Ser Alliser, but he did not remember getting on his knees.

“The fucking raven -” roared Donnel. “Raise the alarm - Assassins! Wargs! NIGHT’S WATCH, AWAKE!”

***********************

************

That night, in the rookery, Grenn sent his first Raven - penned and signed by his own hand. It was not an auspicious beginning.

Treachery at Westwatch worse than imagined.

Rangers down half strength.

Three hundred pieces of armor and swords missing.

Ser Alliser dead, poisoned by Lyseni tonic, Maester says.

Could only have been placed in wine moments before arrival.

Enemy Wargs in the Wall.

Possible plot between Mance Rayder and our Stewards.

Situation dire.

Ser Grenn of Long Barrow

Chapter Text

******************

Dream of Mirrors

***********

“Ah, you’re finally awake,” someone whispered.

The boy could feel the sun on his face. It felt like a very long time since he’d last seen it.

I suppose I was dreaming , he realized.

He looked down to see purple eyes staring, dappled shadows dancing in them from the late summer’s wind whistling through the leaves.

“I dreamt of direwolves, cousin.” I dreamt that I was old.

His cousin had always been a melancholic sort - and it was never more clear than when he tried to smile. “Not dragons?” 

He rolled his eyes, and made sure his cousin saw it. “I’ve seen dragons before! But I’ve never seen a direwolf .”

There was a hopeful glint in those eyes, now. “After the feast, we can fly into Umber lands - and even to the Wall. I hear many a direwolf treads there -” he did not get to finish, for the boy had leapt off the branch.

His cousin caught him quite easily - and the boy had the strangest feeling he’d known it was about to happen.

Something stirred deep within, but then he forgot it in his cousin’s warm embrace. And then they set off, hand in hand.

******************

**********

His cousin seemed different.

Try as he might, the boy could not recall when he’d ever been this… physical . His cousin had worn aloofness like a cloak - ever the tragic prince of bardic persuasion.

Why, now, does he clutch at my hand like a drowning man?

The sound of laughter filled the air, and the boy forgot his cousin - for there, at a long table, were people he’d not thought to see again.

There was Father, swirling a glass chalice of wine above snarling wolf armrests. And there was Mother, her belly swollen and her white-furred cloak like the wings of Winter.

And there was his sister helping… What was her name? His sister had the girl’s fragile form in a strong grip, helping her move about under the guise of deepened kinship.

And above them all, flew dragons of red, gold and white.

“- Lya...” he whispered.

“You’re late, my son -”

“I was collecting strays.” Cousin Rhae ruffled his hair, addressing the man at the head of the table - who was not the boy’s father.

Uncle lounged - dressed as always in finery of black and red, but violet eyes full of fondness for his son. Cousin Rhae seemed oddly pleased.

Above them, the dragons yet soared. Why do they not land?

But then bread was broken, and the boy’s thoughts were drowned in the flood of conversation - gossip and whatnot about the most unimportant things.

His mother boasted and his father entertained, and they ate and ate through it all - as if the feast before them was their last supper.

“Am I to be your Visenya, my love?” His sister asked, and the boy stared. Cousin Rhae smiled and nodded, and they all cheered - even cousin Eli -

His uncle rose from his chair, swaying with mirth. “I wish to say a few words -” 

“Speech, your Grace!” Lya clapped her hands, the very picture of an adoring niece. “Speech!” the rest of the table echoed, almost as one.

His uncle nodded graciously, wallowing in the adoration. “My beloved son, who was born into the world amidst salt and ash.” Uncle clapped one hand against his golden goblet, wine sloshing slightly.

“Whose birth heralded the return of dragons, and the coming of a new age!” he raised his goblet high, and the sun caught it in its silver rays.

“Who now has his Rhaenys and Visenya, and shall rule after me as Aegon reborn!” The table cheered as one -

Suddenly, he realized that in all this time, Rhae had not even touched his food.

And now, no one was even looking at him, save his Visenya. “Am I not mother to dragons, my love…” his sister whispered -

Something clattered with an echoing rattle-rattle-rattle .

His uncle had thrown down his goblet.

The red wine was spilling over the tablecloth like blood, and his family were silent - as if they had never been there.

The boy looked at his uncle’s face, and saw the very shape of hate .

“My son, the Prince that was Promised to be King.” Somewhere, chains rattled.

“Behold your works, my son! Your Rhaenys, who would rather bed a trout, than a worm such as ye!”

Eli was gaunt and frail, dead eyes full of sorrow and the pain of living without love.

The boy’s brother had his bowels loose upon the table - like so many sausage links.

Father… Father was ash and bone.

The King gestured towards Lya with a snarl. “LOOK!” he screamed. “Behold your Visenya!”

But in place of the girl his sister had been, there was the woman she had become; black blood dripping from her mouth, her blue dress stained red against her blue skin -

And above her head, soaring in midair, the wreathed crown of Love and Beauty.

“You are no son of mine,” King Aerys proclaimed. “I have no son.” He wept.

Blood and stone - lying prone upon an altar - two deformed husks on before it. A dead midwife - ripped from groin to throat - and in her arms a squealing babe - 

Rhaegar Targaryen saw, too, and in his eyes there was a blankness so profoundly empty, it could swallow all the life in the world.

And then those eyes turned to him, and the boy screamed -

******************

The Gaoler

************

-  and woke.

For a moment, the boy wept, too, but not for long - for he was only weeping for things long gone.

But this was the place for such things - for he recognized the bed, and the hearth that flickered with pale embers. My old room.

The Stark manse in King’s Landing had been torched in the Sack. Tywin Lannister had claimed they were “men drunk on pillage,” - but then, he would say that.

Eddard Stark pushed open the doors of his room, and stumbled onto a terrace adorned with direwolves and boars locked in battle. Before him lay all of King’s Landing.

But what is this place?

Stone buildings loomed over him like canyon walls, and banners once proud now sat faded and torn across the snow-struck streets. 

The Street of Steel and its forges were cold, and the Sept of Baelor a silent tomb - only two of its Seven Towers still standing. The Blackwater's rush echoed, and Ned could hear it even from where he stood, so tomb-like the city was.

Above it all hung a shattered moon, silver fragments tumbling in the sky. There is no one here -

But the world seemed eager to make hash of his assumptions this night, for in the Red Keep's ruin, a faint orange light flickered - where the Throne Room should be. 

******************

**********

Aegon’s High Hill was once lined with the statues of heroes from the time of the Red Dragon; even through the falling snow, Ned could tell that they were one and all smote down - as if a giant’s hand had been at play.

The great Weirwood gates of the Red Keep were splintered to bits, scorched to what might have as well been stone. The keep itself was yet sound, and it was there that his footsteps led.

And in the throne room, he sat.

He’d lost part of his nose to bittercane, and an arm to his own dragon, Aegos . But the essence of Aerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, remained, Ned thought.

Chains were draped upon his body - Valyrian steel? - dragging the once-king near to his knees.  

Ned found his throat a mess, and could only cough awkwardly at the sight.

Aerys wheezed a laugh. “Turned a stuttering half-wit, since last we met?” The mad king’s features shifted like sand.

“And here I thought no one could fall harder than me. This place,” he gestured, “is the price of our failures, and it would seem… I am its keeper.”

Ned found his voice - and his rage. “I wouldn’t know what to say, Uncle. ”

“Ah, yes - blame the dead for your own failures! You stand before me, half yourself - neither wolf, nor dragon -”

“And by what right do you judge me ?” Ned roared. “You are kinslayer thrice over - renouncer of your own blood! Even now, if I had but a drako of ‘cane, you’d come crawling like the worm you are -”

“YES, I AM WEAK!” Aerys screamed.

“I am weak, and I am done,” his uncle wailed, “and this is all that the Gods see fit to grant me.” Ned had the sudden urge to look away, as if he was seeing something truly obscene.

“But you are not - Little Ned, you’re neither weak, nor done. So… what is this I see before me?” The once-king asked, and Ned had to suppress the urge to strangle him.

“I am a Stark , uncle -”

“WRONG!” The Mad King brandished his chains. “WRONG, WRONG, WRONG! YOU ARE WRONG !”

And how was Ned supposed to take that? He was about to turn away, but then his uncle said what he’d never expected to hear.

“I am sorry.”

He stared in astonishment.

And once the words had forced themselves out, it seemed as if a great dam had burst. “Sorry I wasn’t enough, sorry I killed your father, sorry I killed your brother, sorry I killed your sister, sorry I killed everything - ”

“Uncle!” It was Ned who shouted now, for his uncle was clawing at his own ruined nose and eyes. “Uncle! Stop!”

As suddenly as the King’s madness had come, it was gone, and his lilac eyes sharpened upon Ned. “... I beg you, nephew, halt and listen, for otherwise your destiny is death .”

And though Ned had every desire to turn and walk away, he did not.

Instead, he climbed the steps to what was once the Iron Throne - past rusted blades and hollow armour, and the bones of the dead, till he was level with his uncle’s eyes.

They were the only thing yet unwarped, by the ravages of all that had happened. In them lay insanity - but also a keen sight, as if he saw more than Ned could comprehend.

“Say your piece, uncle,” he asked, “and trouble me no more.”

“Impudent boy!” Uncle Aerys snorted through his ruined nose, but there was mirth in his eyes.

For a moment, Ned was tempted to laugh with him, as he once had. “But as you will,” he acquiesced.

Then there was silence for a while, as King Aerys gazed out over his dead kingdom, and Ned stared up at the broken moon. I wonder if I can piece it back together? Surely there must be a giant big enough somewhere…

“I lied not -” the silence was broken abruptly, and Ned had to wrench his eyes back down, “when I said you are neither wolf nor dragon.”

He forestalled Ned’s words with a raised hand. “Let me finish!” Ned swallowed the lash of his reply, and ground his teeth.

His uncle noticed, and smirked. “But a moment longer, Little Ned.”

“The world hurts us all,” the king proclaimed, as the truth it was. “You, nephew mine, are so much like your mother; something hurts you, and you turn blind and deaf - and willfully ignore the shape of things to come.”

“I am sorry for my evils,” his uncle continued, “but you must not let such things doom you. You have snuffed out the fire in you, and turned a deaf ear to the howling of your own blood - for what? Honour? ”

“Uncle -” Ned warned, but Aerys spoke over him.

“Words and wind. Wind and words,” the Mad King muttered. “The gods demanded we be heroes, but they fashioned us for love - and I loved nothing and no one, as dearly as I loved you.”

Ned silently awaited the next blow.

“And so, it is for love I say this,” his uncle said heavily. “I need you to become the man you were always meant to be. Not next year - not tomorrow - now .”

“Else this -” he gestured at the broken world around him, “will be the fate of everything you hold dear.”

Ned looked up at the sky again, at the shards of moon still twinkling in the heavens.

“Now go,” the Mad King, his once-beloved Uncle, commanded. “This is not your fate.”

The chains snapped and clanked as Eddard Stark walked away, and the wailing began anew - but he refused to look back.

******************

Clayheart

**********

“Ah, you’re finally awake - easy, Lord Stark. This is a concoction of my own design - drink .”

The concoction felt like someone had forced liquid fire down his throat.

The Maester wore robes of black. “Follow my finger with your eyes, if you please, my Lord.” He started waving a finger about, and Ned was too tired to do anything but.

Death clung to this man, death alchemy and the Higher Mysteries. He smelled of blood and poison and wisdom cruelly earned.

The Maester smiled indulgently at his compliance, now tapping his knees with a sculptor’s hammer. “I am Qyburn, formerly of the Citadel. These days my services go to the highest bidder.”

A mercenary Maester. What a travesty.  

“The Queen, then?” Ned asked, voice still weak from the burning draught.

“I am well compensated by your goodsister to not lend my services to her… enemies,” conceded Qyburn, after a moment of hesitation. “No, this is the King of Thieves’ doing. I was bid to show you this -'' He held up a patch of cloth, on which was a sigil -

A wolf on a full moon, and a fallingstar that graced them both -

“How do you have that?” Ned growled. “How do you have that, Maester Qyburn!?”

If he’d answered, Ned did not hear, for he had fallen back into blackness.

******************

**********

The next two days were a haze of pain. If he was healing, it was very slow going, and he trusted Qyburn as far as he could throw the man.

In between lapses of consciousness, he had been bathed and dressed - though nothing, he feared, would ever get the stench of shit out of him ever again.

They were all emblazoned with that damned sigil. The one she had sewn for me -

He swallowed thickly, for his throat was suddenly parched. Ned hadn’t thought of Harrenhal in a very long time. And all that had come from it.

Ashara had ever suffered from bouts where she was… not in sound mind. Unlike the Mad King, her madness had been driven inward. And once it became gossip…

Ned hadn’t cared for the talk. Not even when Ashara had spoken of the worst of it in their nights at Harrenhal - and exposed the wounds she’d left on herself.

He’d loved her anyway - perhaps even more for it, because of her courage.

And once they had promised themselves to each other ‘neath the Heart Tree, and consummated the act, he’d given her his heart -

If only he’d known it wasn’t his to give.

The war had come, and he’d played his part, and Ashara had fallen off the Palestone Sword.

******************

*********

Except there she stood, and Eddard Stark knew not if it was dream or reality.

Oh, she was hooded, as if to avoid prying stares, but Ned would know her eyes anywhere - and worse, her smell.

Ashara had always favoured it; it’d always managed to conceal the smell of blood that clung to her.

And the stink of being most ill-used - curse Brandon! Curse him to the Seven’s Hells!

It had been seventeen years, but Ned’s anger had not yet faded.

“I am haunted by spectres this eve,” he said instead. “First a mad Prince, and then a mad King, and now my mad Love.”

She pulled her hood back. There was no melancholy in her eyes any longer - only fire… and a strange hesitance. “Ash, you used to call me.”

“So I did,” he replied, voice like winter’s ice.

Her hackles were up now - he could tell - but there was no pain mirrored in her eyes, no resentment.   “I’ve different names now. To the world, I am Lady Maegelle Longwaters, wife of Lord Daryn Darke of Rook’s Rest.”

Ned thought on that a moment, and realized something. “I’ve seen your - alleged - sons.”

She smiled - a proud smile, that left no doubt to their parentage. “I’ve one in Myr. Another is squire to Devan Lannister, and another is marching to Darry, and war.”

Ned felt like he had a sour lemon stuck in his throat. “You’ve made a place for yourself in the world; I’m… glad.”

The smile fell off her face. “You’re not.”

“Do not concern yourself,” he spat, “we’ve both moved on - only one of us is the King of Thieves, and the other is consigned to prison for being… stupid. ”

Ashara looked as if she was about to say something they’d both regret - but she visibly pulled herself together.

What she said instead, though, was worse. “Our daughter lives.”

Ned felt as if his heart had shattered into a thousand shards.

“O-our daughter? I have a daughter?” he asked, bewildered.

She laughed. “Well, she can’t be Brandon’s. I’m certain Allyria was conceived when we met in Tarth - after Harrenhal.”

He felt her hand tighten on his wrist. “You wrote to me that she was stillborn .”

“I did, Ned. The babe would have been a millstone around your neck - and your life with Catelyn Tully, who - despite Brandon’s…,” here, her mouth twisted, and her eyes burned, “ tastes , remains a good woman. She did not deserve such a thing - and neither did you.”

“No,” Ned laughed hollowly, “she got Jon Storm instead. Wait - did you say Allyria? Allyria Dayne?”

“Yes,” Ashara whispered.

Now he truly did laugh, as the men in the blackest of the Black Cells did on the blackest of nights. “Gods - my daughter is to be my good-sister!”

A thought suddenly struck him. “Does she know?” Ned asked. “Who her father is?”

Ashara stared at the floor; in shame or not, he did not know, but that was answer enough.

Ned took deep breaths, slowly pacing himself - an old soldier’s trick - till his mind was still again.

Ashara, it seemed, was not blessed with such patience. “Ned,” she interrupted, “I am working with the Lady Lysa, and we seek to bring the rightful king to his throne. Maelys is crowned, and so is Sansa, but Tywin Lannister holds them nigh-hostage in Castamere -”

He raised a hand for silence, and thankfully Ashara took the hint. Then he sat back and thought for a while, on all that had come to pass.

“I am aware,” he finally said, and Ashara had the temerity to look surprised. “Men always talk - the gaolers more than most.”

Ashara looked… relieved. “We need you, Ned. I need you - to become the man you were always meant to be.”

Ned laughed at the notion. “The gods need heroes, and men need power - but what you all truly seek is blood .”

He disrobed down to his breeches, taking off every last garment with the thrice-cursed sigil of wolf and moon and star. Then, he offered the lot back to her.

Eddard Stark smiled. “You shall have it.”

After a long, hesitant moment that might have well spanned years, she accepted - a shadow of pain still lingering in her eyes.

******************

Just as an aside, R/ASOIAFFanfiction  is holding its first-ever, yearly fanfiction awards, and Empire of the Black Dragons, Years of Blood, and A Saga of Dragons and Wolves as a whole are up for awards, as is Zhan Fei for Best Original Character in a fic.

They can be voted on here.

If ya think we're worth an award, please vote!

************

Chapter Text

************

Emerald Kraken

**********************

“Daeron King? ”

Daer’s whisper rang through the silent hall, ‘ere the the gentry resumed their feasting. Even sitting on the floor as she was, Arya could see the shock and pain in his eyes.

She could not hug him as she wished - hells, Arya could barely walk, and Sers Rambton or Godry Farring had turned themselves into walking sticks on her behalf. She was not sure what embarrassed her more.

The first Stark in these distant lands, and all they’ll recall of the wolf would be how crippled it was. Bah!

Prince Dagon gestured to the hanging gardens above their heads - and the blue parrots that were almost as large as eagles. “Our ancestors may not have brought Maesters with them, but they borrowed some of their tricks all the same.” He spoke in the accented High Valyrian of Summer Islanders.

“House Greyjoy of Walano hasn’t lost dominion over the Summer Isles, has it?” Daeron asked, swallowing back grief. Rhae slipped her arm through his, linking them together in a courtly gesture, but she could see it was more.

“No.” he smiled. “We are first among equals, I suppose, but our control of Sothoryos is sadly limited to this lake, the coast, and some settlements further in.”

Dagon the Cunning exuded arrogance and lethality, as he sat astride his throne as if it were a pleasure-bed. Yet his eyes spoke true; an edge of lethality was in them.

“Where are we exactly, your Grace.” Archmaester Ebrose asked. “I recognize none of the stars, but I do recognize some of the plants and animals.”

Prince Dagon snapped calloused fingers, and a hidden figure loomed out from the side of the room, pushing through banners and incense smoke. Ser Arys almost drew his blade - but Syrio clucked at him like a disapproving mother hen, and he desisted.

Arya did not know if she would have stopped. The thing was mannish, true; tall and slender in a loincloth and a spotted toga, but it was there the resemblance ceased.

Unnatural muscles bulged against silky fur - one would almost think it an ape, such as the creatures that guarded the Lion-Reaper of Pyke. Yet this one was brindled, and tusked as the mammoths of the North, and its eyes were cold.

The thing carried a tray as if he were a servant, but the hidden daggers upon his person Arya spied belied his nature as secret protector. “Would you care for some Fyreleaf?” he asked, in remarkably eloquent High Valyrian.

“This is Kur’chek, my advisor, my sworn blade, and for some reason, he still wishes to be my manservant.” Dagon gestured lazily with a foot. Bully for him - Dae was no stranger to strangeness.

Amidst the fanfare, Arya almost missed the man half-hidden in his shadow - even adorned in fine linen and hide as he was, for his skin as black as coal, and he almost faded into the shadows with some hidden power. Some scholar, or mystic?

The rest of their retinue were still glued onto the brindled man. “Remarkable, forgive me… azantys ?” Archmaester asked, meaning Ser.

The “man” grunted in ascent. “That is the closest to my title in the dragon tongue.”

“You’re a brindled man?” Ebrose pressed.

The creature made a distasteful sneer. “A despoiled race of inbred savages. We are called the Kangini. We are farmers, miners, and singers - and we build cities even the races of men here do not.” He stated with pride.

“Forgive me, Ser; I meant no offence.” Archmaester Ebrose bowed in contrition.

“Curiosity is no sin. You are a Maester, I take it?” Kur’chek asked, just as unheeding of social mores.

“An Archmaester, a first amongst equals amongst learned men, you might say,” Ebrose puffed up, and Arya rolled her eyes.

Dae was not paying them the remotest attention. “My father is dead then?” He whispered - in grief or not, Arya could not tell.

“I am told your Kingly Father was murdered - by a scarred assassin. My condolences for your loss.”

“I… see,” murmured Dae, his fists clenched. Rhae had taken to stroking his back. “What of my Kingdoms?”

The Westerosi were aghast. By now, Ser Justin was murmuring with the Rambtons, and others in their retinue were horrifed at the revelations. Archmaester Ebrose looked faint, even as he chattered away with Kur’chek. Arya could not have cared less either way.

A queer look crossed Prince Dagon’s face - as mirthful as it was sombre. “Alas, we know little else, beyond the whispers of distant war. Some of our brethren who trade at White Harbor will reach Walano in two turns of the moon; they should have fresher news.”

“My Father… the Lord Stark -” Arya interjected. “Do you have word of him?”

“No, little one,” Dagon answered apologetically, and she bit her tongue.

“What of my Father’s dragon?” asked Dae, still in that near-whisper.

“The Westerosi saw him fly into the storm, I’m afraid,” Dagon answered. He wants something from us, but he hasn’t said what yet.

“We must return to Westeros; can you provide us with star charts and maps?” Rhae - Queen Rhaenys now - asked. Dae seemed to know it as well, for already Arya could see some heavy weight fall onto his shoulders.

Prince Dagon raised a hand. “I understand your desire, Rhaenys Queen, but consider - this is the South of the World, and whereas winter has come to the North, spring is just now giving way to immense summer storms.” Archmaester Ebrose grew pale as a Weirwood trunk.

“My Prince, I cannot stay an entire season in Sothoryos,” Dae - King Daeron - vehemently spat. “I cannot leave my realm in the grips of war with the slaving powers, with no King to guide them!” He all but convulsed - the mere appearance of equilibrium kept in place by the Queen’s gentle touches.

“We shall see.” Dagon seemed unmoved, and already Arya had begun to dislike the Emerald Kraken . “Rest, and in the morn, I shall take you to my Hall of Maps, and we shall plan your return.” Dagon rose, and Arya noticed cuts on his palm for the first time. Where did those come from?

And so their audience was at an end, and as much Arya wanted to return - to see Sothoryos laid out before her, but sheer embarrassment drove her to her bed, and the embrace of sleep.

***************

Solace

******************

They were accompanied by a retinue of towering men– a formidable escort led by Tristifer Botley. Brownwater Botley they called him; the sole survivor of his house after the rebellion. Walano had become a haven for many Ironborn, whether kin to the Summer Krakens or not, seeking refuge following their defeat.  

“It is good to see you alive,” Rhaenys admitted, earning a humourless scoff from the Ironborn.

“Because you’re a Targaryen, your Grace?” The new Lord Botley asked, his grin carrying a petulant edge. 

Rhaenys shook her head. “The rebellion destroyed many a house upon the Iron Islands. It is good to know that House Botley lives on in you, my Lord.” 

Arya opened her mouth to speak, which surely would have incensed their escort further, but Rhaenys cut her off with a glance. She held her tongue, but fixed a fiery gaze on Lord Tristifer. 

Though Arya’s strength had been a boon, even in her current condition, it would not do to antagonise their hosts. Still, the girl was perceptive. 

She has changed since the feasting hall, was there something we failed to see? 

Rhaenys and Daeron had delved into the higher mysteries under Lord Aenar’s guidance, yet neither sensed any malignant power in that hall. And yet, when Arya espied the Prince’s hand, her demeanour noticeably darkened.

Their escort halted, though if the Ironborn took notice of the Stark girl, he did not show it. He locked eyes with Rhaenys, as if searching for any hint of pride or cruel jape in her words. 

“Aye, thank you, your Grace.” He gave a respectful nod, and continued their tour.

The Lone Tower’s shadow loomed before them, a hundred-foot-tall square structure carved out of a pale blue stone that reminded Rhaenys of the waters off the Arbor. The structure stood guard upon a small island, accessible by drawbridge over a deep lagoon, where broad shadows with long necks floated lazily near the moonlit surface.

Dawn flew overhead and landed upon the tower’s parapets, seemingly drawn by the creatures’ eerie song that echoed from the waters below. Her orange and gold scales shimmered in the moonlight, and Rhaenys smiled. Even if you were dull and grey, I would love you still. 

Like her kitten Balerion, Dawn had shielded her from the nightmares.

“Some men will love your dragon, others will fear him.” Warned Lord Tristifer as they approached the Lone Tower’s drawbridge. 

“From stories of the rebellion?” Her husband asked. Outwardly calm, Rhaenys knew the subtle gestures that revealed the turmoil within him; The gentle brush of his knuckles against hers, his impatient steps– signs of a man yearning for solitude. He needed to mourn, away from prying eyes. 

Alone, we need to be alone. 

“A dragon came here once before I arrived.” Lord Tristifer stated. “A massive beast, powerful beyond all measure. It settled in a mountain crater in the north.”

“A dragon?” Ser Justin asked, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. 

“A wild dragon. There are many ‘pon these shores.” 

Daeron gasped. “Truly? We believed them all extinct.”

“For all his flaws and foolishness, Balon Greyjoy was correct that there were many eggs in private collections worldwide– and of course, the awakening at Summerhall.” Lord Tristifer explained.

“One of the Mad King’s follies was his refusal to conduct a proper census of our dragons.” Dae pinched the bridge of his nose. “My kingly father, as well.”

The drawbridge lifted, isolating them on the tower’s island. The still water surrounding it was only disturbed by the splashing and honking of pink birds with strangely curved beaks that fed along the shore. 

Ahead of them, intricately carved doors creaked open, revealing men garbed in loincloths and animal skins lining the hallway. Each was armed with various weapons and a long spear, and at the party’s entrance they dropped to one knee and bellowed a cry that nearly shook the stone walls.

“You were described as a dragonrider and a king– and many have taken you for some sort of god.” Lord Tristifer explained. “As for the wild dragons, the oldest among them must be damn near as ancient as the Seven, given their size. We’ve found none surpassing eighty feet.” 

Eighty feet is barely half the size of Winter or Argella, and Maelos was longer still. Either Lord Tristifer never knew the size of the dragons who razed his homeland, or he was being evasive.

“And this drake that came, you know it is different from the wild ones?” Ser Arys asked, while Arya kept her gaze affixed to the Brownwater’s back. 

“He was well over two hundred feet, longer than any in Sothoryos.” Lord Tristifer responded as they traversed the hall. “He shunned the other dragons at first, though eventually he did lay with them. They paid him homage, as though he were a king.”

As the party entered what Rhaenys thought must be the grand hall, she suppressed a gasp. Colossal warrior statues supported a vaulted ceiling adorned with some of the finest art she had ever seen. Each painting depicted battles between races of men and monsters– beasts with pig-like hands and unsettling eyes, and other hideous creatures that stirred a primal fear within her. 

She squeezed Dae’s hand softly and returned to the matter at hand. 

“I should like to see this dragon.” Dae responded, intertwining his fingers with hers. 

Lord Tristifer looked up to the ceiling, his expression sullen. “He left three years ago.”

“There’s one greater still,” Arya said. “Fierce, vermillion like the Crone’s Bird constellation.” 

One of the men bearing her litter stared at her in awe. “The Old Mother? How do you know her?” 

“I have seen her in my dreams.”

“She was a terror if the tales be true, little one, old as the mountains and mad with age and battle lust. But she died in my father’s, father’s time.” Answered the servant. “Until the new ones arrived two score years ago, she was the last of her kind.”

“She isn’t dead,” Arya sounded certain, but the sudden heaving of her chest gave away the truth. 

She’s praying that the monster still lives, but how could it? No dragon has ever lived more than five centuries, and to survive the Doom fully grown? 

Rhaenys finally understood why her goodsister had leapt onto the ship in the first place. Hells, she risked her life to chase a ghost, and we allowed it.

Apartments near the feasting hall were granted to Sers Justin Massey and Godrey Farring. Arya and Syrio were quartered just below the top floors, which were reserved for her and her royal husband . 

Archmaester Ebrose excused himself and departed with Kur’chek to their library. No doubt he would be the only one in the delegation who went without sleep, though he would be content for it.

Before departing to her chambers, Arya quickly grasped Rhaenys’ hand. “You saved my life during the storm, your Grace,” Arya whispered. “I...I saw…the-”

Rhaenys knelt and gently pressed two fingers to Arya’s lips. “One day,” she promised. “amidst friendlier ears.”

Arya nodded. “Be careful with Dagon. The Prince practises blood magic, I’m certain of it.”

That explains her reaction, then.

With a parting embrace, she wished Arya pleasant dreams, leaving the hobbled Stark girl and her warnings behind. 

As Rhaenys ascended the stairs with Ser Aerys and Dae, she knew solace or sleep would not be easily found. 

The walls carried tapestries depicting a brutal sack of the island by a Greyjoy ancestor which grew more bloody with each step. Even the magnificent ceiling only displayed the unfamiliar stars of the continent, another reminder of how far they were from home. 

Ser Arys took up his post outside their chambers and bid them goodnight as Dae led her inside. 

Finally. 

The metallic scent of blood filled her senses as Rhaenys shed her armour. There were two water basins prepared for them to wash the grime from their bodies. 

Rhaenys had just finished drying herself when she felt the gentle touch of Dae’s fingers around her waist. She leaned back, allowing his arms to envelop her in a warm embrace that made her shudder. 

“You’re the King now.” She lifted a hand to cup his cheek, sensing Daeron shudder against her back as he finally allowed himself to mourn his father. 

Or perhaps the idea of his father.

In truth, she suspected he mourned what he never had. Daemon loved his children, and by R’hllor, he even loved her and her sister. 

Yet Daemon allowed Cersei to have her way with us. 

There was much about the dead king neither she nor Daeron knew, much they would likely never know. But she could not help but mourn for the man who had been one of her deliverers.

Even as he ravaged mother’s homeland. 

Both wept silent tears in the darkness for a time before turning to each other, lips meeting as their bodies entwined. 

“They’ve likely crowned my brother,” Dae whispered between kisses to her neck and back. “and I intend to sail east before west.” He allowed his lips to linger for a moment on the back of her neck. “You know how… provincial the Great Lords can be.” 

Rhaenys pushed him onto the bed, pinning his body with her own. They channelled their grief and sorrows into each other until, at last, exhaustion replaced nightmares of sacked cities and pig-faced knights. 

She awoke the next morning to an empty bed. Dae, still undressed, gazed at the sunrise that filled their chambers. “Maelos did not fly to Casterly Rock.” He declared, as if sensing her awakening.

Gods…

“I was born to be a Queen, after all.” She laughed. “We are free to begin what we, Lord Elbert, Lysa, Robb, and Willas have been planning these three years. Steffon and Orys…Jason.” 

She pushed the sheets off and turned on her side, allowing the sunrise to warm her naked body.

“Do you think Ned Stark will approve?”

“I hope so,” Daeron murmured. “Gods above, I hope so.”

************

Burning Tree

**********************

Upon the hill, their banners caught the sun’s golden rays as it dawned upon another day. The black crossed spears of House Stackspear beside the grasping pepper pots of House Spicer, the green and brown of the Morelands, and Lefford’s golden inverted pile and yellow sun. The Westerlings and their shells, alas, would remain mostly at Castamere.

Lord Tywin had ordered them - ostensibly - to serve his royal Grandson, but any man with an eye to see knew the true reason, and why the King himself was barred from taking the field.

Should his Grace’s future Queen get any notions of turning their vassals against the Rock, she would find little and less purchase to grasp. Enemies without as well as within; this would not be an easy war, and appointing the damn sorceress to a position of such authority over their host was infuriating.

“We should be at council, not playing guardsman to this witch .” Addam muttered.

“Easy, son.” His father warned, eying the banners. The King had been asked to come out and bid the army well, victory, and glory, but Lord Kevan refused to permit it.

“Are we to shirk from the truth? Princess of Carcosa - fah , Zhan Fei, is an upjumped courtesan.”

“Hold your tongue, boy!” his father ground out, and Addam felt both chastened and… disappointed, at the clear fear in his eyes. “Lady Zhan has forgotten more about war than either of us know!”

Addam stared incredulously at his father. The Westerlands were no stranger to warrior women, but Queen Lucinda Lannister and her sister Dame Cersei the Bold were neither heathen, nor harlot .

His scoff nearly earned a slap for his trouble. “Do you recall the Fall of Lys?” His father asked.

Every boy in the Westerlands knew that tale. “The Lyseni were blockaded; and faced with starvation, there was a riot amongst the bordellos, and the Sellswords joined the whores. After that, Lord Tywin, the Mad King, Princess Rhaella, and their dragons burned parts of Lys and forced their surrender.”

The gems and treasures of Lys Lord Tywin had given to the King as tribute, but all else he’d burned with wildfire. The Lyseni heritage was destroyed, and their will shattered, and the Emperor in the East had lost a valuable ally.

His Lord Father’s gaze remained fixed on the banners. “There was no riot, and Lys certainly was not on the brink of starvation.” Addam stared as his father sighed, reached for a small box in his saddle, and opened it, producing some powdered fyreleaf and bittercane. “ She used some alchemy… to transform their stores of wine into basilisk venom.”

Addam paled. “Father…a hundred thousand people died in those riots. Are you saying they were driven to madness!?”

“Aye, son.” Lord Damon answered; a hand resting upon his cuirass, the other resting upon Blaze, the family broadsword of Valyrian steel. “So you see, she knows war, and we know our duty - to obey our King’s Regent.”

Addam wanted to argue, but he sensed he would arrive precisely nowhere. Their current situation still rankled at him, though.

“But why must we haggle with the whoremaster?” A mere merchant prince sat upon a War Council while the Lord of Ashemark waited outside like a common sentry.

“ For dragon bones, of course ,” came a silky voice unctuous to his ears.

Lord Baelish was adorned in a green cloak of finely dyed wool; a lion’s mane draped the cloak about his shoulders, pinned with a platinum brooch with a mockingbird with garnets for eyes. And, underneath, I wager, is enough wealth to shame a Lord of the West twice over.

“And what does her Ladyship want with dragon bones, Lord Littlefinger?” Addam asked, impudent in the face of such a peacock.

Littlefinger gave an indifferent shrug. “Perhaps a golden throne for his Grace, King Maelys? The skulls of Vhagar and Meraxes ought to do nicely.” He waved his hand dismissively and slid past a baffled Addam.

“Ah, before I go - Ser Addam, Lady Zhan wishes to see you and your Lord Father post haste. And should you wish it, my pleasure barge shall be available to you both, till I depart upon the morrow.” He smiled snidely and walked off.

Addam made to go after him - perhaps to hit that smile off his face, but a look from his father stopped him in his tracks. “Curb your tongue, son.”

************

*******************

Zhan Fei had made the Lord Protector’s tent her personal domain, Addam could see. The witch was contemplating a map of the Seven Kingdoms, adding ribbons across rivers for the different river fleets. Servants were lighting incense sticks filled with the fragrant aromas of the grand gardens of Lannisport, and the smell of scented soaps and perfumes filled the air.

From what Addam knew, Farman was doing poorly against Mooton and Darry, while Kenning of Kayce and the Banefort were locked in a desperate struggle against Mallister.

Sunfyre was doing what it always did; piracy and storming tower-house keeps that held the chain booms and locks on the river.  No sign of the Ironborn on the map; perhaps the Lion of Pyke had taken a page from his father’s book, and was waiting for the combatants to bleed themselves dry.

Manderly was in the Narrow Sea, but even the sorceress could not discern the whereabouts of the Aetheryon navy. “My Lady,” His father bowed deeply.

A serving girl with green eyes and gold hair was still fussing over her hair. “Lord Damon, Ser Addam,” she acknowledged. “The Lord Protector, and Regent Tywin Lannister have given me overall command of the southern forces.”

The witch extended a slender hand towards the map. “Lord Banefort and Ser Gunthor Hightower shall aim to cut off Raventree and Stone Hedge from their Lords. They shall join with Frey and assault Seagard by land, while cutting the Riverlands in two.”

“The Freys?” asked Father, not bothering to hide his incredulity.

Something queer flashed before Zhan Fei’s eyes. Off to the side, a butterfly danced along a flowering plant of some sort, exotic and likely of Valyrian or Sothoryi origin, coming from the Lannisport gardens or the hanging gardens of the Rock. A flower lurched forward and closed around the butterfly. Addam looked away.

“One works with the tools at hand. Such is the nature of war, I’ve found,” the witch mused.

“What of us, my Lady?” Damon Marbrand stood rigid as a fence-post.

“Pinkmaiden, Wayfarer’s Rest, Atranta. We shall take the south of these Riverlands.” She leaned back, steepling her fingers as her golden eyes focused first on the map and then most distressingly at her father.

“Clear a path for Lord Tywin and Ser Aethan.” Her eyes shifted from his Lord Father again to the map, and they settled on Riverrun.

“First Harrenhal,” remarked Father, eyes wide with realization.

“And onto Riverrun.” Finished Zhan Fei.

And we craft a hedge maze of carnage between our foes in the South, East, and North. “Should House Stark descend,” Addam interjected, “they’ll be forced to liberate the Riverlands, ‘ere they can join their powers to Storm’s End and the Arbor.”

If Storm’s End survived Mace Tyrell.

If Mace Tyrell survives the bastard and his dragon.

If Stannis’ fleet is caught by the Sunfyres.

There were already far too many ifs - and the biggest, he noticed, neither his father, nor the witch, cared to contemplate. But nevertheless, it remained.

What if Robb Stark divides his forces?

Chapter Text

**************************

The Hall of Maps

*********

The red wolves taught you well — but you have much — learn – songs of the forest — secret places — long forgotten — singers dwelt — might once more — grey mate soars the skies — treachery abounds — fools —

***********************

*********

Arya awoke.

There was a lingering taste on her tongue.

It tasted like blood.

Her eyes desperately scanned the surrounding jungle. The unfamiliar canopy groaned as the once steady breeze intensified, and any native creatures fell into silence. 

Suddenly, a familiar presence enveloped her –

The trees around her bent and broke, as something descended from above, unleashing flame upon the jungle. 

The water wizards could not end you, nothing can!

You can’t be dead when we were meant to be together. You cannot be dead!

Flames devoured the jungle, but when the fire touched her, Arya felt no pain. With each lick of the flames, strength filled her body as she was born anew. 

She raced through the jungle beneath shadowed wings. 

Find me. Follow the path and find me.

Something drummed behind her. 

Something chased her, reaching out with fingers of flame that burned -

**************

*********

Arya awoke screaming.

Dawn’s arrival brought some relief from the earlier terrors. Arya was able to stand long enough to pull on her shift and the silk robes she’d been given by Prince Dagon. She even managed to eat on her own, though she declined the offer of monkey meat. 

After breaking her fast, a selection of guards greeted her with a litter, and Arya was thankful for the strength to rise and cover the distance to lie upon it. Always move your legs. Master Syrio taught her. Even while lying down, maintain motion, and your strength will return. And so she fidgeted her legs as they carried her. 

Arya made an effort to engage with the dark-skinned servants, who mostly conversed in High Valyrian or even the Steel Tongue of the Summer Krakens. Though a bastardised form of the Ironborn Old Tongue, she could only make out a scarce few words and phrases. 

Though she absorbed all she could from their hosts, she maintained a guard about Prince Dagon, who was surely not to be trusted. Not that I can say why. Though Arya was no warg, she sensed something dark in the Prince that deeply unsettled her.

The cuts on Dagon’s hands reminded her of the time Maester Luwin had shown her his glass candle. However, unlike the gentle Maester of Winterfell, Dagon Greyjoy smelled of ambition, avarice, and sorcery.  

Once in the main palace, they traversed tiled paths and ornate colonnades, passing through hanging gardens adorned with a myriad of exotic flowers. Arya could only stare in wonder as they entered a hall of fountains– each was carved of smooth marble and inlaid with bronze tentacles that shone as the sun’s rays graced their surface.  

Father had once said that the Greyjoys of Walano were distinct from their Iron Islander cousins, revelling in their oft ill-gotten opulence. Vibrantly coloured halls unfolded before the group as they continued, each wall adorned with peculiar trophies and tapestries recounting ancestral glories of yore.

What intrigued Arya most among the decorated walls were the masks. Each carven face bore unique craftsmanship– some resembling terrible beasts while others captured elements of the natural world. 

Kur’chek, accompanying Archmaester Ebrose, shared tales of the tribes behind such creations. “Each one tells a story of its people. For some, they honour their patron gods, or great feats of battle. Others hold… darker tales.”

Though Arya knew the ape-man would not divulge all he knew, she felt an ease in his company. She had known Mandar and Solobar from Lord Tyrion’s retinue well, but Kur’chek was different. 

The servant was much more human in his appearance, indeed one might mistake him for a costumed mummer. But she had known the strength of his grip and felt his fur with her own hands. His mannish look unsettled Sers Justin and Godfrey, yet Arya sensed little malice from him. In many ways, he even reminded her of Maester Luwin and Uncle Aemon– a scholar in his pride. 

True to her thoughts, Kur’chek indeed took satisfaction in their final destination.  

Arya could hardly fault him for that as they entered the Hall of Maps. Mosaic patterns of endless blue and white spirals adorned the floor, while the vaulted ceiling depicted the strange stars above.

Ser Arys traced his foot along the floor “Are these the tides of your coastal seas?”

“As they were four centuries ago when my forebears and their vassals built this palace.” Dagon Greyjoy’s voice echoed as he approached. 

Hells, where did he come from?

The space, lit by lanterns burning dyed whale oil, showcased meticulously painted maps of the known world on each wall – Sothoryos, YiTi, Westeros, and even Valyria before the doom. Rows of shelves in the middle of the room held thousands more, each carefully rolled in protective cases.

“One of my forebears crafted this chamber in honour of his son. From Asshai to Oldtown, from Valyria to Yin, the maps of diverse realms adorn these walls.” Dagon traced a finger along one of the golden veins. “Within this place resets the gathered wisdom of the Summer Isles and the Iron Islands.” 

Prince Dagon wore his usual green silk trousers and surcoat, leaving his chest bare, and Arya caught a glimpse of sucker marks that trailed from his waist to the base of his neck. 

Dagon noticed her curiosity. “A keepsake from a kraken, Lady Arya.” 

“You fought a kraken?” She asked. “Aren’t they sacred to your people?”

“Moreso to full-blooded Ironborn than us mongrels, I’m afraid. And my piety does not extend to becoming a monster’s lunch.” Dagon clapped his hands, summoning a team of native scribes in simple tunics who approached nervously, carrying a large roll of parchment.

Four of the servants swiftly unrolled it on a large table in the centre of the room, while two others cranked a winch below, raising the surface for all to see. 

The room fell into silence, save for the gasps from Archmaester Ebrose and Maester Thorfryn, who had been summoned from the ships for the audience.

“By the Father,” Ebrose breathed. “we’re a quarter the length of Westeros away from the Green Hell.”

An endless expanse of green stretched across the map, with three winding rivers converging into one massive waterway that would have dwarfed even the Rhoyne. 

– some with names akin to the Summer Tongue, while others were established by the exiled Ironborn or Summer Krakens. 

Arya’s eyes darted all over the map, taking in the features and named settlements that dotted the continent. From Maester Luwin’s books she recognized most of the Zamoyos delta, but the southern expanse was a new world.

‘Dragon’s Roost’, ‘Valley of the Headless Men’ — hells, just how vast was the Valyrians’ reach?

According to the map, most of the closer settlements to the south of the delta had been destroyed or abandoned. Nearly a dozen dead kingdoms lay between them and the true start of their journey– wherever that would be.

She traced the main river with her finger until it reached a fork, where one such abandoned city lay. Something sang to her. The more she looked upon it, longing pulled at her heart. 

Morgha. 

“A quarter the length of Westeros just to reach the Green Hell.  Yes.” Prince Dagon conceded. “And the ships with oarsmen will never survive the journey.”

Arya paled.

Dae’s path may lead to Essos, but Arya’s led west– home. Gendry and Father needed her, but she needed her now. 

She spoke up, frustration and astonishment warring in her voice. “How long will that take us? That is nearly the distance from the Neck to King’s Landing!”

“The distance is not the issue. With our combined forces, my kinsmen and your navigators can cross the distance in about a year. If you were to attempt the journey loaded with provisions for a long sea voyage, however…” Dagon paused, his dark eyes inscrutable as he waited for Maester Thorfryn and Archmaester Ebrose to caution the King against it.

“I would have six thousand men spread out across my fleet if I abandoned my galleys.” Dae said, his countenance fallen.

Prince Dagon waved him off. “Prince Drumm wishes to join your war against the slaving powers. The Volantene cartels owe him a considerable sum from reneged loans and have taken his men as slaves. I shall also provide you with three of our smaller sailing ships and two of our older Sea Eagles.”

A kingly gift if there ever was one. Arya mused. The sailing ships of the Summer Krakens were among the world’s fastest– and deadliest. They were surpassed only by Aetheryon warships in troop capacity, and the Braavosi war fleet in lethality. 

But nothing beats the ships of the Summer Islands for stamina. She thought. Why such an offer, what does he hope to gain?

The Prince clapped his hands again, and more servants carried in tables and chairs crafted from dark wood that shone like oil in the lantern light. 

“I thought we’d break our fast here. Mayhap, we could extend it through luncheon,” Dagon proposed, inviting them to sit. Arya noticed a twitch in the Prince’s left leg, and wondered if it was an injury. Or a tell?

Dae eyed the Prince for a moment before taking his seat. “This gift cannot be a mere charity, Prince Dagon.”

“Quite right,” Dagon responded, his voice smooth and venomous. He ignited a drako hidden in his robes and stood, gesturing to a body of water just south of their present location. “What you see there is Lake Mokele, connected by smaller rivers that feed into the Lower Zamoyos. 

Dragonriders made these maps. Arya realized, shifting her gaze to the older maps adorning one of the back walls. Some locations were familiar from Maester Luwin’s records, but these maps were intricate, revealing cities and shores entirely unknown to her. The Summer Krakens hadn't merely stolen knowledge– they had expanded upon it.

House Hightower and the Arbor Baratheons possessed some of the most extensive map collections in the known world, but the knowledge in the Greyjoys’ hall no doubt dwarfed them both. 

“You will cross from the Ende’ Mokele to the Orokenyube.” Dagon huffed on his drako and tapped a sheer blue line north of the inland sea. “My men will guide you along the River of Apes.”

“A necessity,” Kur’chek seemed most fearful. “The beasts that reside by its banks have been known to tear men apart - with their bare hands!”

He let a thick cloud of smoke drift down to the map. “Follow the shore until it enters the mighty Zamoyos.” 

Kur’chek mumbled a chant under his breath at the name. 

“Continue south, and you will reach the Green Hell.” Dagon intoned, his voice ominous. The room fell silent as a lichyard. 

“The very land is twisted– unnatural. Even the mightiest of dragons fear to tread there.” The Prince said, his discomfort apparent, though Arya doubted it was genuine. 

“Wyverns with near hundred-foot spans rule the skies, and the denizens of the jungle floor are no less monstrous.” He gestured to a queer skull that resembled a man’s, but with multiple rows of teeth and an elongated skull. 

“It will likely be a moon’s turn, if not longer, til we clear it.” Maester Thorfryn remarked as he ran a hand through his grey hair, a note of apprehension in his voice. “And our escorts will follow us the entire way?” 

Prince Dagon shook his head. “No, at Lake Zamoyos you will encounter an island much like this one. There, our fleet will depart, and other kin of mine will lead you to the sea.”

Arya clenched her fists beneath the table. There is something he isn’t telling us.

Silence still hung in the air as the magnitude of the task ahead set in. Dae’s eyes were fixed on the table, while Rhaenys’ body tensed as she fidgeted under the table. All their lives, Sothoryos had been naught but a distant crib tale– full of wonders, riches, and horrors that frightened even experienced sailors. 

Dagon tapped out the drako, and took his seat again. “Before you embark, there is something else I must tell you.” He leaned forward and steepled his fingers, surveying each of them before he continued. 

“Long before the days of the Freehold, a people long forgotten erected a city where the Zamoyos is joined by the Yono’mbembe. Crafted entirely of slick black stone, it is a city like no other, save perhaps Asshai, where even the sun’s rays are consumed by shadows.”

Arya’s eyes widened as she recalled the night before, and a chill grew from the base of her spine. 

“It is far greater in size than your Oldtown or King’s Landing, though even our people know not the secrets of its impossible construction– or its riches.” Dagon sat back, though his body remained tense. 

“Despite attempts to recolonize the city, it remains untouched by civilization and the jungle. The Rhoynar foolishly made an attempt, and it is said that many thousands vanished within a sennight.” 

“Yeen.” Rhaenys breathed. “You speak of the city of death.”

Dagon nodded. “That I do, Your Grace. If I recall, Nymeria herself declared it ‘a city so evil that even the jungle will not enter.’ 

Dae pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “And there is no route around the city, only past it.” 

“Aye, you will see its black spires breach the canopy before you arrive. In that place, there are no wyverns, nor apes or lions. No creature would dare set foot inside its walls, but other things roam its perimeter.” 

The prince itched at the scars along his breast. “The local word is iwin , or ‘ghouls’ in the common tongue – brindled men. Hideous and savage though they are, they are no animals. They would brave the river if it meant a feast for their dark gods.” 

Ser Justin’s face was pale, though he was not the only one at the table who looked ready to turn back. 

He would swear an oath to the Summer Krakens before taking this route.

“Then we sail past it,” Dae gripped Rhae’s hand tightly. “there is no other choice, though I do not savour the thought. All the more reason to make haste!”

Despite the King’s confident declaration, something in the air made Arya shiver.

**************

A Quiet Day

*********

Jon was watching pale white clouds pass under the golden sun. Ghost was beside him, lolling on his back as Edric and Podrick ran brushes through his soft fur.

In truth, the heir to Starfall no longer had to resign himself to menial tasks - for on his thirteenth nameday, he had earned his knighthood, by foiling an attempt to stab Dany in broad daylight.

He’d taken the footpad’s knife-wounds with him bare flesh - and for that, Jon had knighted him as soon as the fever had passed. Still, Edric insisted - and Jon thought he rather liked it, for some reason. He did not want to imagine what the groomsmen working Shaggydog had to endure.

Monterys was massaging Jon’s shoulders. “Rickety as my grand-uncle Malentine,” he grumbled. “My Prince, truly, a swim with your Truefyre kin would do you a world of good.”

Ghost kicked up a leg in the air, as Edric worked away some matted fur in an itchy spot on his back. His coat had thinned out considerably in the South, but the direwolf still required brushing at least twice a moon’s turn.

The air was thick with drako-smoke. Jon had never favoured the things - but he could not deny the wealth they brought. Myr’s clime was perfect for Fyreleaf and he meant to break the Tyrell-Aetheryon monopoly.

The haze made it hard for him to tell even who was right next to him. Blasted things -

“At the very least, you should relax, Prince Maekar”. Ser Aeryn, Lord of Dragon’s Bay, remarked in a rather soothing voice. “Especially with Lord Robert out.”

Jon glared at the ill-considered advice. “If I spent less time sparring with him, maybe I’d be less tense.”

The Blackfyre laughed. “Don’t feel too bad, my Prince. Your Lord Father, too, was oft tossed about like a sack of turnips from what cousin Daemon told me.”

“You’re not the best fighter,” conceded Edric in a bland showing of betrayal, “But you’re one of the finest riders I know, dragon or horse. Even Lord Barristan says so.”

“Speaking of dragons.” Jon responded with a hint of amusement in his tone. “that one that follows you around...Do Dayne’s have Valyrian blood in their veins?”

“Y-yes” Pod stammered. “I’ve been meaning to ask that, for he seems awful friendly with you.”

“She,” Edric grumbled as he shook his head. “And I do not think so; Daynes married into House Targaryen but never the reverse, apart from one dragonseed into High Hermitage.”

“Hightowers are the same,” Monterys muttered, fetching a skin of chilled honey wine.

Edric shrugged. “The Hightowers married the daughters of several Dragonlords. But I know not why she likes me or why she comes to me.” She was out fishing in the sea of Myrth no doubt, along with her four-limbed kin.

Jon found the clear, calm waters terrifying. Sharks were abundant in the Sea of Myrth - and the spotted whales that hunted them. No, there were enough monsters on land for him.

“It is sometimes easy to forget we’re in a war,” he wondered.

“That’s just how it is, lad.” Ser Aeryn spoke out as he leaned back into his chair.

Prince Trystane had gone hunting with Lords Bracken, Robert, and Elbert, and with him went his cadre of Dornish Knights, bar Cletus Yronwood. His wounds were healing… well enough.

Jon was thankful that his foes had done little more than probed his defences, even into the fifth moon of war. What kept him up was why.

“The P-princess shan’t be back for another sennight, your G-Grace,” Podrick spoke, no longer the pale boy he’d been ‘pon their arrival. Lamentably, the lad still stammered and acted as shy as a maid.

For all his stammering, Pod had something of the rogue about him. Upon the lad’s fourteenth name day, Gerion, the Laughing Lion, took him to the most expensive of Myr’s brothels; prized beauties whose lay was worth five thousand golden dragons.

Things were done, and somehow the lad was given the time for free.

Ever since then, every whore, worshipper of Yndros of the Twilight, and other fertility gods regarded his mousy squire as some sort of divinely inspired lad.

“Yes,” Jon snidely remarked. “I did notice that my wife was not in my bed.”

Though it had taken some convincing, he’d managed to convince Dany to go ahead to Volon Therys - so that Retaxes might gain some stamina, and so that she might visit her aunt and Bran to grieve with them. In truth, Ser Willem Darry might have done more convincing than him.

Dany had first flown to Barterton at Bold Lake, to pay homage to the heroes of the war. Jeyne Arryn and Seasmoke had gone with her. She was to meet Lord Robert there, who wished to see the statue of his mother, Lady Estermont, with his own eyes.

This left him alone at Myr. It was a wonder he could spare even a breath, for days like this.

“On Driftmark, Father had me shadow Uncle Malentine.” Monterys noted.

“Now, which Malentine is that? The Father of Lady Valaena? His father? Or the bastard Malentine?” Cletus asked lazily.  

“Oh no, this one is Red Malentine,” Monterys was ever helpful, “Ser Corlys’ half-brother!” 

“Tyrosh has their own name for bastards,” Aeryn Blackfyre explained to a thoroughly confused Jon. “Red Malentine’s a good lad; helped me clear out a nest of pirates near the Neck two years back.” In Myr, Jon knew, the bastard surname was Ash.

Rising, he bid his retinue of boys and men to follow him. If he had to ride into the city, he would do so in good company.

**************

*********

The stables in the Crystal Palace were located in immense caverns above the sea, but below the palace itself. Horses and elephants and camels and so much more, would not suffer from the summer heat there.

There were pigs and some form of rodent they called capo-bears; the latter were some of the friendliest animals Jon had ever seen. Their keepers swore by their leather - and the dung - and Jon had to believe them, for the former was worth more than the beast’s weight in gold.

Garros, his Rhoynish steward, however, ruined his good mood.

Today, Jon’s horse, Singer, had up and mated with one of Barry Bracken’s horses - and o, she was too gravid to ride. Garros, being Garros, had gotten him a new mount that was most certainly not a horse.

Behind him, Jon’s ungrateful bevy of malcontents were already making bets on whether he would up and run - or not.

“You fly one of the largest living dragons, my Prince!” Ser Justin stood tall and adorned in the dark blues and silvers of the House he founded. Son of the once-Prince Duncan, and his Jenny, he was as spry as any youth despite his six-and-sixty years.

At the moment, Jon would have rather liked to throttle him, for his ride was not a horse - but a gods-be-damned elephant .

The large grey beast reached out with its trunk - wide enough that it could crush his head - and wrapped its trunk around his waist.

Before Jon had thought to even scream, the beast had lifted and deposited him behind its head.

Mindful of the mirthful eyes on him, Jon did his best to ignore the pounding in his heart, and he crawled over to the large basket that doubled as his saddle. A similar basket held its rider, an Andal named Gandahar.

The others had mounted smaller elephants, and out they went on a winch-cable lift. “Rickard, this one is called; named in honour of your Grandsire,” Gandahar spoke, tapping the beast’s smooth head. “Once a war elephant - now he studs in the fields, or works in the royal herd.”

An idyllic life . Jon only hoped he’d live to grow that old.

**************

*********

Above them, Shrike soared through the air, joined by Argella . As they walked the streets, people gazed up in awe.

Jon rather liked his city; it smelled of sea surf, perfumes, meats and spices, and so much more. Banners fluttered on every corner above the lanterns, and below walked new faces - elegantly dressed provincials, wealthy yeomen and verderers, customsmen, and other members of the royal and noble bureaucracies. Essosi wore the Westerosi fashions, proudly garbed in their house colours.

The Guild House loomed ahead, and Orange Priest Sossaros’ bombastic midday sermon rang out as they approached it. Atop the immense granite steps, in the shadow of fluted columns stood Gerion Lannister, garbed in silver and red. Fastening his cape was a platinum brooch in the shape of a lion, and he was leaning on an ivory-headed cane.

“I thought that blade was lost by Aerys,” Gerion remarked, gesturing towards Dread , Jon’s new Valyrian steel.

“Ser Justin presented it to us when we arrived from his lands.” Jon traced his fingers along the dragon’s head pommel. Dread was one of three Valyrian steel swords, given to House Targaryen by the Blackfyres long ago.

“Well, my Prince, it fits you better than it did King Aerys.” Gerion turned and gestured toward the hall. “Did Maester Runcewyn speak the news from Volon Therys?”

“Aye.” Jon nodded, as they made their war in. “Quellon is gaining Chroyane, and Lord Jeffory would need to swear to Prince Trystane.”

“And Skagosi and Mountain clans as neighbours,” Denys Redwyne added, finally conjuring up his confidence.

“Prince Trystane will have to prove himself.” Ser Aryn was doubtful. “And we do not know if Prince Quentyn is actually dead.”

“Why’s the lad wish to change his name?” Ned Dayne asked from somewhere to his side.

“Hi-his Father,” Pod murmured, blushing as some of the courtesans left.

“As far as Lords go, Tyrion Lannister is hardly a poor one, nor is a bad Father,” Admitted the Yronwood heir, rubbing a wound on his thigh. 

“Men from Quellon Greyjoy’s fleet colonized Chroyane; they’ve intermarried with some of the surviving Rhoynar.” Jon shrugged. “He’s his great-grandsire’s name, but Lannister out there would count for little and less.”

Cletus whistled, as they entered the main hall of the “Noble and Forthright Guild Lore and the Sciences. ” Above them, hanging from the ceiling was the body of a dragon, its black bones shining across painted heavens.

“As long as Vhagar…” Jon murmured.

Next to it were the grey bones of a Firewyrm almost twice its length - But above it was the true monster. Must be thrice the Wyrm's size!

“I didn’t know leviathans got that big.”  Ned Dayne breathed.

“Aye,” Ser Aeryn said in a soft voice. “And bigger…come lads. We’ve some scribes to meet.”

Chapter Text

************

War Upon Dorne

****************

Moonlight graced the granite and marble floors of the Tower of the Sun, turning the waves and red and orange of Nymeros-Martell an unsettling grey on black. At this late hour, the fountains’ splashing echoed throughout the hall. Arianne savoured a sip of wine, settling deeper into her throne as servants rushed about cleaning off the day’s grime.

Her cousins were sorely missed; Nymeria and Tyene were off with Stannis Baratheon, while Obara and Elia rode alongside the Young Wolf. Gods only know where Sarella’s off to.

Court had, as always, proven exasperating. Anders Yronwood petitioned once again, falsely, for her hand. Her marriage to Garlan Tyrell had not sat well with even the most leal of vassals, but to the Bloodroyal , it was a perfect opportunity.  

Ever the opportunists, House Yronwood had never ignored an opportunity to supplant her family. Whispers had reached the south of treacherous plots woven by Catelyn Stark, supposed murderer of Ashara Dayne by way of sorcery. Arianne held little regard for such rumours.

As she descended from her throne, gracefully swaying in the moonlit beams, she pondered the Yronwoods’ intentions. Were they truly so foolish, or did they aim to drive a wedge between herself and her gallant Garlan? Mayhaps something darker is at work here, as well. Dornish unity, though long sought by her House, had only ever been achieved temporarily when faced with external threats.

Father approved of the marriage. She told herself, her anxiety over marrying for love assuaged by the fact that Garlan brought with him his charter for the Bank of Oldtown, King’s Landing, and White Harbor and his ties to the Bank of Dragonton.

But beyond his wealth came smallfolk from the marches who knew how to make deserts bloom. The promise of House Martell for Dorne might have been fulfilled in her lifetime had Daemon Blackfyre not ravaged the land and unleashed Maelos upon the aqueducts. 

Though they had rebuilt nearly all the Blackfyre King laid to waste, twenty thousand lives succumbed to the cruel grip of thirst, and even the precious few water wizards left in Dorne had fled the land. Shandystone and Hellgate had been restored despite the toll, but there was more to be done. 

Still, since the comet’s appearance and the events at Storm’s End, the water arts have grown stronger. 

Arianne’s musings troubled her as she descended from the Tower of the Sun to the lower chambers of the Old Castle– a marvel of Rhoynish and Andal that rivalled even the grandeur of Winterfell. 

Much like the Northern capital, Sunspear encapsulated its history. Two Rhoynish tower palaces loomed proudly around the ancient Sandship, the sandstone dromon palace from House Martell’s earliest days, while new constructions spread out from the centre. Shadowtown spread up around it, growing like a patch of green in the shade of a plateau in a dune sea.

Each new layer of the city held a testament to the world her forebears left behind, and carried wisdom for the world yet to come. And with my Prince beside me, no less. 

Garlan Tyrell, Prince Consort of Dorne and Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, stood proud in the moon’s light, his light brown hair billowing in the wind as he gazed out to sea. He wore a light gold silk shift and the cotton tunic she had crafted for him. His green silk and velvet jerken displayed the Martell sun and spear quartered by an orange Tyrell rose. In the style of the desert, he wore his cloak draped over one broad shoulder, and silk scarves lay around his neck to conceal his face when needed. 

She drew near and slipped her arms around his waist, savouring the delicate fragrance of rosewater and lilac that clung to him. From the balcony’s shadows, her guards edged forward, wary of their embrace upon the precipice. 

More Gardeners and Peakes have fallen to our blades than Martells have to the Lords of Highgarden. Arianne thought, suppressing a laugh. House Martell had done more for House Tyrell than even the Targaryens; without the death of so many of their rivals by Dornish spears or bolts, they’d still be landed Knights in the shadow of their fair castle. 

“They still fear you mean to jump and take me with you.” She whispered.

Garlan chuckled. “At the Water Gardens, mayhap, I’d cast you into the chilled ponds!” A suede glove brushed against her knuckles as she buried her head in his back. “Shall we take our evening meal, my Princess?’

“Mmm, later, I wish to look upon the stars for a time.” She imagined the younger of the Sand Snakes, would be gazing at the stars with her princely father, resting about his wheeled chair as he regaled them with invented tales behind each one.

The Realm entire believed Father suffered from gout, and Aunt Elia suspected sugar sickness, but she knew the truth. Years ago, poison and the dark arts had threatened his life, and while Old Lord Aenar provided the antidote, irreversible damage to the flow of blood and the humors in his legs had been done. 

Despite Archmaester Ebrose’s efforts, the impending need to amputate loomed closer. Father, growing increasingly detached from the great game, sought solace with his myriad kin and vassals’ children in the Water Gardens– a pretext for his eventual abdication. 

I am ready, dear father. 

“They are beautiful tonight,” Garlan remarked. “ ‘tis hard to see the stars at Highgarden, with half a million souls dwelling in Garth’s Cradle nearby.”

Half a million people, twice that of the Shadowtown, and it was only the fifth largest city in the Reach. “The lights from the city are that bright?” She asked. She knew of Tyrosh, Myr, Oldtown, and Lannisport and their streetlamps fueled by whale oil But she hadn’t known that extended beyond such jewels of the realm.

“Indeed I…” He paused, tension suddenly tightening his back muscles. “My love, are the Porters Guilds expecting work tonight?”

What an odd question. Arianne frowned. “No, they were among the petitioners today, begging that we double our patrols. Commerce has been slowed to a crawl. Why do you ask?”

Garlan gently pried her hands from his waist and pulled her into an embrace against his chest. He bid her look, and though she squinted like a miserly factor tallying rent, she saw it. Her mouth nearly dropped. 

A fleet emerged– three dromons, a monstrous galleass with red sails and a hull so black that she’d spotted it only for its sails and the ripples around its hull. But the vessel in the lead, she knew very well.

The sea seemed to rise ahead of the fleet, heralding something large beneath the waves, and moving quickly. 

Arianne gasped. “Krakens.”

****************

***********

“We’re the perfect target,” Arianne muttered, her fingers deftly assisting Roland Allyrion as he fastened Garlan’s armor. 

“No navy to speak of yet. Our power guards the borders or is off in the North with Lord Robb, or else wise at the bottom of the Nar-” Garlan paused, offering an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Princess.”

“For what? I refuse to believe uncle and my brothers are dead.” She smiled, eyes concealing the worry that gnawed at her heart, haunting her nights with silent tears. “No true son of the Rhoyne would drown in a mere storm.”

That was no mere storm. Garlan thought. 

“I bid Ser Manfrey rally the City Watch. And you my love, are forbidden to die.” Arianne intoned. There was no warmth in her voice, yet Garlan sensed more fear than anger. “You owe me three score years and six sons.”

“No daughters?”

She grinned. “Two or three daughters…Lest they not scheme endlessly.” Planting a second kiss on his lips, she turned to Joss Hood, a proud young knight with keen eyes and considerable talent with an axe. “See that you drive that one-eyed cretin from our fair city,” she instructed him.

Ser Joss bowed deeply. “It shall be done.”

Easier said than done, Garlan thought as he embraced Arianne again and departed down the hall. Barristan Bracken had not held back in his account of the Oldtown massacre– Euron Greyjoy commanded monsters. 

“Are the Scorpions in place at the docks?” Upon hearing the accounts of Barristan Bracken and his party of the sack of Oldtown, Garlan had been totally occupied with the city’s defence.

“Yes, and the barrels of oil. Even without wildfire, the waters shall be torched, and Lord Vaith supports us with more than fifty skilled bowmen.” Ser Dickon affirmed. 

****************

***********

They were in the fountain gardens of Meria’s Square when the noise started; at first, faint and soft like distant whalesong, but it grew in strength and echoed throughout the city.

And then came a sudden crack with a rush of air, and a skiff went flying above their heads like a straw doll. Wood and glass erupted as it crashed into masonry, and the waxpaper doors were up in flames.

“Send men to make a firebreak!” roared Ser Dickon Manwoody. Garlan could see the gold-crowned skull of Manwoody, and knew that Lord Manwoody must be here as well.

Ahead of him, another skiff splintered as it tumbled through the air, raining wood and canvas down on fleeing smallfolk.

Garlan oft-lamented his lack of brinkmanship, but even he could sense an opportunity here. “With me! To Lord Dagos!”

“The Silence hasn’t even docked, and they’re already fucking the City bloody!” growled Manfrey Martell - he’d ridden out ahead to spur the Household guard on. “Move, you fools! You want some halfbreeds to sack your city?!”

With an ear-splitting crash , something slammed into Dickon Manwoody, unhorsing him onto the cobblestone. His horse was neighing - no, it was screaming -

Some mannish, mottle-skinned thing - a half-breed, Garlan thought, for its arms were certainly wolf arms, and its legs seemed to be sewn on backwards - Hells, it even had a tail, like some dragonspawn deformed in the womb!

Ser Manfred had not been caught unawares - he’d taken the chance to skewer one on his sword, and it gibbered as it died.

Roland Allyrion, Warrior bless him, handed Garlan a lance. “Ser, we ride!” he urged. Lad’s braver than me, right now, and that Garlan could not abide.

He spurred onward, aiming his lance at the half-breed that was trying to claw Dickon Manwoody out of his armour.

A moment passed, and five feet of ash and steel lifted the creature off its feet. Garlan’s lance shattered, and his horse leapt over the thing as if it were a betting race. Seven bless you, Willas!

Dickon Manwoody was not idle; he buried an axe into the skull of a chimaera, and plunged its dirk into another’s throat - but the monster tumbled him into a burning house.

Garlan made the sign of the Seven and clutched at the medallions beneath his tabard. “Dismount! Do not risk your steeds against these foul creatures!” He yelled, and they listened.

On foot through the city streets, Dornish archers and crossbowmen fell in, which was good - but ill thoughts festered. Garlan could not comprehend how the watchtowers had not signalled sightings of the Silence, and by the looks of it, Ser Manfrey suspected treachery.

Garlan was of a similar mind. The only question is who.  

****************

***********

At the docks, half the ships were ablaze like so much kindling. Beautiful and deadly .

The sky above was black with smoke, and columns of flame licked at brooding clouds. Rain would come, and with luck, it would quench the flames.

Lord Dagos Manwoody had the strength of ten as he fought to reach his son, Ser Mors, and Joss Hood was cutting through a particularly gruesome rat-faced half-breed in two. The Dornish crossbowmen, under Ser Manfrey’s direction, were loosing volley upon volley on the thicker-skinned halfbreeds.

But worse had come from the depths, for the harbour was now infested with Gods-be-damned-Krakens.

A customs house lost its walls, and a Kraken crawled through it onto the docks. But some brave soul set something on fire inside - for the next moment, the entire thing erupted in a blazing inferno.

The Kraken was covered in a deluge of liquid fire that covered the sea around it. And in its haste to submerge itself, it displaced all the fiery oil - for oil it must have been - in uncounted teardrops that fell like rain over the harbour.

It reminded Garlan of Pyke. Just as that night, everything was a supplicant to Red R’hllor.

Ser Symond Santagar and, to his shock, Valena Tolland emerged from the flames and smoke. What were they even doing there?

But then the heir to House Tolland drove a spear through the guts of an unsuspecting Ironborn, and Garlan knew.

Men and monsters alike were panicking, but his squire, little Roland Allyrion, was ever at his side, his spear ever swift and his pellets breaking bone. Warrior bless him -

Garlan went at it with his twin swords, and Roland narrowly avoided being disembowelled - he leapt away, and toppled a burning heap of baskets onto the miserable creature. His squire was hardy, but Mors was being dragged down and his father would not make it.

And so Garlan leaped, crashing into a monster the size of a horse.

It gave a hiss and turned; black eyes and a long hound-like snout with mannish nostrils sniffed the air. Long, oily black hair glinted in the firelight, and its rows of teeth dripped green slime.

“That wasn’t very Knightly, Ser Garlan.” it whispered, and Garlan knew true horror - for the voice sounded no older than Roland.

“Nor is devouring a son in front of his Lord Father!” He shouted, trying to dispel the black misgivings from his heart. Am I a killer of children now?

His blades were drenched in blood, and the blood steamed.

The creature stared at him, and - by the grace of the Mother - left. Its fellow monsters snarled in confusion, but attacked regardless.

He grabbed Ser Mors by the forearm and flung him towards his father. And moments past, his father took up a war cry, and his son followed suit - and the cry began to rise.

“TO THE PRINCE CONSORT! GARLAN TYRELL! TYRELL! TYRELL!”

****************

***********

They four were the tip of the spear. Soldiers fell and were ripped apart, but Garlan’s spear stood firm.

Lord Dagos and Ser Mors were filled with the need to avenge Dickon, and their strength was like a host onto itself. Their enemies were hard pressed, between the flames and a wall of steel - and chose to hurl themselves at his spear in a final act of defiance.

Gods be good, they were savage! They jumped upon spears only to sink their teeth into man-flesh; they grappled men and jumped into the flames, screaming all the while.

Garlan’s swords chipped upon the hide of the toughest beasts, but he made do with a burning beam, and when they came under or over it, he thrust his swords into their gaping maws and eyeballs till they were broken.

In the end, the affair was decided by a frantic fifty-knight charge by Lords Daeron Vance and Tremond Gargalen, from emerging from some gambling-house. It broke the monsters, and Garlan and his spears hunted them in the night, till they choked on their own foul blood.

****************

***********

Come the morn, men called him a hero.

Lord Dagos and Ser Mors presented their blades and swore oaths of eternal friendship, which he could do naught but accept.

T’was only later that the grim truth emerged; Euron Greyjoy had not been aboard the Silence .

He’d stolen into the Water Gardens and killed a dozen servants, and neither Prince Doran, nor his bodyguard, Areo Hotah, could be found.

A sennight hence, Anders Yronwood declared himself the High King of Dorne, and Arianne Martell was bidden to come and make abeyance to the new Southern Kingdom.  

Instead, she placed a hundred-thousand-dragon bounty on his head and called the banners.

War, it seemed, had followed him into Dorne.

****************

Daughters of the River

***********

The wind smelled of the sea.

The Riverlands were beginning to flood come the autumn rains. Her ancestors had once worshipped the gods before the Old Gods of the Children, and in her house it was said that autumn was the time the Storm God joined the God of Flame in battle against the Nameless One. But the Storm God was proud and vainglorious, and would often drown mortals in his fury.

Catelyn Tully did not know if it were true, but was there not something in the air? Like the storm that took my Arya. 

Sers Marq Piper and Ser Walton Frey were at a game of tiles. The Frey had arrived at Riverrun with a hundred crossbowmen and men-at-arms from House Hardyng, the House he’d married into.

When she had left, her Father was preparing to lead a counterraid against Lannister supply lines, and Edmure and Aerax had turned several Serrett raids - and once, one led by the bastard Aethan Sunfyre.

He will die screaming for what he took from me.

Dalla had stayed at Riverrun, and she’d seen her father make eyes at her - as grief-stricken as he ever was, he frequently sought balm in another’s arms.

With a sigh, Catelyn chided herself; it would be a good match. Dalla came from a proud line of royalty, and it had been some time since Riverrun had a Lady. And, like Elia Martell, Dalla would keep her Father’s more reckless tendencies in line.

And any potential bastards he sires, would make excellent companions for the children Edmure and Allyria will have.

That had been a tense meeting; Allyria Dayne with her long-faced beauty, that was both wild and courtly all at once. That she had warg-bonded with an immense water serpent caught the entirety of the court of Riverrun off-guard. 

A sennight below decks on a merchant cog - that even an turtle could out-swim - had left her rank as an onion. She’d been glad to see the last of it at the Stony Sept.

This galleass flew the Seven-Pointed Star, and its captain was Tully by birth - yet, he seemed content at taking coin from the Lady of Storm’s End. Then again, Septons are a money-grubbing lot.

And now she was at Tarth, the Sapphire Isle. Stranger’s Day was an ominous day to arrive, as the storm, whose wind and rains seemed to batter the isle bore witness to.

Tarth was beautiful; a jadestone amulet, set in a chain of sapphires. Catelyn had never seen such verdant farmland, nor such dark and green forests. They hugged mountains - of a sort, that more resembled the spines of a dragon than anything. I wonder, what champion slew this one?

A cry broke over the thunder, and she directed her gaze skyward, for the black clouds of the maelstrom gave way before a dragon.

Its scales shimmered silver-blue and seemed to give off a radiance between strikes of lightning. A living star shooting through the skies, and an armoured rider on its back . She’d heard the daughter of Robert Baratheon had braved the Dragonmont and tamed a dragon. What was its name?  

When silver shines the summer’s moon, winter’s winds shall come not soon - Silvermoon ! A farmer’s parable, but Silvermoon more than lived up to it. He must have been seventy feet, at least -

She heard a call ring out, “ Dracarys !”

Blue and silver flame danced over the water, as the dragon fell in beside the vessel.

Shiera’s Tully-red hair streaked out behind her, and her armour was etched with silver stags and golden suns. A rose cloak billowed in the wind behind her, and she waved the vessel welcome. And there goes any attempt at secrecy.

*******************

Evenfall Hall, for some queer reason, had been built in what Catelyn understood to be a Qartheen style; a great, long, spread-out thing, and only modestly tall.

Above the sprawl was the Sunset Tower that more than made up for that lacking - it rose two hundred feet tall, and wide enough to house three score apartments and cells for the Lord and his kin and serving men. The sapphire waters from up high must be a truly splendid thing.

Lord Galladon was at the docks. His armour bore the stag of his livery, and his sigil showed golden suns quartering crescent moons. His last surviving sister, Alysanne, was beside him - lacking in height, but striking in appearance, with flowing hair of spun gold.

The Evenstar was a kind young Lord, who kissed her hand and offered condolences. Catelyn helped him up; she would visit  Brienne’s crypt with him in the morning, and honour the Dame’s sacrifice, and her valour.

Banners fluttered from twin tower-house keeps, depicting the sun and moon of House Tarth and the crowned Stag of Baratheon. House Tarth was old and storied; they had earned the right to bear the Storm King’s banners with pride.

Great doors flanked by giant stone stags, and sea lions, opened and through the curtain wall they passed into Evenfall Hall.

****************

***********

Come the night, Val stood tall beside her in her white enamelled armour, chestpiece engraved with the Stark direwolf. A single braid of golden hair flowed down her back, and a bastard sword and throwing axes dangled from her studded belt.

Two of her foxes trotted beside her. Her river seal, Bael, had to stay back at Riverrun, for the sea was not kind to his breed. Eyes and ears, eyes and ears.

Catelyn’s niece, Shiera, escorted them to the courtyard, where Marq Piper and the Evenstar were angling for a spar. The halls were rather beautiful; stars, and sea creatures hung from tapestries on indigo stone, lit by oil lamps - but what struck her most was the multitude of portraits - almost all being children. Some had been recently restored, but many had faded with age. Shiera caught her looking.

“Family,” she said with a smile. “Evenfall Hall always ensured all its family, down to the lowest, would have a home.”

Gods, but she is tall! Shiera might not have had Shireen’s raven black hair, but the Baratheon resemblance was obvious, and the musculature her Father had urged her to cultivate. “My children came up around their cousins, and their half-brother.” Despite my foolishness…

“Did I ever tell you how I met Arya, Aunt?” she asked with a reassuring smile. “During the Royal Wedding, Ser Arys Oakheart, Gal, and Oberyn Martell were having a go at Garlan Tyrell and the Kingslayer in the yards! She came crashing through a crawl space, running for her life from His Dark Majesty.”

“Ah, Balerion, the true King of the Seven Kingdoms?” Catelyn had to stifle a giggle. “With Nymeria no doubt vexing him, as he vexed my daughter.”

“Ah, but they became true friends in the end.” Shiera noted. “I rather liked that about Arya; many misliked her, but she won them over in the end.”

“The war in the Riverlands goes apace,” Catelyn abruptly changed the subject, and Shiera took the hint. Best not think about Arya. “Lord Frey is late as usual, but his men squat at key fortresses and locks like river-rats.”

Lord Vance had strongly argued to… speed along Walder Frey on his way at the war council, for Stevron was certain to be more amiable. Cat had almost considered it. “Ryger and Blackwood gave battle to Lannister scouts, last I heard.”

Shiera nodded. “I saw the Mallister Fleet in battle off Seagard from the air.” When Cat raised an inquisitive eyebrow, her niece smiled sheepishly. “ Silvermoon can fly ; I napped one afternoon and woke up a hundred leagues from home. And the Mallisters benefitted.”

As proper as Shiera was, she was bold - in a way Catelyn was not. As bold as Arya - no! “Our navies are at war, but the Lannister - or Hightower - armies seem not to have even taken the field yet. How goes the war here?”

“Mother knows more,” Shiera murmured, “But Mace Tyrell has Felwood and Bronzegate, and nigh upward of sixty thousands of men.”

And Lysa has done what? Thrown her children at the foe?! This would not do.

Catelyn clutched at the parchment in her sleeve. “I saw some of it. The Tyrells have been… brutal.” Tyrell banners had been erected along the shore in Buckler lands, along with gibbets for dead smallfolk.

“One day soon, the Fat Flower will face justice, my lady, I assure you!” Shiera vowed, and for a moment, Catelyn could see nothing but Brienne come to life.

She embraced her niece, and let go just as quickly. “We’ll have a reckoning for all those we’ve lost.’

Shiera’s eyes glimmered, like pale sapphires in the lamplight. “I swear it, Aunt.”

****************

***********

Silvermoon was curled around the slender weirwood at the centre of the courtyard, which seemed to serve as a sort of godswood, too.

In its shadow, her sister Lysa sat - dressed in Baratheon colours, and as gaudy as ever with her ill-gotten wealth, but what shocked Catelyn was the swell of her belly. She and Robert must have conceived a fortnight before he departed . A mask of calm was on her face, but she could see the sorrow on it.

If her son is dead, she must need another. There was no time like wartime to press a rival claim. What was it that Old Balthasar Bolton said? Child Lords are the bane of any House.

“Lysa,” Catelyn murmured, as Ser Marq Piper gave a battle cry and lunged at the Evenstar.

“Hullo, Cat.” Lysa’s voice was calm, devoid of any of that frantic energy that had once made her jittery. Her sister looked well - she’d lost none of her beauty. I haven’t seen her since Steffon’s first name day tourney.

Catelyn had oft wondered at her absence, but now she could see - Lysa had chosen the circumstances of their meeting down to the letter. She’d flail if she couldn’t, I expect.  “I am sorry for your losses,” she found herself saying.

Sorrow and agony passed over her face - for a brief moment. Valaena appeared from deeper into the Courtyard, from between fluted columns, to take her mother’s hands. “He is not dead,” Lysa whispered. “And so I pray my son lives, as well.”

Robert Baratheon wasn’t at the bottom of the sea!? Catelyn’s head spun with the implications - with Argella, the tides of war would most assuredly turn in their favour. “I share your joy, sister. Will he be returning?”

Lysa… giggled. “Cat, the royal army is in tatters. My husband will not abandon his men.” Galladon of Tarth let loose a flurry of blows by the sound of Ser Marq’s cursing. “Tell me, does being Father’s aide again make you feel young?”

Catelyn could sense something writhing beneath her sister’s calm veneer. She did not see fit to grace the question with an answer, and Lysa seemed to know it - for she sighed and asked, “What does The Lord High Justice and the Lord Treasurer wish from me? What office am I to take up?”

“Whispers,” said Cat quietly. Men chanted “Weasel! Weasel! Weasel!” - ser Walton is in the fray, I expect.

Lysa nodded slowly, as taking on some great burden.  “Valaena Waters must act as my proxy, till such time as I recover.” She reminded Catelyn very much of Petyr in that moment.

The three-on-one melee intensified, and her sister’s eyes softened. “I would have you remain another fortnight. It would be nice, when…”

She remembers our promise. Catelyn nodded, and embraced her tightly for a moment. “The Gods have seen fit to restore your husband,” she whispered. “Help me avenge mine.”

Lysa broke the embrace, and leaned back, steepling her hands over her belly, and Catelyn wondered. What does she know?

Chapter Text

********************

A Warm Welcome

*************

There was nothing more glorious than the wind in his hair, Monterys decided. I cannot wait til Seasnake grows! In the skies, their bond would almost be as close as Aerax and Edmure’s - of that, he was certain!   

Alas, Seasnake now resembled nothing more than a chick, resting as she was between the massive talons of the Shrike . His only solace was that Seasmoke and Retaxes , flying alongside her, did not look much bigger.

For a dragon with such a cruel repute, Monterys has witnessed with his own eyes Shrike’s strong sense of honour; no doubt borne of her life with the horse lords.

She deferred to mounted Knights, and Lords she treated as Khals; to her, Prince Maekar was a Great Khal, and she obeyed his orders in battle better than men might. And for the young dragons, she showed the same devotion a Khal might to his bloodriders.

Dothraki mothers and fathers teach their sons to ride longer hours, by strapping them to their horses. The Shrike, it seemed, was cut from the same cloth. For footmen, she had only… mild contempt.

And when not in battle, she’s the very picture of sloth. In that way, Monterys believed, she was much like her sister Argella . Lady Jeyne, alas, was testing both the dragon and the rider’s patience, for the Shrike snapped at the sudden appearance of Seasmoke .

Monterys giggled as he heard her war cry; she’d flown her dragon high, then dived in an arch down below the Shrike and Retaxes , looping around both in a perfect circle. Aerax can do something similar. My betrothed shall not be outdone by two old men!

“Your betrothed is quite mad!” Prince Maekar shouted down at him.

The men had placed bets on whether Seasmoke would get the Shrike to lose her temper before they made it to Volon Therys. Ser Perwyn likely won a half dozen stags just now - for he had bet on it happening but once.

Then again, Monterys would have it no other way. He and Jeyne had been fated to each other, and one day, they would explore the world together.

********************

*************

The road into Volon Therys ran through farmland, as far as the eye could see. Monterys spotted ten times as many ranches as farms; cattle, sheep, goat, even aurochs, and herds of dwarf elephants. Closer to the coast, House Forrester had its famed tree farms, and most of the timber was destined for the shipwrights.

Some of the most bitterly contested land in the wars, and no wonder. From the air, he could see both the shores of the Rhoyne and the city that rose from its banks.

The first thing he noticed were the walls. Three great rings  divided the city - the innermost, black-walled Valyrian Quarter, the white-walled Rhoynish Quarter, and the outermost Slaves’ Quarter, where men had once lived in squalor. The city had grown past the third wall, Monterys could see, beyond the ruins of what was once the fourth and fifth walls. 

Canals from the Rhoyne through the city walls through great water-gates; one snaked along to its very heart, where the Palace of the Legates - now the Wolf’s Den - stood. The tallest of its three towers had a black repute, Monterys knew, and no priest or septon would dare ascend it as they did the others.

Winter let out a welcoming bellow from on high, and Seasnake and Morning both freed themselves from Shrike’s protective clutch. The dragons loosed flame and wail, declaring their presence for all Volon Therys to see.

And then something bellowed back -

To Monterys, it felt like the rolling of distant thunder, and his eyes popped when he discerned what had made the call.

What he had taken for a fat tower was in fact an immense wyrm of shimmering cobalt, orange, and yellow; limbs, feathers, antlers, and eyes glowed like thunder as it uncoiled around one of the Palace towers.

Shrike almost lurched back in the air as it untwisted itself, and it seemed to him that the dragon was afraid - but that could not be, surely? The men certainly were, but what men would not be?

It was so colossal that, at first, he thought it was three immense dragons curled together.

The city roared its welcome, but Monterys could not hear it. The tales were true - Brandon Stark has a Thunderwyrm!

********************

The Red Dragons

**************

"You knew it would be like this," Dany whispered, adjusting the silk sash around Jon's waist. He donned the black linen tunic she'd picked out, and the velvet surcoat bearing his personal sigil – grey and red three-headed dragons, quartered.

Red favours him better than me, I think. 

She herself wore the silk the envoys of the Five Forts had gifted her. The turquoise fabric was as exquisite as the Sea of Myrth, and went underneath a surcoat of red dragons; atop her head went a circlet bearing the same, but embossed in silver.

Their quarters in the third tower had a splendid vista of the Rhoyne, and furthermore, was home to Volon Therys’ Guild of Lore and Sciences. Since their arrival, Dany had barely a moment to spare for him, and every one, it seemed, to spare for the aged scholars of the guild.

Not that Jon minded - it was good to see her immersed in something other than grief.

They had gathered to mourn amongst kin. But Volon Therys, like Myr, venerated Aerys the Mad, and seemed intent on reminding them of it at every chance it got. Jon seethed at the constant reminders, but Dany had grown increasingly indifferent. “To us, he was a monster, but to these people he was–”

“A hero , indeed.” Jon interjected sharply. 

“Yes Jon, a hero .” Dany bit back. "Myr bore witness to his deeds, alongside those of Hoster Tully. Volon Therys fell to other heroes, yes, but his legend endures here."

Jon recoiled from her touch and moved to the far wall adorned with a tapestry, a masterpiece in the traditional Volantene style of Ukyo-Ei. It depicted chimaeras entwined in battle with centaurs, their forms woven with threads that mimicked the vibrant hues of a water-coloured painting brought to life.

Jon swept a hand over one of the busts that sat on either side of the tapestry. “And when he wasn’t freeing slaves in a haze of bittercane, he was ordering a dragonet scarce two years old to boil children alive! When he wasn’t doing that, he was siring–”

He turned, his words halting as he met her gaze.

“Bastards?” Daenerys asked, arching an eyebrow. 

You were one until three years ago, Maekar Targaryen. 

Jon’s left eye twitched. “We had agreed that removing the statue was for the best.”

Daenerys nodded, though in truth, she had begun to regret that decision. For all her sire’s faults, Myr stood as a testament to the man he once had been, a beacon for a people liberated by his deeds. 

“Jon, all my life the world has condemned him, save for our father– who raised us. Yet, in Essos I hear glories sung of a man I have never known. Is it so wrong to desire more than madness in the blood that runs through my veins?"

‘In our veins’ She wished to say.

Jon’s gaze softened with empathy, but his words fell like a headsman’s axe. “Yes.”

Dany turned and swiped a silver chalice from the table where they had taken tea, spilling its contents across the pale stone floor. She took a breath, massaging her reddened hand. “Then, I suppose if the progeny of Rhaegar Targaryen must live in infamy–” Her voice shrank to a whisper. 

“That isn’t why, and you know it!” Jon yelled, fighting the fury that tightened in his chest. “You know it!” His voice cracked, edged with desperation. “We are heads of a deposed house, Dany! We swore allegiance to the very man who overthrew our family, and his son is now King! If we–” 

He halted abruptly, the faint rustle of fabric betraying his nervous fingers as they toyed with the dragon badge adorning his surcoat. Dany had commissioned it for him, a symbol of their shared legacy, yet she sensed his lingering ambivalence toward embracing his lineage entirely. The notion gnawed at her heart, each reflection leaving a tender ache.

“And I thought I was the one skilled in politics.” she whispered, straining to hold back tears. He spoke sense, yet she tired of heeding counsel at the expense of her legacy, of carrying the weight as a tyrant’s daughter. She wearied of defending Daemon Blackfyre, whose kindness to her nieces couldn't cleanse his hands of the blood he spilled, surpassing even her father's.

Can you not see, my love? 

"Mace Tyrell confided in me once," Jon remarked with a scoff, "said he aspired to be Aerys in his youth, as did his eldest son. I thought it a mockery, but looking at our subjects…”

Halfway . She thought, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“Maybe with Daemon gone and Maelys crowned, we can honour the–” He sighed, and she could see his shadow draw near as he enveloped her waist. “The idea of Aerys Targaryen.”

Dany turned and rested her head against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat. “Sansa might see the political headache that would be.” She whispered.

“She’ll make a fine queen.” Jon murmured as he caressed her back, sending shivers down her spine. “And perhaps so, but we’ve half a coast to govern, and,” He drew in a deep breath. “you are right, Daenerys.” 

The people of Myr had not taken well to the removal of one of Aerys’ statues, and several builders paid with their lives in response. Whatever he was to the Seven Kingdoms, erasing his glories would be impossible among the freedmen of Essos. 

‘Much as I hate the man for what he did to our family, we cannot deny our lineage.'

“We do not yet know if Daeron is truly gone, my love. Even if that is the case, we are not all lost.” She whispered and placed a kiss on his neck, changing the subject.

Jon tensed slightly. “Aye, Elbert Arryn and much of his host survived. But if Daeron is not dead, where in the hells is he?” 

One king lost, another chained to his throne. She thought solemnly. 

Lord Robert had been most wroth at the crowning of Maelys. Dany recalled the Lord of Storm's End pounding his fist upon the council table, his voice thundering through the chamber.

‘Where are Aegos and Maelos? Did one of them descend into Castamere to submit himself? Where are the Kingmaker Dragons? Where is the sword of kings? The boy is not dead, I say!’ 

No one dared to dissect the unspoken implications. 

‘Nor are my son and gooddaughter!’

Lord Robert spoke true, yet neither Dany nor Jon were certain that such symbols would hold weight in the face of an absent king, much less a hostage. “Do you know what he told me?” Jon asked her suddenly. “The last time we spoke, ‘ere we parted ways?”

“No.” She replied. 

“That he thought you’d make as fine a Queen as he would a King.”

She laughed and nuzzled further into him. “Indeed?”

“Aye.” Jon whispered as he laid a soft kiss upon her head. 

Dany sighed and gently disentangled herself from her husband’s embrace. With a tender touch, she clasped his hand in hers, guiding him toward one of their chamber’s many balconies. 

In view of the mighty Rhoyne below, they stood in quiet communion. The gentle touch of autumn’s breeze played with Dany’s hair as they gazed upon the five imposing silhouettes adrift in the river’s calm waters.

“So, do you reckon Shrike will dare challenge Winter once more?” Dany asked, her lips curling into a wry grin as she steered their conversation away from darker matters.

Jon laughed as an autumn breeze passed through their windows, setting some of the lighter tapestries to dance.

Shrike caught wind of her sister's presence and charged forth with fury. 

“Stay away from me now, as you have my entire life” her silent message seemed to echo, as the ivory and crimson dragon, serene as a placid lake, locked eyes with her jade-hued counterpart, conveying both implacability and understanding in equal measure.

The Shrike had advanced, while Winter held her ground. Though she was strong, the dragon was not as patient as her Northern sister. Winter jumped to the side, just out of reach from snapping jaws. 

The jade titan followed up with a swipe of her wing, grazing Winter’s neck enough to draw blood. Shrike kept up her barrage, gnashing her teeth in raw fury against her sibling’s relatively calm demeanour.

The Shrike angrily shot a gout of flame into the sky, and lunged forward with a swipe of her claw. But despite her relentless assault, The Queen of the North maintained her composed posture, awaiting the opportune moment to strike back.

And strike back she did.

Shrike had no time to recover from her latest attack when a resounding crack shattered the air, and the terror of the Dothraki Sea stood stunned– snuffling and grunting as if she were sneezing, Dany thought. 

Winter reprimanded her with a tail whip on the nose, employing the same disciplinary measure she used with younger dragons. All the while, she gazed at her leviathan of a sister with a gaze as tranquil as a dragon could muster.

In the ensuing calm, only the gentle rustle of the breeze could be heard, as Winter silently challenged her adversary to continue the confrontation.

Dany stood in awe as the dragons' snouts met in a tender moment, their combined smoke mingling in the air. One of the most violent dragons in the known world had finally acknowledged her sister. 

Jon gestured out to the Rhoyne, where Retaxes , Seasmoke , Morning , and Seasnake bathed in the serene waters. His gaze settled on the sapphire and orange-hued colossus, lazily floating its feathered back in the river’s embrace. Larger than any living dragon, it exuded a primal majesty that was both captivating and fearsome, its beauty transcending mortal comprehension.

“It seems Shrike’s curiosity is piqued by our new companion.” Jon remarked. “At present, I think she’s more concerned about Shenron than her sister.”

Dany held no fear of Shenron, but a tempered regard for the immense creature that seemed to command respect with his very presence. More than once, she noticed Shrike glancing in their direction, as if asking for permission to test the ancient Wyrm’s power. 

I can’t say I blame her, I can scarce believe he’s real, much less his size . Dany thought, reaching up to brush her fingers against Jon’s cheek. Bran may not be the little brother I once knew, but in the ways that truly matter, he remains unchanged. 

“If word of this gets back to Rickon, well, our youngest brother is not to be outdone.”

Jon feigned a shiver and shook his head. “He’ll tame a Leviathan, mark my words.” 

Dany’s brow knit with concern for the little Lord of the Dreadfort. “Has a warg ever managed such a feat before?” 

Jon’s eyes narrowed as he stared into the distance. “Never.” 

Here they stood, in a city wrought by their forebears, where arcane wonders and scientific marvels intertwined– a place where legends clashed from the oldest days to their own.

Surrounded by living fables.

But she’d trade it all to see her Quiet Wolf’s smile once more.

********************

A Hound among Mares

***************

“What do you think they’re doing in there?” Quellon asked the lad with the golden hair of Lannister that everyone said was the color of spun gold or some other shit. To him, it always looked the kind of ale at a tavern where a groat would get you rat meat, a row with the innkeep’s randy wife, and ale that looked like badly painted gold and tasted like piss.

The lad had those green and gold eyes as well; as he quaffed the sorry excuse for brandy these sister fucking-half Valyrian Turtle Worshipping, ponce Knight fuckers of Volon Therys distilled the man once again wondered why anyone would find that attractive, emerald framed in gold he’d once heard that lecherous old hypocrite Grand Maester Pycelle describe it. ‘who the fuck wants to look at a woman’s eyes and see a fucking piece of jewelry? Damn, Lannisters had their look, aye, but so did the Valyrians, and they were half-reptile and all mad.

Out in the river, an eerie howl caused the water to ripple, and Summer and Ghost peaked up from where they were lazing on the balconies to look down. “It’s just the fucking turtle again, the big one…”

Big was an understatement; the bastard was almost as wide as Winter’s Wingspan.  The Rhoyne was huge; on a good day, you could see lights from Sar Mell. But the blasted thing was still half a league-wide and looked more like an ocean than a river at times; the fact that such a massive beast could conceal itself easily in its immensity made him hate the damn thing.

And yet, at night, he could hear it sing, and it stilled some of the fury he had in his heart. “Are ya gonna piss yerselves every time a fucking turtle breaches? Direwolves hah!”

Astoundingly, both direwolves seemed chastened by his remarks, though the albino called Ghost snapped at him lightly, a warning to mind his tone that he reciprocated with a feral grin of his own. He liked Ghost, pretentious as the fucker could be at times, just like his master and friend. And oddly, Ghost seemed to enjoy his company as well.

Summer was good company, as was the little shit with the thousand eyes and none. Two of the bitches in Summer’s pack had taken to following him around, men called him The Hound, and he had red and black guard hounds now. Not that Sandor of House Clegane minded being called a hound; hounds were loyal, and hounds were true.

Men turned a blind eye when your elder brother held your face to a brazier, and men ignored you when you told them only to save your life and leave the scars.

He still had some, much as he might curse that bastard in gray Luwin, but he had skin over his bone and muscle now rather than before where it was not but yellowed bone. Fucking Starks, rage had driven him all his life, rage and hate and vengeance, and in one fateful battle, Tormund fucking Giantsbane and Ned “Honorable Diamond Wearing Ponce.”  Stark killed his brother and cooled his hate. It took me five bloody years to figure out what the fuck to do with myself after that. He had a bastard that was legitimized and ruled Clegane Keep, or at least he assumed it was his bastard.

The woman showed up with a boy of eight, who was already five feet tall. At first, he thought it was Gregor’s as both of them had laid with her. But if Serwyn Hill was the bastard of the Mountain that Rides, then the Gods were laughing their useless fucking asses off at it. The lad was gentle, gentle like his sister, gentler even, and he treated his men as he treated his hounds, like bloody precious jewels.

The lad was Ser Serwyn Clegane now, legitimized and ruling lands Sandor wanted nothing to do with. The lad must have done something useful, though, for Lord Tywin ennobled him and tripled his lands, even found him a Lannister bastard to wed.

We murder for you for two generations, and you give us nothing but grief, but the lad smiles, and you hand him a fortune.

Fuck all the Lannisters not of Pyke.

His mind wandered back to Ned Stark, and Tormund “never shuts up.” He thought it truly comical that a bunch of Northron heathens who rejected the Seven and thus Knighthood acted more chivalrous in the sack than a thousand Knights he knew.

They were Knights of a sort… He later learned, as both counted Sachamar as a title, that primitive ass backward relic of the era of the mounted horse when men rode bareback and lived in mud huts and called long straw and pine houses halls. Now I serve a Lannister Ponce and his Blind hedge wizard of a Lord.

“Cur!” barked the Dothraki bitch who was spymaster to Bran, slender but with size in all the right places, a daughter of Khal Bharbo, men had the habit of calling her a Princess and in a gesture to bridge East and West together. Lord Brandon had evoked a Dothraki custom and formally adopted Irri into his House. She was a lesser member of House Stark now, bound by name and oath to her “elder brother,” who was three years younger than she. Princess Daenerys had made her one of the spymasters of the East as well, not a bad ascent for a girl who’d been disowned as a child, even as her elder brothers began to beat their banners for war.

Disowned but not slaughtered to remove rivals for the male heirs of Great Khal Bharbo, who had changed Dothraki law to allow women to rule Khalassars if they were strong enough to seize them. Not the Dothraki way , Sandor thought, and he wondered if her half-brothers didn’t care for her in some capacity more than he did. “What is it, horse slut?” Sandor bit back; it was customary for them to trade barbs, and if truth be told, neither one of them put much venom in it. Stupid….

“You so big but have ears so small.” She rolled her eyes and gestured towards Quellon. “Your Khal speaks to you, idiot dog!”

He knew that, but he’d bloody well answer the son of Tyrion Lannister when he pleased, not by the brat's leave. Sandor Clegane had a younger sister once; she’d taken her own life by casting herself into a well to escape the ravages of their brother. He never had a younger brother, but there were times when that annoying boy of ten namedays felt like one. Probably the Sea Bitch’s plan. Sandor thought ruefully; the realm entire credited Tyrion Lannister with his genius, but the cunning of Asha Greyjoy, Lady of Pyke and mother to Lannisters, was oft underestimated.

From the moment he swore the customary oaths, she had a strange glint in her eye. “my sons will need a mentor.” She’d said. “A brother of deck and sail, your time isn’t done yet.”

That had been a queer thing to say, queerer still that it hit him with the same ferocity Lord Robert hit Syrax’s skull with. And then he realized he had come to Pyke to die.

Of course, neither the blasted imp nor the beak-nosed bitch of Pyke would ever let anything go easily.

Quellon Lannister was seated on the parapet wall, one foot dangling two hundred feet down and the other safely on marble. He and Lord Maric were playing a game of Cyvass; the smuggler’s son wore green silk, a fine cotehardie with Lannister gold silk depicting his onions, and a fine velvet surcoat with silver damask patterns around its plackets, fastened with a gold brooch about the neck.

In contrast to the boy of ten namedays, a boon companion of Ser Loras and the hedge wizard Stark. The lad might have had the Lannister look, but he had his mother’s nose and skin that was almost a Dornish copper. “I asked what you thought they were doing in there? 

“If the Blind Lord didn’t tell you, the fuck makes you think he told me?”

 “He can hear you, you know.” Lord Maric remarked, causing Quellon to laugh as Sandor roared, “Hedge wizard wolf!” at the top of his lungs.

The little shit was probably getting a laugh out of it.

Sandor, who grew up around hounds, lived with them, slept with them, and would probably start breeding them in time, had a fair idea of just how potent the senses of Brandon Stark were. Better than any man save Ser Loras he’d wager.

“Fool dog, he ask you what you think, not what you know.”

Sandor gave a growl and a shrug and Summer let out a growl of his own as if to agree with Sandor’s “I don’t do much of that, terrible habit” shrug.

With a shake of her head, the Stark of the plains rose and walked towards him. “I fetch us lunch, then we go on patrol, yes?”

“Yes.” Quellon agreed, still eager to prove to her that the Ironborn were as ballsy and brainless as any Dothraki.

Irri gave a nod, set a hand on Sandor’s shoulder, and gave a squeeze.

He didn’t know why the gesture made him sweat or why he enjoyed such things from her so much.

Bloody stupid.

********************

The Crossing.

***************

“Who goes there?” Came the shrill cry from up on high rather than the Towerhouse Keep that his Great-Grandsire’s Household Guard used to take inventory of just who was standing before the great oak and iron doors that now loomed before him on the gravel road that led into the one of the sturdiest Castles in the Seven Kingdoms.

Two castles on man made islands, hewn out of the very shoreline of the Green Fork, the only place to move armies, goods, and supplies through the realm as the Kingsroad grew treacherous the closer one moved to the Neck. Tall, rising some two hundred and fifty feet from the river, rectangular, and designed to dispel any force that dared to invest them, the Twins stood as a monument to House Frey, its ingenuity, strategic value, and wealth.

Lights from the port town on the southern bank of the Green Fork could be seen as the sun rose dimly on the eastern horizon. Fewer and fewer… He realized not that the gold and goods ever stopped flowing, particularly with all his cousins and bastard kin closing down other routes through the rivers, forming a choke point that directed all the commerce of the realm that needs must pass North through the Riverlands into the canals and parts of the rivers controlled by House Frey.

Sometimes, the lack of subtlety in his Great-Grandsire’s schemes irked him as much as it did his Father. “Edwyn Frey, you goat fucking pillow boy!” he roared with a heavy sigh. “Open these bloody gates in the name of your Grandsire, you wretch!” Is that Uncle Tytos?

There was a pause, and then he heard a clang as someone slapped him over his mailed head.

Definitely Uncle Tytos.

Edwyn Frey, Knight of the Crossings (Though he had never once jousted, benighted honorifics!) sneered when the gates at last opened, and when he rode past the Towerhouse, he grunted in disdain at the noises coming from within. Amerei at it again it seems… He hoped at least, this time, she was lying with a Sellsword and not kin. Uncles Walder, Tytos, and at least one Grand Uncle had been at her. Was Tytos a Grand Uncle? Edwyn decided it mattered little as he walked through the immense oak doors.

His fucking family, two scores and ten out of Lord Walder’s brood and nearly half of them with broods of their own, and then there were those descended from Great-Grandsire’s brothers and cousins though a hundred of them had joined the Citadel and the Faith. Another hundred had taken the Black and the endless myriad of kin in the Crownlands.  Roslin’s middle son shall inherit Rosby. Not that it did them any good, but the Barrow Starks had little and less love for House Frey owing to Roslin herself poisoning their ears with how cruel, lusty, and immoral so many of her kin were.

Black Walder ought not have tried to defile her.

But there were other places; many Castles and Houses would be usurped by Frey's offspring in time, one of the many schemes his Great-Grandsire enacted in his life.   Success after success, and yet it was never enough for the eternally slighted Lord of the Crossings and the game they were playing now?

****************

Grandsire met him after he’d bathed and dressed for Great-Grandsire desired none of his brood to “smell like dust worn heralds and town criers” even though quite a few of them were little more than that.

Stevron Frey is heir to the Twins and a man as old as many of the dead in Lichyards throughout the Seven Kingdoms. He wore a dark blue velvet doublet and, ‘neath it, a fine cotehardie of linen dyed a lighter blue, and his silk robes were silver or at least the first layers, neath they were cotton robes. He looks cold, and he looks old. A troubled and careworn face that lamented the malice of his sons and the ambition of his grandsons and a resignation that shamed Edwyn of House Frey to a degree he doubted it shamed his brothers. “Must you indulge him, Edwyn?”

Like many a member of House Frey (himself included.), his eyes were weepy; a pestilence of the eyes had been going around the Twins for half a century now, and it was not like to cease any time soon. “Of course, I must, Grandsire; he is our Lord and progenitor.” The heir of the Twins might be able to speak so out in the open, but the heir of the heir’s heir could do no such thing. And in truth, if my mission was entrusted to Hosteen, or Gods forbid one of Grand Uncle Emmon or Aenys brood.

There were Freys, and then there were Freys , the brackets of uncles and cousins and nephews and nieces too numerous to count who could foul up something as simple as lacing up a jerkin if given the opportunity. Most of which are off with Black Walder, Merrett and Walder Rivers. Most of whom would probably be butchered by their foes the moment that battle, any battle was joined. Were Great-Grandsire a Lannister, he’d mayhap believe that was by design. Unless Lame Lothar concocted that little maneuver.  Lame Lothar was all manner of vile, and that he and Aenys were helping Lord Walder with this scheme made him worry all the more.

Mercifully, Grandsire did not press the issue; all about them in the immense Castle, servants, stewards, cousins, spies, and myriad others scuttled about. The twins, it was said, never slept, and the Freys in the Water Tower did not but sleep with each other, with sweet water seals and otters and anything else.

Rays of sunlight began to cut through the stained-glass windows of the upper levels of the Northern Tower by the time they made their way towards the preferred solar of the Lord of the Crossings, one where “My best bastards were sired.” As he often said.

Lord Frey was seated there, wrapped in layers upon layers of blankets. At three and ninety, Walder Frey was a gouty mess, wracked with aches and pains, yet his newest Lady Wife stood beside him, a sorrowful look upon her face, a face that only Walder Frey could ignore for the rest of her. Thunder rumbled in the distance as autumn storms resumed their siege of the lands, and Lame Lothar sought nearer to the bookshelves, filled with books that were mostly salacious and perverse. Betwixt two lamps, he leaned, the shadows obscuring much of his visage as though he were a villain in a mummery.

“Ahh, Which Rivers are you?”

He confuses me for a bastard yet again  

“I’m Edwyn, son of Ryman- son of- “

 Lord Walder waved him off with a handy as skeletal as it was liver-spotted. “The one I sent to House Haigh?”

“Aye.” 

“Fah! My own vassals, and I must resort to bribery to get those miserable cunts to move!” he snorted, and it turned into a cough that tensed Edwyn’s nerves.  Don’t die yet, you hateful old twat! “I managed it cheaply enough; two villages added to their domains and half a thousand acres, deferment on taxes for a quarter of a harvest.”

“Yes, yes, I am sure that once I die at one hundred and twenty, if you aren’t dead then and or killed in this war, you shall make a splendid and just Lord…Now sit, boy , sit and tell me what else has been happening in my domains!”

How goes the war he means.  

Edwyn leaned back, and a serving girl with an all too Frey-like face brought him hot ale with a pinch of lemon and some peppers from the Summer Islands. “And bring us some trout well-seasoned, tis a cold morning, and old men ought to break their fast and clear their chest at a stroke.”

Grandsire chuckled whilst the mighty Lord of the Crossings grumbled about the cost of spices as if House Frey didn’t control the second-largest store in the Seven Kingdoms. Owing to piracy in part, good trade in others. When Grandsire inherited the Twins, a full half of their wealth might dry up, for he had little love for his sire’s forbearance toward knavery.

Lord Walder leaned back; his eyes shifted to Joyeuse Erenford, his new Lady Wife, and his frail hand moved with sudden swiftness as it blurred from within the blankets to switch her across the backside. “You, go fetch Myrah and Meria, eh? I’ve need of a hot bath and a stew.”

Edwyn hoped the poor Lady would not be forced to participate in those escapades again. When the poor lass stepped out, Edwyn Frey let out a sigh and reached for a drako from a box ‘pon his great-grandsire’s table. “Saera Snow crossed the neck with twenty bog devils .”

“Who?”

“Bastard half-sister of Lord Auryn.” Commented grandsire. 

“Eh heh, if she has as nice a pair of tits as her grandmother, Lord Auryns got his hands in that pail.” Lord Walder lit up a drako himself and took a long, deep drag, saliva dribbling down his frail features as he did so. “Outriders then?”

“Twenty Crannogmen, a hundred Barrow Knights, only two giants and young ones at that with juvenile mammoths and twenty riders bearing the Aetheryon colors, with beasts,” Edwyn added the last part silently, for he knew if twenty wargs were visible, at least another two score were loose in the countryside. 

House Frey had made all the correct moves expected of a vassal loyal to either side; it had secured chain booms and holdfasts along the river, and its navy had shadowed the foemen while lending aids to victims of Sunfyre piracy.

And all the while, it had waited patiently for both sides to bring their powers to bear. Rather than a repeat of the Blackfyre rebellion, he supposed it was a new flavour of cowardice for House Frey.

Better than arriving late to a naval battle and losing ten thousand men to wildfire and an irate dragon.

Edwyn still bore the scars of that battle upon his back; Daena Tully had cursed them for cowards and lit up a column of flame behind them, cutting off their retreat and forcing them to engage the remnants of the royal fleet.

The first battle of Maidenpool had been an unmitigated disaster for both sides, with two and thirty thousand dead and House Frey earning the sobriquet “the late Lords. This time, they would not be called cravens for their acts of cowardice and naked opportunism it seemed.  

But wargs loose in the Riverlands, do they know? 

Great-Grandsire must have sensed his thoughts, for in the midst of the smoke, he laughed a low laugh. “ehh heh-heh, you got the smarts, but your brothers inherited all the balls, I see. Those wargs, if they can be relied upon, are here to march south to the fool Riverlords who openly defy Hoster Tully, that scheming snake of a Riverman.”

As opposed to a scheming weasel then? He knew well their reputation. I wonder how many of those Lords are acting on the mistaken belief that we shall lend our powers to theirs. “Grandsire, just what is Lord Tywin offering that makes this treachery so enticing?”

“Treachery?! Heh! Piss on that, the Tullys are no better than us! But when the dragons came, the first thing Aegon did was throw a few cousins of his at Riverrun and strengthen the power of his House! He turned them into a bastion of royal power and spat in the face of your namesake!” Walder reached out, gripping an ancient riding crop, and shoving it forward, tapped Edwyn upon his face. 

“Toll Keepers and Bargemen they call us, fah! As if Riverrun doesn’t collect dues of its own! Sitting as it does on the Redfork and the Tumblestone! All the gold of the West flows through their halls, but do you hear anyone say anything? Fah!” 

He tossed the crop aside, and to Edwyn’s shock, it splintered in twain.

His Great-Grandsire regarded the splintered pieces on the desk, lantern light flickering upon his features, the index finger and thumb of his right hand rubbed together as though he were clinking invisible coins, a nervous tick of the old letch whenever he got in his emotions. “Belonged to my grandsire that, half Staunton he was.” He seemed almost sad for a flicker of a moment, and then he waved it off. “Bah, we got our weasel looks from his mother, fuck him.” 

Turning back, he eyed Grandsire and Edwyn, eyes cold and hard and full of malice, the remote man he’d known all his life who made his brood compete for food they could easily afford, fight for space in Castle Towers that were some of the largest in the realm and inform on each other in an endless sea of misery. 

All the while ensuring each and every one of them was provided for when it was needed the most. Lord Walder understood family; his Grandsire did as well, but neither his Father nor brothers did, and Edwyn was resolved to ensure this war would be their last.

Lame Lothar spoke for the first time, seemingly sensing his thoughts. “Don’t fret, grand-nephew!” he urged with a smile. “You’re about to be disowned!”

Edwyn blinked, a shocked look must have passed through his father for his Grandsire bid they cease this torture at once.

“Well, you can’t bloody rule the Twins, Riverrun and the Riverlands.”  Walder remarked and then laughed as Edwyn asked if Lord Hoster might object to his new ascent.

“Heh! By this time next year every Tully in Riverrun and Harrenhal shall be dead! We’re doing away with the lot of them, Lord Gaemon ensured his doom the moment he impugned Tywin Lannister’s courage and Hoster? Feh fuck that meddlesome merchant, his dragons blood and all the rest of his brood! ” Great-grandsire banged his fist down upon the table, startling him with its ferocity.

“W-won’t Robb Stark object to the unceremonious murder of his Grandsire? Him, his dragon, his Lady Wife’s dragon, his brother and his dragon and his Uncle Edmure and his ?” Edwyn queried with a tone that he did his best to keep from sounding horrified.

“He does have us at a distinct strategic disadvantage.” Concede Lame Lothar, a flippancy in his tone that matched the bounce in his one good leg as he limped to fetch himself some rum.

“I am no master of war, but several dragons and the second largest host in the Seven Kingdoms…does present a challenge for one House.” Admitted Edwyn, failing utterly to bleed out the disdain in his voice. 

Madness, this is utter madness…

Lord Walder’s smile twitched into something cadaverous and cruel, old and mottled and monstrous. “Ehh heh, heh do you not recall your histories? Nor did you see the ships that arrived from King’s Landing bearing the seal of the Alchemist’s Guild ere you left?”

No! 

“Dragons...” Lame Lothar began. “Burn when the fire is hot enough.”

Mother’s Mercy! They’ve gone mad!

********************

The Sunset Wolf

**************

There were times when he was grateful for the music of the Rhoyne.

The river sang to the Septs and the Red Temples;  the Septs sang back, and the Red God’s night fires swayed with the river’s song. The Weirwood sapling spoke, too, in the wind that rushed through its boughs and leaves.

For all his senses, Bran regretted that he could not understand the words of the Old Gods. Still, their speech soothed him, and when he attuned himself to their ebb, and flow, the deluge of senses that usually assaulted him ebbed away too - if only a little.

Bran remembered what his senses had been like, before he fell - nay, was thrown . The Kingslayer had not only taken his sister in the Valyrian way; he’d lost all honour in the act. Bran remembered - it was hard not to.

He did not know what he could do about it. There was enough Valyrian blood - marriages with House Velaryon a millennia ago - in the Kings of the Rock to account for it, certainly.

The Queen and the King had been famously at odds. Still, her infidelity would not only bring Tommen’s legitimacy into question - it would harm the rights of even the presumably trueborn children as well.

There would be a Kingsmoot - and with half the realm to the winds, it would be the perfect excuse to put up a puppet king.

Such matters and worse he dwelt on, as the day wore on and the sun’s heat ebbed away.

Come evening, the gentry and nobility in Volon Therys retreat to their manses and estates. Those who dwell in the city would favour readying themselves for a bit of nighttime fun, while lumber boats appear on the horizon - headed for the dockside lumber yards, no doubt. Porters and teamsters would be hard at work soon, to unload the timber that the factors and merchants haggle over.

Ser Belwas would have the City Watch readying their nightly patrols, and no doubt he’d be shouting at his squire, Martyn Strong, to fetch him some liver and onions.

The stink of fresh fish and bloody meat wafted through the city from the night markets. In his mind’s eye, Bran could see the spices drifting against each other; great waves enmeshing the Legate’s tower in a conflagration of reds and blues and greens, lilacs and a hundred shades of orange.

A city never truly sleeps, as Father had once said.

Then again, Father did not sleep, either. He was… coiled upon himself - more serpent than wolf, from what Bran could tell. Warden’s mind was familiar to him, but the direwolf thought in impression and feeling. What he felt, Bran could see , and what he smelt Bran could hear , and what he heard, Bran could feel .

Footfalls echoed on the spiral servant’s stairs from the east, behind the walls; light footfalls borne of a childhood spent ahorse or afoot. The colour of pomegranate and plum was as good as a herald for Bran.

On the main stairs, metal sabatons rang out.  Ser Loras had earned the right to be at this gathering of kin - he was almost a brother to Bran regardless. It’d be good to have him at my side, when I break the news.

Grandmother had refused to listen, anyway.

His guards pushed in the wooden doors, and the painted dragons gave way before the man. Irri and Jhiqui both smiled at the Knight of the Flowers, and inquired after the pillow-boy they’d sent him - predictably turning him into a blushing boy himself.

Essosi blase towards such matters never failed to amuse Bran - he could hear his knight’s heartbeat quickening, and stifled his giggles. Irri and Jhiqui, alas, did not bother to do so.

“Are you certain you wish to do this, my Lord?” Loras asked. He knew how overwhelming a man’s sudden presence could be for Bran; he’d taken up the habit of tapping the hilt of his sword, to help ground his squire into the here and now.

And Bran was grateful for it; else he’d be contemplating the polish of his cuirass - or worse, the smell of tanned leather.

“You’d take up my offer, then?” Bran asked. He’d granted Loras Sarhoy, along with the title of Warden of the Bay - charged with protecting the inlets, estuaries, and bays at the mouths of the Rhoyne’s delta.

A nod to the origins of House Tyrell as formidable Andal adventurers who were first brought to the Mander to fight Ironborn and overcome the champions of Houses who would dare threaten Gardener Hegemony. That all changed when Gareth Tyrell became heir, after a Greyskull ax split his brother in twain.

By a subtle folding noise, Bran knew Ser Loras was smiling. “Tyrells were once adventurers who spread the will of the Gardner Kings - I would find it no onerous duty to do so in your name!” He paused, and Bran knew he was deciding how to word his thoughts, by the subtle humming of his throat.

“I do admit, the marriage contract gave me pause, til I saw the sigil attached to it - I…” Bran could not help but see the odours emanating from his body change before his eyes. Ser Loras in an ocean of colour -

Worse, he knew why Ser Loras hesitated. The Essosi Durrans were castellans of the Admiral’s Palace in Sarhoy - on behalf of House Targaryen, to the extent that they’d fought against the Rebellion, in Aerys’ name.

Bran could not be seen to elevate such men. But I can place their blood on the seat of Sarhoy, for saving Uncle Brynden’s life in the Battle of Maidenpool.

Thankfully, it would be a marriage of convenience at the least, for Lya Durran held as much interest in men as Ser Loras did in women. From what Bran knew, they’d bonded over the… idea of children, at least. “Your line will need true-blooded children. A daunting obstacle, but -”

“Sex is for making babies, fucking is for love, it is known,” Irri murmured, and Ser Loras almost turned pink.

Still, that broke the tension more effectively than anything Bran could have said. Loras laughed, albeit woodenly, and said, “I know my duty.”

Bran nodded. His Knight walked over and hugged him tight enough to hurt, but he did not mind.

********************

The Mother of Wolves

**************

In the lengthening shadow of the Black Walls, Rhaella was immersed in memory. Those walls have seen much.

The Blackfish earned much honour at Valysar, as did Ser Barristan the Bold and the White Bull. But Rhaella could not see that day as anything but a dark stain - on the honour of the Seven Kingdoms entire! - for what the Skagosi wrought.

The taking of Volon Therys, she could be proud of. Countless poison-tipped scorpion bolts darkened the sky before her very eyes. She and Winter had soared straight into the tempest.

Their adversaries had revealed a terrible Yi-Tish thing – wooden dragons they were called, Rhaella had learned later - forged of metal, and unleashing thunder upon the battlefield.

Winter had consumed it with her ivory flames, but its noise alone had nearly broken their host.

Her darling Rickard and young Tygett Lannister, a scamp of ten namedays, had fought like demons. The Greatjon and the formidable fleets of Blackfyre and Manderly had joined them, and together, they had purged the Rhoyne of its Volantene Sellsails.

Suikozu, the Master of the Band of Seven wielded his blade with exquisite skill - only in knights like Barristan had Rhaella seen its par.

Gods! She thought, recalling the battle between Ser Barristan and Prince Suikozu. Tales whispered of Suikozu as the mightiest swordsman of the East, if not the entire world. His blade, they claimed, was the very wind incarnate.

Yet, there stood Barristan the Bold, facing him upon the inner wall in a duel that bards and poets would make immortal.

Their clash held both armies spellbound.

And when the dust settled, it was Ser Barristan who emerged triumphant, his blade finding its mark in Suikozu's heart. His victory marked the war's end in the Westerosi’s favour. The Band of Seven shattered after Suikozu’s death, and with them, the power of the remaining Free Cities.  

Now, at the gates of the Black Walls, where they had duelled stood towering statues of Suikozu and Ser Barristan - sixty feet high and mighty, and drawing the eye of every visitor.

The wind whispered softly through the air, stirring the Red Dragon and Grey Wolf banners .

My Houses . Bound by blood and birth, by the pains of motherhood and its joys, by trial by combat, and sacred vows.

Rickard had two daughters my age, baseborn Arya and Ursa.  His Arya had been a gentle girl, a doting older sister to her babes.

Ursa, on the other hand, possessed a wild spirit, fierce and unyielding. In the war against The Emperor in the East and the Band of Seven, the warg of two and ten had faced Varamyr the Beastmaster in a contest of wills so ferocious, that it left scores of animals lifeless.

Rhaella had been knighted barely a ten days’ horse-ride from this very balcony by old Jon Arryn himself. Dame Rhaella, he had dubbed her; Knight of the Skies , amidst the corpses of eight and eighty thousand slave soldiers. 

They called me a hero for that battle - yet were it not for Ursa, Varamyr’d have murdered us in our sleep.

Ursa had been slain by the wretch, Euron Crow's Eye. Dagmar Cleftjaw had killed Rickard’s Arya. Before Rhaella could have her vengeance on him, the war was over - and he’d fallen behind the Imp of Pyke. War or no war, I will tear his heart out one day.

Still, time was running out. She was near five and fifty, and not getting any younger. And there are so many to kill - the times had changed, but that has not.

The sparring yard and petty contest was all well and good - and Sabitha Farwynd gave a good accounting of herself, too! But in her heart, there was still something numb and raw. 

********************

**********

Her grandson’s meals were always a fascinating affair.

His palate had become almost monastic in its austerity - in an attempt to ward off certain sensations - and in others, he was as ravenous as any Manderly. He hungered for meat, and shunned cream.

But now, she could smell the gravies, duck sauces, lemon and wine sauces, and spices all the way from the door.

There were buckets of crabs; crawfish meat brazed in butter, rabbits boiled in milk with saffron and paprika; the dumplings Volon Therys was famous for, and hot soups favoured by the Rhoynish and the Stormlanders. All of it laid out on separate round tables - an Essosi custom for dining amongst peers, unlike in Westeros, where the Lord sat at the head of the table.

About them hung the banners of his vassals, and tapestries of Triarchs and their victories - beside depictions of the glorious duels of the Blackfish, of Ser Barristan the Bold, and Gerold Hightower, the White Bull felled by Aerion Aetheryon in Summerhall.

Beside Bran were seated Daenerys and Jon. They’d both had taken to the fashions of their city like a fish to water - a mixture of East and West. And there was Ser Loras, yet bearing her Valyrian sword.

Rhaella was announced, and slid in as gracefully as she could, as Dany continued her tale of the time Robb had dared her to venture into the Crypts of Winterfell, and brave the ghosts below.

She’d fond memories of when she’d been similarly baited - when Winterfell was still new to her. The crypt keepers had a fearsome reputation amongst the youngsters, but they were meticulous and their work sacred.

Daenerys, little Sansa, and baby Bran had knocked over torches - and managed to destroy the nose of a beloved stewards’ bust, centuries old - in their flight from the crypts.

“He gives me this look, frowns solemnly, and says,” Daenerys wheezes, pausing for dramatic effect, “‘Edwyn Poole has lost his nose before, sweet one; 'tis what plaster is for.’”

********************

***************

Jon banged his knuckles on the fine wood. “Gods, we should have invited Elbert and Robert!” He said, wiping some gravy from the side of his mouth. “I’d have loved to hear stories of when he was a boy.”

“They have a royal army to mend, and both grieve in their own ways,” Rhaella asserted. “Why, I’m told Lord Robert gave you a right thrashing -”

Jon broke out in a sudden fit of coughing, that had Dany rubbing his back in commiseration and handing him a pitcher of water, while Rhaella watched good-naturedly. “Food down the wrong pipe?”

“Aye,” Jon coughed out, breaking off the leg of a capon, which was promptly stolen out of his hand by Dany - with a reproving look. She handed him her slices of rabbit, while he stared at the lost leg with a most forlorn air.

Rhaella wondered why neither Cat nor Ned saw just how much they loved each other till they were in their adolescence. No, Cat did - and did everything she could to discourage it. Bah!

“I know he wasn’t my Father, not truly -” Daenerys began, and Rhaella did embrace her then.

She seemed quite overcome for a moment, and so Rhaella turned to Loras to fill in the lull. “Did you ever meet my son?”

“I did, my Princess.” Ser Loras responded with a bright smile, upright as always. “I begged him for the right to take Bran as my squire.”

Ah - somehow I’d forgotten, Rhaella thought ruefully.

“I said,” Loras seemed to look near Bran’s age as he wrestled with the emotions that warred in his heart. “I knew it was not my place, and yet…”

“‘Children are innocent.’” Jon stared into his cup. 

“To Eddard Stark, the best Father us strays could have,” Daenerys said drunkenly, finally gathering herself from Rhaella’s arms with an embarrassed hiccup.

Everyone jumped, as Bran slammed his hands down on the table.

“Squire! It ill befits you to be drunk at a feast!” Ser Loras barked. “Curb yourself!”

“I am not drunk,” Bran swayed as he stood, but his voice was high and clear. “Forgive me, dear family, but you,” His vacant eyes stared at them all, somehow knowing, “misunderstand; what I mean is -”

Rhaella tried to shush the lad. “Bran, dear -”

“- He’s bloody alive! ”

One could have heard a pin drop on the other end of the city in the silence that followed.

“W…what do you mean… Alive? ” Dany asked, tears tracing the edge of her eyes. 

“Cersei Lannister has him in the Black Cells,” Bran said.

The next she knew, Rhaella had struck her grandson with a full-blown slap. “Impudent boy!” She shrieked. “How dare you? I told you, again, and again -”

Bran was looking at his feet, like he’d been dragged to some fearsome punishment by ear, while Jon -

Jon rose from his seat. “I’ve need of your blade, Ser Loras, if you shall suffer it.”

“Not you, too, Jon -” Rhaella began, but Bran shouted over them all -

“ Shenron showed it to me!”

And she knew it for truth, for dragons do not lie.

********************

***************

“I will descend on the Red Keep with the Shrike and tunnel our Father out!” Jon raged.

“ Winter and I shall come with you,” Rhaella spoke. Her voice was hoarse. “Cersei Lannister will suffer for this.”

“You cannot, grandmother -” Bran spoke, his words like a splash of cold water on Rhaella’s flames.

“Oh Bran,” Jon smirked, a twisted grin on his face, “You’ll find I very much can.”

“He wouldn’t want it,” Bran said, eyeing each of them with his sightless eyes. “He won’t be without allies, ” he shifted his feet, “for much longer, and we cannot abandon our duties. Our people need us for what is to come.”

“And since when,” she spoke, her voice a glacial chill, “does duty come over family?”

Brandon Stark had the decency to look ashamed.

Rhaella Stark stared at her grandson long and hard. “Bury your head in the ground if you wish it, grandson.” She turned her back on him, and walked out of the hall, and Jon and Dany followed.

********************

**************

I struck him.

In all her years as a mother and grandmother, she never once struck any of her children or their children.

Rhaella felt as though she was wading through a knee-deep river, and the waters kept rising and rising.

I struck him -

Her feet had taken her to the courtyard and the Godswood therein - but now it was unlike anything she’d ever seen.

At first sight, the thing seemed like a giant maze, hued with blue and bronze and made of so many tiny, jewel-encrusted scales. It coiled and spun upon itself like a Lorathi puzzle, with no end in sight.

And then the walls breathed and shifted up - and she knew.

It was Shenron , the Great Thunderwyrm. The dragon knew she was here. Does he know I slapped his rider?

And yet, as alien as they were - there was no threat in the undulations of the scales, but a silent invitation.

She bid her ever-present shadows wait at the edge of the maze, and passed through. The coils parted before her, and fell upon her passing.

At the centre of the maze - but a short walk away - was the Heart Tree of Volon Therys, and the Wyrm’s head beside it, breathing in slow, deep gusts that rippled through the leaves like waves.

She felt shamed that she would rather look upon the dragon than her Gods, but Rhaella had been born with dragonsblood in her veins. Such things called to her, peril be damned -

But the great Wyrm truly exuded no threat, though she certainly knew it could . It stared at her, waiting.

Rhaella broke her gaze first, and turned her face to the Old Gods.

The face of this Heart Tree was drawn in the likeness of a smiling sleeper, whorls of bark seeming to crinkle like skin. She laid herself in a hollow at its roots, as she had seen the sages do, and closed her eyes -

Gods, she was drowning -

********************

************

- And then she was elsewhere.

The scents hit first– the smell of lichen and moss, pine, cedar, and a myriad of flowering plants found only in the North, Oldtown, and Lannisport.

The gentle swaying son of the old Godswood, the soft whispering sighs of the Ancient Heart Tree, it all surged back.

And there her son was, ‘neath the Heart Tree, as was his custom - polishing a blade to a mirror shine.

What sword is that? Ice was a greatsword, and this weapon was short enough to be a common soldier’s shortsword - if not for its rippled hue. Valyrian steel.

She could not say if this was dream or reality, but her boy heard her anyway.

“I no longer have the right to wield Ice . This blade is nameless - I must know it before I name it, Mother.”

Rhaella could wait no longer - she screamed, and embraced him, and he was as real as she’d ever wanted.

He embraced her back. “I am well, mother. I yet live,” her son said again and again, and she wept and wept enough to drown the world.

********************

**********

“Jon and I are coming for you.”

Her son embraced her all the tighter.

“I’ll be fine, Mother. I am still alive -”

“You were almost dead!” Rhaella roared like the dragon she was, and great gusts of wind blew through the Heart Trees. “Even now, a sword hangs above your neck!”

Her son nodded. “A trap isn’t a trap, if you know it’s there. Wait long enough, and they might spring it on themselves,” he chuckled darkly.

There was a stillness to him, a silent waiting - every ounce of his strength had been walled off, leaving only a pair of gleaming eyes.

“I– not again.” She choked, desperate to feel his warmth once more.

Her son chuckled. “Alas, again, Mother. War again, blood again, and death again. We must endure, and help our pack endure.”

And there, she heard her Rickard again - at his best, when the love he bore his family shone through him, like light through pale ice.

“I’ll be fine, Mother. But promise me -”

She only wept harder.

“- that you will take care of yourself.”

Some cruel, uncaring force ripped her from her son’s arms, and set her adrift into darkness.

Chapter Text

***************

Rough Seas

************

“Row!” The boatswain roared over the splash of the sea. ‘Sevenfinger’ Jack they called the ale-bellied mariner - he’d lost fingers off his left hand in the Greyjoy Rebellion.

The Lady Brienne cut through the surf off the coast of Tarth, steadily surveying the oncoming battle. The vessel was named in honour of his valiant sister, who perished protecting the Lord of Winterfell and Prince Maekar. 

How I long to have you here beside me, dear Brienne.

Ahead, two ships bearing the Greenstone turtle of House Estermont blazed as seafoam rose to claim their broken hulls. 

Ships bearing the sigil of House Whitehead manoeuvred around a Volantene trireme, its helm held by a notorious Lyseni rogue. Estermont and Whitehead, loyal vassals to my esteemed brother-in-law, Gendry. 

Their union had coincided with Lady Catelyn's arrival on Tarth. Now, he stood as a husband to a dragon rider, a title that ought to have brimmed him with delight, yet instead stirred a tempest of apprehension over the wife he might have left behind, embarking into uncertain waters.

And a widow of three and ten, if this battle goes ill.

Rumours had filtered to their ears of a Lyseni armada breaching the waters between the stepstones, encountering staunch opposition from the dwindling Dornish fleet and the stalwart houses of Velaryon at Ironhorse Keep and Bar Eammon of the Stepstones. 

Yet, the true intent of the fleet lay shrouded in deception, a cunning ploy aimed at diverting the attention of the Blackfyre navy and its fractious vassals, ensnaring them in internal discord.

A fleet of forty ships snaked through the Stepstones and sailed straight for Greenstone.

Likely closer to fifty. He was right, of course.

Lord Greystorm had seen the fleet in advance, and his vassals sallied forth to meet this foe even as House Tarth had sent a call to their own banners.

All save Houses Wylde and Mertyns, who redirected part of their fleet to aid the Tullys in the Riverlands, while others have engaged the Tyrells along the coast. Galladon made a note to inform Lady Lysa, and sailed to discover the truth of the matter.  

Treachery or not, it was his forty, Greenstone’s twenty, and Whitehead’s fifteen against fifty vessels laden with sellswords and slave soldiers. A thing that would ordinarily make this an easy triumph save for the fact that the foe had a trio of five decked abominations, sailing ships acquired from the Jade Sea, not of YiTish make– but no less deadly.

Not to mention four galleasses. By comparison, I am commanding garbage scows.

By all rights, this ought to have been a massacre; the superiority of the sailing ships alone eclipsed his vessels, their ballistae outreaching his own. Yet, an unforeseen mutiny erupted aboard one of the vessels, and suddenly, a band of furious men from the Far East redirected the ship, assaulting their own comrades from the rear.

A crack split the air, sharp as the wrath of the gods, sending ripples of panic through Gal's rowers. Lightning streaked the sky, followed by the ominous rumble of thunder. As the ships from The Weeping Town faltered, Gal's fury surged. "Hoist the signal! If they dare ignore us again, turn on them and sink the cravens!"

His men stared mouths agape, uncertainty etched on their faces. "But, M’lord, the ships! They– "

Another deafening roar drowned their protests as a Lyseni flag veered off course, and to the portside, a galleass erupted in a blaze of green flame and gray smoke.

“Wildfire!” someone shouted.

How did they obtain wildfire?

The secret nature of the substance was kept close by the Alchemist Guilds of Westeros, and Daeron I’s edicts ensured it had remained such. 

Gal gripped the railing of the upper deck tightly. If one were caught selling it to foreign powers…

More of his fleet dissolved into the abyss, devoured by the inferno’s relentless hunger. In a crescendo, the burning ship ahead erupted with unfathomable fury. Time itself seemed to stall in the Evenstar’s mind. 

Emerald liquid gushed forth like the lifeblood of the seas, rending the ship as it sank.

************

*********

A sphere of jade death rippled across the water's surface, its lethal embrace consuming first two, then a third of the foreign ships. Yet, what transpired next defied his expectations. The explosion, though anticipated, birthed a colossal wave, its fury dispersing the wildfire in every direction.

Their explosion was to be expected, but what he didn’t expect was for the force to create a wave of such immensity that it scattered the wildfire for a league in every direction. 

Amidst the chaos, the final vessel of the Jade Gates erupted into flames, accompanied by a deafening roar that defied all explanation. 

A fierce gust lashed against The Lady Brienne , yet her flag held strong, while Gal's hands clutched the ship's railing. All oars stilled, and a hush fell over the crew as they beheld the horrific spectacle before them.

“Never seen such a sight.” One sailor remarked, his mouth agape. 

Twenty ships now remained, the Lyseni flag and its sister ship, the sole remaining galleass, began to turn to flee the fires, but he noticed the enemy admiral had the wherewithal to order his remaining ships to regroup. They can still take us!

Gal thrust himself away from the railing and called over his shoulder. “Signal the advance! We strike now!”

The crew stood silently for a moment, still registering the sight before them, before the boatswain echoed his command. “Right, all hands, to your stations! You heard the Lord– MOVE! 

“Drums!” Seven-Fingered Jack bellowed, and the rowers matched the quickening pace of the deep thrums of war. 

The deck crew snapped into action, their movements a symphony of purpose amid the chaos. As the Weeping Town vessels veered towards the enemy, Gal watched in disbelief – a reckless charge into the abyss.

"Seven hells, they've lost their minds," he muttered.

The water began to swirl in as the ruin of the immense vessels began to sink.

The sea churned, swallowing the remnants of the doomed ships, while emerald flames danced in the abyss, casting an eerie glow upon the watery grave below. With a final plunge, the thunderous vessels disappeared into the depths, leaving naught but darkness and dread in their wake.

The lead galleass limped toward the scattered remains of its fleet, battered by debris yet strangely untouched by flames. Its crew scrambled, preparing to unleash a storm of artillery upon their assailants. "Once more unto the breach," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "ROWERS! LEAVE NOTHING ON DECK!" 

The drums picked up speed, and with a determined grip, he unsheathed his blade, raising it high for all to see. "SEIZE THAT BASTARD SHIP!"

As they edged closer into enemy ballista range, a chilling realisation dawned upon him.

They hadn’t loosed.

Suddenly, two skiffs adorned with rams darted into view, only to be engulfed in silver-blue flames in the blink of an eye. The dragon's arrival was met with a chorus of terrified shouts from the men below.

And when Silvermoon swooped towards the Galleass with the sun upon his wings, even he could not see his rider. That’s it, Shiera! Under their ports, where their artillerymen are blind!

With swift precision, Silvermoon unleashed a gout of flame into the first line of scorpions and climbed aboard the vessel to wreak ruin upon the crew. Shiera called out, urging him to turn back. She would know Galladon cared more for the loss of knowledge than the war spoils. And her, I’ve lived with enough death.

Banners bearing the sigil of House Swann unfurled boldly, heralding the arrival of their fleet of longships from Stonehelm. They swiftly closed in, evidently intent on cornering one of the Lyseni dromonds.

Silvermoon descended upon the lead ship, his mighty tail lashing out in a frenzy. Atop his formidable form, Lady Shiera stood poised, emitting a fearsome roar that even her renowned father would admire. With steely resolve, she unleashed dart after dart from her longbow.

She might have detested battle, but she was no less schooled in the ways of war.

One by one, the remaining vessels struck their colors in submission. Gal sheathed his sword and cousin Edwyn clapped him on the shoulder. 

“We won, M’Lord.”

“No,” Gal murmured. “Their own stupidity bested them.” But even he did not believe that. Whatever that horrid sound was, the gaping wounds that tore their ships apart, there is more to come. 

***************

A Blazing Chase

********

‘Two hundred horse and five thousand foot,’ Flement Brax’s words were dulled by his greathelm - an amethyst affair, with a steel unicorn horn. Addam recalled Flement once impaling a man with a single headbutt. 

Addam had seen a real unicorn up north. More goat than horse they were - massive, and very ill-disposed but not very hardy, as he’d found out when the Greatjon had pitted one against a bear in his fighting pits.

Flement Brax, thankfully, was far more even-tempered than the beast of his sigil.  “No sign of dragon or rider,” he hastily added.

Addam raised his visor to drink from his waterskin. Aerax , he supposed, would not confront them head-on, but his incredible speed and incisive precision was enough to instil terror in men.

Lord Tywin had said he had the means to contest the dragons. Addam had yet to see it, and he could not rely on what he could not see. “Recall Chiswyck.”

“Must we?” Ser Flement irritably sighed.

Chiswyck was a seasoned rogue with his band of miscreants, including a notorious raper dubbed ‘Shitmouth’. Lord Tywin had offered them a choice: service to House Lannister as honourless men, or castration - and then execution.

And still, the lot couldn’t wait to descend back to rapine before leaving the Westerlands. "I wager we’ll have to deal with the lot but for a while longer, Ser Flement." Addam urged his horse forward, his cloak billowing in the humid gust. 

Before them sprawled ten thousand foot, four thousand horse, and an additional thousand free riders from the verdant expanses of the Reach. Among them, a motley crew of hedge knights, seasoned sellswords, and sworn men-at-arms from varied houses loyal to Highgarden and the Hightower stood at the ready.

“Smith’s Balls!” Flement Brax spat. “It’s going to fucking rain again, isn’t it?”

Since the reign of Aegon III, the Riverlands and the Westerlands had been at odds over one thing or another in the Lords Council, and as the tensions between the Forwardist Faction and Lord Tywin’s Traditionalist faction mounted.

Then, there was Lord Hoster’s intercession in the Sack. Ser Flement must have been thinking of the past, too, for he seemed eager to dredge up old memories.

“I heard a rumour.” he prodded. “That you and Ser Jaime were friends with Lyanna Stark?”

Addam didn’t bother to deny it - their escapades had been the subject of much court gossip.

“We were close, aye. What greater a trio was there than Robert Baratheon, Eddard Stark and Daemon Blackfyre?” He shrugged and offered Flement some water; politely, the Knight declined.

“You’d be hard pressed to find a man who spoke ill of Ned Stark or Robert Baratheon, aye.” The Unicorn Knight shrugged. “Alas, the same cannot be said of their goodfather, aye?”

***************

*********

After two hours of fighting in the rain, Addam Marbrand recalled his grandfather’s adage: these rivers ran red with blood, and the soil black with murder.

Five thousand foot against ten thousand. Five hundred horse against five thousand - in torrential rain, on near-flooded ground.

His spears were paying in blood for every spear of theirs felled. The other foot was faring better, but the fight was close, and Addam hated fights that had such a toll in Westerman blood. Bloody fools!

The battle had started well enough; Ser Robin led the vanguard, while Addam’s horse advanced behind them, with pikes at the rear. His cousin Willabald Marbrand, ever eager to prove himself, had led the charge– directly into a pit of bloody river water. Worse– the land lay above a burrow of those damnable  river otters, who joined in the chaos.

Two hundred of Robin Ryger’s horse had foundered in the mud, and were torn apart as they landed. But the fool had fed his horses cured basilisk venom to drive them blood-mad, and his lines were now ever closer to the swift-running Tumblestone for it.

From there it had devolved from battle into a… spectacle of blood.

Ser Flement Brax was a cushion of pins, his armour riddled with archers that they had only now managed to dispatch. The Knight of the Unicorn shook his helm and waved his broadsword at the pipers and drummers. “FORMATION! FORMATION, MEN!” he roared.

His men had finally rallied, but the foemen had regrouped as well. Addam ordered his cavalry forward as Ser Flement commanded the shield wall. Men roared, blades struck iron and oak.

If Addam survived, he would gut Ser Robin personally. Serve them well, else my boys are damned and doomed to hell!

He pushed forward, riding with two thousand mounted men, seeking to envelop the remaining footmen of the Riverlands, catching them between horse and shield.

Robin Ryger’s host collided with his own - the impact nearly throwing the bastard from his horse. Worse, Ryger struck home; driving his axe into Addam's shield, wrenching it off so that the strap snapped, and he felt his vambrace slacken -

A pageboy rode forward and tried to thrust a spear into the side of Ser Robin’s mount, but got tackled into the mud -

Addam closed his eyes as he heard the lad being beaten to death -

Addam screamed, and slashed overhead while Ser Robin bashed at him with his shield-arm.

Addam batted the shield away. “Coward! Craven!” he screamed, and smote Ser Robin’s shield in half.

Ashemark's heavy cavalry was breaking the enemy lines, yet he remained surrounded. Damn it all -

Addam thrust his blade just above the fat bastard’s visor, catching him above his right eye. Ser Robin lifted his visor and gurgled a bloody cough.

A rondel to the mouth put paid to the river rat.

***************

**********

His horse buckled beneath him, the glint of a bloodied iron blade wedged in its neck catching Addam’s eye just before he was catapulted from his saddle.

The press of men parted around him, and he landed between the legs of his foe’s horse. The beast reared, and Addam desperately rolled out of the way before he was crushed.

Struggling to rise, Addam faced the looming figures of Raff the Sweetling and Chiswyck, their grins twisted with malice. “Took a tumble, M’lord?”

“Someone’s put a lot o’gold on that orange head o’ ‘yers!” An absurd notion flickered through his mind — Littlefinger? Why?

The men advanced. He looked up in time to see green and black flame crash into the mud - feet from him -

Addam grabbed Chiswyck, pulling the brute atop his body as the flames engulfed them both.

***************

A Maiden’s Fall

*********

He was too old for this, Seven Hells– too old since the Blackfyre Rebellion, in truth. While his body still bore the vigour of youth, his spirit wearied of the endless dance of war. He had garnered glory aplenty, enough to warrant a place in the rear, overseeing the siege, rather than charging headlong through a breach created mere hours ago by a trebuchet that witch had cursed.

Storming through the gap and taking the keep would have been the easier path, but his thoughts lingered elsewhere – on Addam, and the bitter taste of what passed for victory, what it had cost him. 

What he allowed Zhan Fei to do to his boy.

They had returned to him a victorious host that looked as though it had been the one trounced on the field. Banners dipped, men loped beside horses, rage in their hearts and a sad dirge on their tongues.

Of the fifteen thousand who had set forth, only ten thousand returned, carrying upon a litter his cherished son, his beloved Addam.

While many fathers claimed close bonds with their sons, he and Addam had shared an inseparable connection since the boy's first steps.

Nay, before then!

Damon held him as oft as his mother had, and they’d smoked his first Drako together fishing along the Red Fork on a trade mission to Wayfarer’s Rest. A firstborn son was special– he was the heir, but Addam had been a friend as much as a son.

Addam was lowered into a sick bed in his tent– his right arm festered and scorched, and the stench of death permeated his nostrils.  

“It was a trap!” Cried Ser Flement Brax. He had the look of a man who’d been weeping for days. “They rankled the men, butchered our scouts, and strung their entrails from Weirwood trees!”

Damon knew that was a lie, but the accusations of the Riverlords’ savagery were not. The tales of them digging pits to ensnare venomous river otters spoke volumes of the ruthless tactics they employed, born from centuries of conflict and strife.

He cradled his boy’s head under his arm as he wept. Addam could barely speak, but he whispered a plea of forgiveness for his foolishness. He would never deny his son. 

Later, when the Maester and healers conceded defeat, affirming the relentless advance of the corruption up his right arm and into his chest, he demanded they remove it anyway. Addam was left-handed, though he could fight with both, he was far more proficient with his left!

The Maester only shook his head solemnly. “Nay, tis too late, my Lord.”

"I shall save your son," Tywin's paramour and sorceress whispered, her voice a frigid breeze against his ear. "I shall forge him into a warrior stronger than he has ever been."

“I want no part of your horrors, witch! I’ve seen what the kiss of fire has done to slaves who fell in batt-” 

She laughed, a chilling sound that seemed to freeze the very marrow in his bones

Before he knew it, she was beside Addam, a half-moon-like smile on her beautiful face, wide, far too wide. “Those men were not properly revived,” she commenced, her voice measured and deliberate, “for the kiss of life, when bestowed by one lacking true devotion, only beckons a soul halfway back. The true power of faith requires selflessness.” Her eyes, golden and slitted gazed at him, searching, seeking. “I’ve only need of three prisoners, youthful and strong.”

He found them. May the Mother grant him mercy, he found them. Two burly field hands that had been taken by his outriders, and a resilient boy who defied the plague's grasp to emerge stronger than ever.

A pavilion had been erected, his son borne in first, and then the other three brought in.  He expected bloodletting, or some fell ritual of flesh smithing, but whatever she had done behind those tent folds, all he heard were inhuman screams.

With the dawn, his son's arm, once a twisted mass of corrupted flesh melded with molten metal, appeared freshly mended. Only subtle orange traces marked the extent of his injuries.

He even looked several years younger, or perhaps it was a trick of a father’s hope.

But there had been no sorcerous trick; his boy was returned to him, and he could detect none of the signs of corruption he had borne. 

When a hesitant Septon dared to voice his suspicions, his words were swiftly silenced by the collective dread of his brethren.

The desiccated husks of those unfortunate souls, twisted and contorted like salted meat, were consigned to the flames. 

When they were nought but ash, the lone brave Septon sought him out. “She returned your son unblemished because he was never her prize! Do you not see?”

Zhan Fei only smiled, her serpentine eyes glimmering in the morning sun.

Within the hour, the siege quickened its pace, as if compelled by some malevolent will. His engineers and sappers laboured tirelessly, their efforts undeterred by fatigue, while his soldiers seemed wholly reinvigorated. 

Damon Marbrand, Lord of Ashemark, devout follower of the Seven, felt the tendrils of fear coil around his heart. He knew he should fall upon his knees and beg the Mother for mercy and the Father Above for understanding.

And yet, his Addam had been returned to him. 

***************

********

They had sailed out along the canal connecting the mines of Lannisport to the mints in the uplands in the shadow of Silver Hill and Deep Den and from those mints to the Red Fork, where sat Pinkmaiden– their first target.

By chance, half the barges and garbage scows Lord Clement called his fleet were foundered by storm, and so his boats fell upon them and took the shore. 

They had taken the outer wall and half the town, but as he expected, House Piper had barred the gates of the inner town and keep, grinding their progress to a halt.

An axe passed over his helm; he could hear it cut air as it did so; its wielder was a fool who drew his long sword and ran at him.

A sword might be the favoured weapon of every fool who wore armor and swore his vows. However, the dirk was king between stone walls and tapestries, busts of ancestors, crenels, and torches, and the rondel was his queen.

Damon Marbrand sidestepped the on-rusher, ramming his elbow into the side of the man’s head; armour rang against brick and tile, and a swift thrust of his trusty dirk betwixt his codpiece and cuisse and the man was screaming.

A swift motion and he was out a window, falling to his doom. The man’s companion fared little better. Damon’s Brax squire pulled him in by the haft of his halberd, and left him open for a swift thrust into his eye. 

A fortnight investing Pinkmaiden and no sign of Aerax nor Ser Edmure, off aiding in the naval battles mayhap or flying about the Riverlands rallying troops, or so he prayed until the burned form of his son had been returned. 

Addam’s victory had been a disaster, but that hardly mattered when he saw his boy’s arm, the metal melted into flesh and the stench of corruption and his fever.   My son lives, that is all that matters!

***************

*********

Melwyn Sarsfield fell in, his green enameled armour stained a rust red by the day's grizzly affair, his cloak torn, and his helm dented. Lord Melwyn had lost a nephew fighting through the inner wall, but his heir and spares were alive and well beside him. “Hard fight to get to Lord Clement…” Melwyn grumbled. Lord Melwyn, too, had little love for the Riverlords, having lost two nephews to Lord Vance of Wayfarer’s rest during the Sack, and a distant cousin, Ser Roan Sarsfield, had been forced to take the Black on account of Eddard Stark and Hoster Tully.

The sack had been a humiliation for many of my fellows, tis personal for all. But that was no excuse to go mad with rage as the fools under his son’s command had.

“I will fight him…” Damon warned, refusing to add, “Should it come to it.” It would have been a pointless platitude; it was clear to any with eyes that Lord Clement was aiming to die fighting.

“He’s beneath you, my Lord,” growled Joffrey Lynnett of Nunn’s Deep, one of House Marbrand’s oldest vassals.

“Maybe so,” Damon remarked as they neared the doors to the private feasting hall of House Piper. “But he is mine nonetheless.” Both men mercifully grunted ascent and Ser Jeffory’s half-brother, Little Tom. Hill walked up, a giant of a lad.

With a gesture, tables were arrayed in front of his legs; on the off chance the men within had crossbows, the boy wore armour the way a Clegane did, and so he had little doubt the youth’s cuirass would hold. But a fortuitous dart to the groin could mean a painful death for any man or boy, no matter his size.

The lad was handed an axe, and with one roar, he smote the doors, which exploded open into a hailstorm of splinters. 

Arrows flew; one bounced off the top of the lad’s helm and another his cuirass, and wisely, he ducked under the tables and then came up like a raging bull, hurling finely polished oak into the two remaining archers. 

The men let out cries as the wood impacted against them, and the chaos it caused was enough for the lad and his Knightly brother to fall on them, a pair of starving curs over a dead man in a Lannisport alley. 

Here in these wider rooms, dirks yielded to longer blades, and in an instant, Blaze the Valyrian Steel longsword of House Marbrand was in his hand. Orange and gray flashed in the air, and as a man in Piper Livery rushed to him, he swung upward and carved through his cuirass as though it were silk; the man’s entrails spilled, and Damon smashed its pommel into his helm that he might not experience the pains of death. 

Clement Piper and two men at arms ran towards him then, and his squire smashed one of the men’s knees in with a devastating blow from his shield – followed by a rondel thrust into the man’s armpit. 

Damon slid betwixt Lord Clement and his second, ramming his body into Lord Clement and driving his blade into the man’s shoulder, tearing through the mail and part of a brechrand piece. Blood spurt, and with a grunt of effort, Damon pulled the blade out, taking bits of cartilage with him.

Lord Clement tried to strike at his back then, but Lord Sarsfield threw his shield into the man’s side, causing Lord Clement to stumble. Damon whirled on him and was a fury of swings and thrusts meeting Clement’s fury with a measured rage of his own.

Clement Piper fell to a blow that cut him nearly in half, and with him fell Pinkmaiden. 

But all of Damon Marbrand’s thoughts were on his son and the price paid to save his life.

Chapter Text

*******************************

A Thousand Eyes and None…

**************

Atop the Old Soldier, Bran’s senses had never been more keen as he cast his senses out over the Rhoyne. Something about this river was… familiar, as if the roots of the weirwood had bled into the water.

The wind bore the scents of the city and the farms, the forest in autumn, and the ships out to sea. A hundred different flowering plants Bran could smell; crops and dung, fowl and foal, and the scent of Sar Mell that stood again, filled to the brim with fighting men.

And South, looming as a great impassable shadow, his foe. Volantis.

The Black City stank of blood. It oozed hatred into the morning air like war banners, and within the black walls, its monstrous heart seemed to beat like war drums.

Winter, Retaxes, Shrike, Seasnake, Seasmoke , and Morning were departing Volon Therys with the favourable north-westerly wind. Bran could not mend the bridges that had frayed between family, but he could take comfort in knowing that his father, in his own way, understood.

His family saw that, too, and they respected his wishes - albeit begrudgingly. 

Ser Loras Tyrell had secured himself between Shenron’s immense feathers. His faith in his squire had not been shaken, and for that, Bran was ever grateful - and his sword arm was ever a defence against the assassins that sought his head. Sandor Clegane had sent a few of their heads downriver in baskets - in a gruesome manner. Unknightly of him, but if it gives Volantis pause…

“You’ll be gone for long, squire?” Bran’s knight asked.

Bran stirred from his inspection. “I shan’t be more than an hour, good Ser.” Now let’s hope my dragon does not make me a liar.

Bran crossed his legs, hands resting upon his knees, and his fingers straight. Breathing - I must control my breathing.

The wind kicked up around him; he could feel the Wyrm’s lightning seeping into the air.

Bran had never before sojourned on his own - the Old Gods, and his Maiden had sheltered him as he tried to discern truth and reality in visions.

And the dead are most adept at lying - the Bloodraven the greatest liar to ever draw breath. 

His Wyrm’s presence in the Unseen World was a great Braavosi opera; a dozen queer and new instruments, and a voice that carried across the world. A sea of colours assailed his being -

And Mother Rhoyne whose song was oft a soft lullaby - her voice rose with Shenron’s, till the world around Bran was a horrendous whirlwind of agonizingly beautiful sound -

He threw himself into the roar of the music, and fell -

And the roar became a hymn that broke like gently rolling waves…

Until the rocks became sand…

And the roar around him… harmonized .

************************

***************

Bran splashed into an ocean of grass.

And it was truly an ocean, but his sight was without limit, and in the far distance - far greater than any navigator had ever espied through their looking glass - he could see the ocean give way.

And with a thought, he was there; at the joining of river and grass, and the song of grass and grain, which itself yielded to the song of bronze and power.

The harvest of such grass repelled him - they were unknown to his kind, and he was glad to see them defaced by the rise of a city -

- A city of bronze and canvas, straw and brick. Where wooden hovels once stood, now replaced by a city of stone, its horse troughs replaced by great fountains that flowed with wine and mare’s milk.

To a great keep, or a temple perhaps? 

Two brothers met before its gates. One burned as a golden fire with emerald eyes— the other was shrouded in a blue whirlwind. 

The golden flame warned the blue wind that war with the sunset would be his doom, to stay his hand, but the blue wind spat in his face.

Both seemed ready to rise in their fury and commit great sin, but their fury abruptly silenced and then turned .

They see you, child - come away, come to me! 

************************

***************

Bran heeded the voice, and followed, to a place of trees… trees that were full to the brim, with the knowledge of man and song -

And was struck dumb, at what stood beneath them.

Three fingers, green and grey fur, cat-like faces, and bright golden eyes, but these were tall, and a precious few wore silk as easily as they wore leaves.

Their… king? The king was seated on a throne of bark; his waves of golden-brown hair had park and bone woven into them, he held a staff aloft made of pinewood and bone, and small gourds dangled from one end. He wore a crest of coloured feathers about his shoulders, and the shrunken heads of men dangled about his neck on leather woven with precious stone.

The creature’s head bowed as though he were recognizing a peer and Bran suddenly felt unworthy.  “We are the shadowed ones, Seer. You’ve seen our kind before.” Children of the Forest!

He reached out a hand, and Bran felt a presence both alien and oddly familiar touch his being. “Those two could have killed a lesser Seer with but a thought.”

“Truly?” Bran was alarmed, even in his dream. “But they’re -”

“Barbarians?” the Child laughed, interrupting him. “Were our kin across the sea not beaten by your kind, whom they deemed barbarians? Underestimating others does not behoove you, child - certainly not the grandchildren of Khal Immero, who have conquered Essos and made of it an Empire .”

“You allowed this?” Bran exclaimed, aghast.

The figure laughed,  wind through trees and the ringing of many thousands of brass bells. “I am but a priest – of sorts, and they add their music to the Song. You must know this, so why ask?”

“A grey man from my lands said much the same - Luwin was his name.” Bran whispered. “In his youth, he sought to bridge the old ways and the new.”

“And did he succeed?” Asked the Priest of the People of Tree, River, and Stone.

“In his own small way,” Bran admitted.

“Then he is a good man. Mayhaps I will find him, in the Land of Dreams.”

“Can you cross the sea?” Bran asked, surprised.

“Not easily.” He admitted. “The trees of your north have become as… crutches for our kin. Alas, they are trapped behind that thing of ice - but what fools they were, being caged in the first place?” 

With a shrug, he added. “But I try nonetheless.”

“A servant of his people can do no less,” Bran murmured, causing a smile to form on the Walker's lips, bearing cat-like fangs.

“Go from here for now, Little Chief, and return to the learning of steel and sinew, of armour and the song of battle.”

************************

A Star Amongst Wolves

***************

“The cloisonne brooch - the one with the purple star,” she gestured toward the tall Norvoshi girl, who held a finely varnished box of cedar and gold, that was embossed the sigil of House Dayne in glittering stones.

“A good choice, m’lady,” a stocky woman enthused in a thick, Northron accent that she oft had difficulty understanding her - head of her household, or not. Ned had gotten a trio of Knights, and a dozen crossbowmen who had won honours in Prince Maekar’s name.

But she had been sent only with servants and ladies - who would rather tend to their own marriage prospects, here in Essos. Lyarra Blackmont was her only true peer from home, and Voria Dayne of High Hermitage her only confidante - and now subordinate to a Meera Wull – a woman of the Mountain Clans who could barely speak, yet now ran her household affairs.

Dear Lyarra, the things you have done for me. 

Lord Brandon had elucidated - at length - the Essosi tradition of a Steward appointing two under-stewards, to manage distinct Households; One overseeing the affairs of the lords, the other the lady’s. 

Would that he explained it first - but then, Brandon Stark had yet to do himself any favours there.

Her half-sister Allyria's abilities paled in comparison to Brandon Stark's; his sightless gaze delving into the world around him - far beyond even the most farsighted warg, she knew.

For what powers one must wield to see through the eyes of a thunder-wyrm! She had beheld its vast form along the banks of the Rhoyne, and wept at the light playing off its blue-and-bronze scales.

Shenron, she knew he was called, for in that very moment, he had looked at her, and announced himself without words - and she was not a fair bit afraid.

******************

The retinue at the gates of Volon Therys did not boast the gallant Knight of the Flowers, or Gods forbid, her future husband - for he was off to battle someplace, and had left behind a… suitable party for his betrothed.

Ygon Farwynd, his brother Yohn, and the disreputable Hound - whose brother had almost murdered Princess Elia Martell and her daughters - greeted her, and handed her off to Quellon Greyjoy - nay, Greylion now, in honour of his Lordship of a city he’d yet to conquer.

When Lord Brandon at last arrived, she’d been in one of the hanging gardens of the palace courtyard ,and hastily scurried to meet her future Lord Husband.

His seat was a chair crafted of Qohorik wood, she saw, framed in gold and seemingly sized for a much larger man - if not a giant. Marble direwolves - with three ghastly heads - flanked either side of the throne; a seat of power on a centre dais that afforded him a clear view of his people.

The boy himself cut a striking figure; his features sculpted by grace of his Tully lineage, and his auburn locks catching the light in a fiery halo. Pale, unseeing - or as she knew now, far-seeing - blue eyes held wisdom and determination she had come to keenly admire… from afar .

Seven Hells, how she had dreamt of a husband of his beauty!

For five turns of the moon, she had dwelt in this city - in these walls, and their betrothal proceeded at the pace of a recalcitrant mule.

House Dayne boasted an antiquity tracing into legend; yet, unlike the Mad Maid of the Hightower and House Stark, Leylia's ancestors had long since forsaken the false deities of yore.

Instead, she found solace in the Seven, and in Princess Rhaella's presence - and oft joined her atop Winter, for morning jaunts across the sprawling countryside.

Prince Oberyn’s bastards had inherited his distaste of dragonriders, for the horror King Daemon afflicted upon Dorne - yet even they admired the she-dragon and her rider as the knightly ideal to strive for. Given their tales, Leylia had expected a warrior-maiden more at home on dragonback than off it.

Yet she beheld an elegant Lady, at home in the taverns and feasting halls of minor Lords as she was at court. Her son, Benjen, would have made a fine Prince-Consort of Dorne - had he not taken the Black.

And the Princess of these lands, Daenerys, revealed herself as a just and astute ruler. Her governance bore shades of the Rhoynar, rather than the Valyrians of old - Leylia couldn't help but appreciate her fairness to those not of the Blood.

Her heart had swelled at the sight of the grand Septs gracing the modest towns in her domain — each of which would have been a great city in Dorne.

************************

***************

Brandon Stark stood as one of the most formidable lords in the Dragonlands; second only to the Prince of Myr in power and wealth – and as such, had many duties that no doubt kept him… occupied .

Her attendants fastened a star-shaped brooch to the folds of her cloak. Velvet gloves encased her hands, their luxurious touch a stark contrast to her tumultuous feelings. It wasn't meant to be this way.

Or am I simply not to his liking? She pondered the well-known inclinations of Ser Loras and the whispered tales of uncle Arthur's exploits. Squires often mirrored their knights in more ways than battle prowess, ‘twas told. Could it be the same for him?

Though she was clad in the hues of House Dayne, an attempt to bridge the distance to her elusive lord, she draped herself in a velvet surcoat, a vivid red contrasting against the sombre depths of a dark blue damask.

Lord Brandon, though bereft of sight, possesses a keen awareness…

Once, at Starfall, Leylia had seen her favoured hunting hound blinded, but still able to navigate the halls - and those she encountered, which she seemed to know by scent and sound alone. She’d found her way, blind, to Leylia's bedside each night.

"When we lose a piece of ourselves, the rest grows stronger for it," as Father would say. He’d oft taken pride in Leylia's keen understanding of the Torrentine - of the grassy fields and shifting dunes beyond.

Perhaps the merging of a Warg's abilities with the natural order granted Lord Brandon a form of second sight. Or perchance, it was greensight - the ominous legacy of figures like the Bloodraven, brought low by the twisted hand of Lord Aenar.

Am I to wed a crazed sorcerer - a potential danger to his own kin?

"Are you well, my Lady?" inquired one of her guards,  Telmestrios. She oft recognized him by the Tyroshi dye in his hair - in honour of his forefathers, he had said - and his distinctive Dragonland, a guttering accent, slipping through the crevices of a well-worn miller's sieve.

Guided by her Lady Mother's teachings, she lent an ear to her future husband’s retinue - be they scribe, scholar, or the occasional Maester assigned to the Legate's Palace – nay, now named the Wolf's Den.

The distant demeanour of her lord left her consumed by a frustration unparalleled in her experience. Yet, despite her efforts, his persistent aloofness left her perplexed. "I find myself confused," she confessed.

Am I but a character in a ballad? Must I sacrifice my existence to kindle love within his heart?

The Knight smiled. Chivalry was newer to these lands than the abolition of slavery but a generation past - and so guards had uncommonly free tongues full of gossip - another remainder of Dorne.

And so words flowed with a wink. "Under the weighty mantle of power and prestige, I believe he remains–"

“Distracted,” Leylia sighed. And there are others who say he is distracted by prophecy as well…

The notion that left her uncertain and unsettled. Mayhaps he is a Greenseer, after all?

She knew little and less of their type, save the Bloodraven, and stories from the ancient past. Queen Nymeria led the final remnants of the Water Wizards in a brutal conflict against the Greenseers, entrenched along the Greenblood - and had successfully uprooted the lot from Dorne.

Their shadowy influence was keenly described in the annals of House Martell; their influence so vast, that many of the minor kings deposed by Nymeria were granted mercy, dispatched to the Wall as puppets of one Greenseer or another. And it is said that House Martell does not lie.

The septons at Starfall were silent on the matter, the brothers at High Hermitage railed at skinchangers, and the Book of the Mother spoke of them in… cautious scripture. 

‘While not of the heresies of blood magic, the gentlest of wargs may succumb to bestial instincts, and therefore ruin the goodliness of all.’

She remembered tracing the text with delicate fingers, entranced by each verse– yet not for the reason her teachers would expect. 

‘Lo, I say unto thee, it is better to slay thy husband, be he a skinchanger, lest the Lords of the Seven Hells find purchase in his soul.’

************************

***************

“We’ll be going to the stables, my Lady,” Telmestrios smiled.

Leylia blinked in surprise. The notion of a courtly ride with Brandon Stark seemed as unlikely as it was droll - especially so near to dusk.

Still, with a practiced nod, she followed her guard through the colonnaded halls until they reached the stable gates, where elephants , of all things, paraded before her. 

She managed a subdued, “I anticipated horses -”

"The elephants are being put in for the night," a high Northron voice cut through the air, and hung there - accompanied by a low rumble that rippled the waters of the ponds -

Her heart sank. 

She turned and met the gaze of her betrothed - his direwolf, Summer, happily nuzzling her palm with contented growls.

“You’re a good judge of pitch,” Bran remarked, his smile making him seem his age for once. 

"My Septas were thorough," Leylia jested, and she noticed Bran's smile widen. His silk robes of crimson and blue heralded the imminent union of their houses, while beneath lay a cotehardie crafted from delicate linen. No jerkin or doublet, and all the material is light. 

That was curious. “I must not refuse then, hmm?” She asked, concealing her misgivings behind a playful smile.

He saw right through her. “I will not force you, but I think,” Pausing to take in a breath, he added. “Knowing Shenron – and our lands, I think - would be good for us.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. She would be tethered to this creature and all he symbolised for the span of her days, a fate binding her descendants as well.

But then, her Lord husband-to-be seemed to trust his mount as much as he trusted Ser Loras. I can be afraid, and cause a rift in my own home – or I can move forward.

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***************

The moon was high in the sky as they approached the colossal creature that lay nestled on the banks of the Rhoyne. Cobalt and orange hills undulated as it inhaled the night air.

The wyrm’s magnificence was undeniable, even in moonlight; his scales a breathtaking tapestry of palely shining blues, oranges and reds. A regal beard of feathers adorned his snout and head, and his antlers shimmered and sparkled in the moonlight.

Beside it, Lord Loras’ magnificent armour was almost common.

A ladder was placed near the Wyrm’s head, and she swallowed back bile. “Are we–”

“Trust me, my Lady,” Bran still had that gentle smile on his face. “I would never hurt you.” Behind him Lord Loras suppressed a snort of laughter, and Bran himself seemed to turn a shade of pink.

With a little less terror in her heart, they scaled the living hillside that was this beast’s neck until, at last, they nestled in a bony space between his horns.

“How do you direct him?” she asked with confusion, for she saw no reins in his hand.

Her Lord smiled. “ Shenron knows my thoughts and I his; we fight together and ride together as more than just rider and mount.”

“Oh…” She swallowed and nodded. “Forgive me, my Lord - to you, these questions must seem absurd.”

Bran shook his head, a cascade of auburn hair rippling like a field of crimson wheat in the wind. "Not at all!" 

His hand landed upon hers, a sensation that sent a chill down her spine - and as if in response, Shenron whistled and grunted.

His body tensed, sinews rippling like cords of iron as he ascended, akin to a lion climbing a treacherous mountain pass. Above him, miniature clouds coalesced, each resembling a rung on a celestial ladder ascending to the heavens.

“The Golden Empire preserved knowledge from the Dawn,” Bran shouted over the thunder. “ Ryon’sei – Thunderwyrms - do not have wings, but you don’t need wings to fly!”

High above the sprawling city, its shimmering lights and cacophony reduced to mere specks below, they soared. The grandeur of Mother Rhoyne was below them, and moonlight ethereal on its surface.

“The very clouds are our steeds!” breathed Leylia.

In that instant, the great wyrm seemed to “push” off the clouds, a cool wind blew and she felt the air grow moist as the wind seemed to twist around them. 

Shenron did not so much fly as swim through the air; a remarkable elegance that more befit a courtly dancer, than a giant that made dragons look small.

Through the air they went, encircling the city that was her new home, as tears welled in her eyes.

It’s all so beautiful…

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Rivers and Stars

***************

They broke through thunderstorm clouds. Gouts of emerald and grey flame ringed about them and conjured lightning - that lashed out in their doom - in a final act of defiance.

Round and round went the King of the Winds – proud Aerax , the fastest of the younger drakes, and when his circle of flame and storm was complete, he tore through the heavens as an arrow shot by the Warrior himself and fell -

Once - twice - thrice, they passed through the flames ere they dispersed; a dizzying velocity she didn’t think any living thing could reach, much less man endure - and yet despite her dizziness, all she felt was joy.

“Adere, issa jorrāelagon!” she called in High Valyrian. Aerax would have heeded her in Common -but it feels wrong to address a King so!

In front of her, Edmure Tully laughed, and she stole a kiss from his cheek, clean-shaven now at her insistence. “He adores you, My Lady!”

“Aye, but he loves you!” she added with a shout of delight as the dragon screeched in triumph.

The bond between rider and dragon was said to be near warg-like - but Allyria knew the difference. Kalyn, her serpent, thought her as a welcome aid in his hunts, and her birds thought her a master.

Dragons and riders, however, did not share minds; they had to know each other to such a profound degree, that one could anticipate the other even in the deepest peril.

Such a bond took years to build - as deep as any friendship between men, something Allyria had not yet built up with her beasts.

Dalla’s golden eagles joined them as they descended. The eagles were larger than any found in the Seven Kingdoms - save the ones in the Vale - almost rivalling that of the youngest airworthy dragons, but they gave way before proud Aerax with cries of greeting.

Beneath them, the world was a canvas of greens and browns and blues. Fields were flooded due to storms and sabotage by smallfolk to stop the Lannisters from taking the season’s final harvest.

A column of Knights marched below them, under the banners of Houses Grell and Morgryn - a Valyrian House formerly from the Crownlands, but displaced to the Riverlands after the Dance.

She also saw the green field of forest trees, the Mormont bear, and the Aetheryon Sea Dragon. Lord Robb’s men. A welcome respite

And some, not so welcome. She had seen two Cailin Starks freeriding for Addam Marbrand - they’d certainly played their part in his survival after the battle. Lord Tymon Stark seemed to be placing his coin in every endeavour.

Then again, her Lord Father might have done the same - had it not been for Rhaegar’s ill use of Uncle Arthur and Princess Elia’s near-death at the hands of Lannister assassins.

No soul in Dorne who wasn’t a fornicator of animals - or Seven forgive her, a Yronwood - would stoop so low as to lay with a lion.

“Should we fly over to the Blackwood lines, my love?” Allyria called to Edmure, whose auburn hair flowed in the wind. He’d made a vow to not cut it, till the King and the Queen were freed from the Lion’s clutches. “I hear Lord Tytos is putting paid to the Lydden and Banefort hosts!”

Edmure laughed, but shook his head. “The hour grows late, my love, and I need to be in Riverrun to receive the Northron Hosts - in case Father is occupied !” By which he meant that Hoster Tully was besotted with his latest mistress, Dalla of House Bael.

In truth, a few extra daughters to wed across the realm would do House Tully some good. A daughter for Brynden the Younger, heir to Harrenhal and Great-Grandson of Lord Gaemon Tully, and a daughter to match Lord Steffon’s heir. Still, a dream for spring.

Scheming came naturally to her; she could not say why, for her House was not known for its skill at intrigue.

As they soared above the Redfork, she beheld the Tully river fleet - joined by its vassals. The cutters of the Tully fleet had thin and blade-like rowers and rudders, and wedge-like single or twin-sails ran down the length of the ship hulls.

The cutters flanked square galleons that Edmure said were better for river warfare. But the pride of their fleet were the Tridents - four giant four-decked ships, built in the vein of Volantene Galleasses and capable of disgorging three thousand men apiece. 

They were built flat with two keels, and equipped with a formidable row of scorpions and three hundred archers. The lead Vessel, Lord Elmo’s Fire , was said to be able to loose wildfire, even!

“We’ll soon be home, boy!” Edmure cheered, reaching forward over the harness and saddle to pat his dragon, as she spied the Tully seat below them.

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************

Riverrun was not as she expected it and far more pleasant than she imagined. Though she and Edmure were wedded rather swiftly, she hadn’t had cause to regret it.

A small wedding in a Sept, a fat cousin of Lord Hoster with kind eyes and a remarkably jovial manner officiated a quiet wedding.

She had been fortunate enough to have her bridal cloak placed around her, even if she’d married in the season of war - and out of Hoster Tully’s desperation to find a bride for his son outside of the tangled web of overmighty vassals and schemers woven around House Tully.

There was much about her life she regretted; her fear of dragons, borne of a fear of King Daemon - her endless fights with Ned Dayne, who only ever wanted an elder sister - her indiscretions with the Fowler girls - the uncle upheld as a paragon of chivalry, but who fornicated with a Prince and aided in rape -her resentment of a man who turned out to be -

Allyria buried her doubts. Whatever Lord Elric was, they shared blood, and he’d had the raising of her, not some dead man.

And Edmure himself she’d come to adore; for his forging a bond of friendship and respect with his wife rather than the begetting of children - and his years of acrimony with Lady Stark on account of his honour, and good treatment of the now-Prince Maekar. Allyria was no stranger to bastards; Seven Hells, she’d been a brief paramour of Tyene Sand, infamous for sharing her Princely Father’s appetites.

She had two of her kin guard her in Riverrun at all times; for part of her dowry had been five hundred spears, a thousand archers, and twenty Knights of Starfall—along with their levies—to assist in the war. She’d been given lands in the Riverlands, including two prosperous mills and five villages, one of which had its own counting house and wool fair.

Riverrun had been built upwards in the last two centuries, by Lords of the Trident whose coffers filled with the wealth King Jaehaerys the Candlemaker had made with all his roads and canals. Wealth from everywhere in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond flowed into the Riverlands, and the Tullys took their tithe.

Two high towers had been added to the castle. One was large and wide, and another was built out in the waters and connected to the castle proper via a covered stone walkway.

In Dorne, Starfall commanded the Torrentine and could seal off access to the ocean via chain booms and gates. Riverrun here could turn the land into a freshwater sea, by sealing the river and denying foemen a chance to properly invest the Castle. Then, the second tower could issue twelve longships - and a galley! - to dominate those waters.

A formidable Keep, housing cunning men.

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************

Two Tully Guards joined them at the door to her apartments, and followed her as she strode across the hall towards great oak doors, carved and varnished with gold inlays depicting Tully heroes of yore. It would be two flights of stairs to the back entrance to the Hall.

Her Lord Husband met her at the door. He struck a very handsome figure, adorned in a blue velvet surcoat and scarlet cotehardie, and the Tully trout on a silver brooch that fastened a silk scarf about his chest - as was fashion here in the Riverlands.

“Father’s in one of his moods today.” He said, as they embraced and kissed.

She frowned. “Sers Chambers and Butterwell, then?” she asked, squeezing one of his wrists reassuringly. Both were once-Lordly Houses but had been reduced in rank to minor nobility. Knightly Houses with Masterly Titles, owing to their involvement in the Whitewalls conspiracy.

Bloodraven had pushed for their destruction outright, but Prince Maekar, who was still the Lord High Justice then, had stripped them of rank - but not land nor wealth, and so they had chafed under House Deddings since then.

Worse, Deddings lands were but days away from Lannister blades. He’ll feel the full force of the old tabby’s power before they do - and then his more landed vassals will abandon him, or worse, turn coat.

House Tully was never a Kingly House; with their loyalty to the new Kings of the Seven Kingdoms, they’d became Great Lords but recently, as the reckoning of such things went.

But no one would think so looking upon Hoster Tully, who was adorned as if he was. In all the finest silks, including gold silk from the Westerlands. Still, he could wear no coronet or diadem, for his house had never worn a crown.

His hair was a fine silvery grey, and his eyes were a touch darker blue than his sons. Her good-father had lost much of his belly fat of late, owing to training in the yards, but his cheeks were hollow, and that made Allyria wonder.

Dalla sat beside him in armour of enamelled white. Her long, flowing golden hair drew attention, and her eyes that seemed neither green nor blue. Like her sister, she was a rare beauty. Her golden eagles lurked in the open windows - one roosting on the throne above Lord Hoster.

Behind him Ser Desmond Grell stood, tall and imperious in a fish-crested helm. Utherydes Wayn and Maester Vyman completed the retinue; Master-at-Arms, Lord Steward and Gray Mouse respectively.

Hoster Tully; Lord of Riverrun, Master of the Office of the Treasury and leader of the Forwardist faction. Coin was his domain, and it was a puissant realm indeed - through taxes and loans in the counting houses the Crown owned stake in.

Ser Vortimer Chambers was the first to step forward in open court. He was a tall man, adorned in the purples and blues of his House, on which the scales of House Justman — quartered and in silver instead of gold — noted his descent from a River King. He came in armoured, with his sons by his side — but not his eldest, Allyria noted.

Ser Butterwell was even less subtle. He simply arrived in his finest silks, and with a small retinue of men. Only his daughters were present, and two of them were already in the castle owing to marriages to Tully cousins.

Hisses and jeers filled the air, and mislike and mistrust seemed abundant. Ser Brynden Blackwood, heir to Raventree Hall was in a similarly foul mood - but his was for having been summoned away from the field of battle, to this.

The man grew even fouler as he began to levy his charges against the pair. “Lord Butterwell is selling cattle to Lannister outriders!” Men cursed and hissed.

A member of House Vance demanded the honour of killing Lord Butterwell in a duel, and who heartily protested.

“We’ve yet to defend ourselves as is our right, Lord Hoster.” Ser Chambers spoke - strong words, but suitably calm, in Allyria’s ears. “Indeed, I’ve not even heard you speak, for young Master Brynden here seems to think court a field of battle.”

“Are they not the same?” asked Dalla, steepling her fingers with all the bearing of a warrior-queen.Some laughed, others nodded, and others shifted somewhat.

It seemed that it was one thing for a mistress of Hoster Tully to address the Court of Riverrun when that mistress was Elia Martell, another thing entirely when it was a Northern Wildling. Lord Hoster’s keen eyes gazed at his mistress with no small degree of fondness. Cunning old bastard - he wants us to make his court nervous.

“You have both been called here to answer to charges of dereliction of your duties,” Lord Hoster began, his voice dry but not less fierce.

“Ser Chambers has withheld two thousand men from the front. Ser Butterwell has withheld food and aid from House Blackwood's men, and his own Lord. Both of whom have marched across their shared borders to keep the foe from sullying your lands in blood!”

The Lord of Riverrun allowed curses and jeers to fill the Hall, ‘ere he raised his hand.

“You have further compounded your defiance by refusing to heed my summons.” Hoster leaned forward, eyes hard and cold. “I demanded your heirs be presented here, and yet you arrived with your spares -”

“- And you!” he whipped around to Ser Amos Butterwell. “ You have the audacity to pay me with my own coin !” he hissed out, a voice low and cold. “Your daughters are kin to me by marriage; I see only Tullys of my Household here - save your youngest!”

“My Lord.” Ser Vortimer Chambers began, but Ser Butterwell lurched forward and pointed a finger at Hoster Tully, fury writ upon his face.

“You speak of dereliction of duties!” he hissed. “A century of loyal service have we given the Lords who were once our vassals! A century of loyal service have we given Riverrun, yet when the time came to claim your prizes at Rebellion’s End, you ensured you and your confederates were justly rewarded.”

“So you say, yet House Darry remains untouched - by me, or the Crown,” Hoster commented mildly. Turning to a tall, elegant elderly man with silver-red hair bearing a ploughman brooch in Thenn bronze, he continued, “Why, Ser Raymun, I believe you shoved a spear point into my shoulder. Pray tell me what the toll of vengeance was that I exacted upon you?”

“Why, a near-slaying of the Lord of Riverrun was quite a costly affair! My Lord burdened me with nine villages, two mills, and a tree farm.” Ser Raymun said with a heavy sigh and a mummer’s exaggerated bow as men roared with laughter.

“I am not averse to good enemies, Ser Amos,” Hoster spat, “but vulturous cads such as you ought to have been sent to The Wall!” he roared.

“Elia Martell saved you there.” Allyria’s husband interjected venomously.

Butterwell was not deterred, for he spoke heedlessly -“And will the new mistress of Riverrun’s whims determine my fate now?” Fool; for all Dalla’s status, her valour in battle is undisputed. To disparage her as though she were a common whore…

Butterwell must have seen the trap before him then, for he took a step back. Ser Chambers was also pale as a sheet, suspecting he would be cast down in the midst of this.

Slowly, Hoster Tully turned to Dalla and smiled slyly. “My dear, what fate should befall this fat one?”

“Let Warden have him!” one man shouted, and Ser Butterwell all but wept. Ned Stark’s direwolf had been in a vengeful and bloody mood since the death of his Lord. He’d so savaged the Lannisters beside Tytos Blackwood that men began to call him a hellhound!

“Alas, Warden is busy fighting the battles Ser Amos ought to be fighting,” Dalla sighed. “And eagles make a right mess of men…”

Her eyes flickered, and then she turned. “Lady Allyria, has the old one eaten yet?”

Allyria returned the smile, though she had no idea if her serpent would even bother with someone so fat. “Not in a fortnight, my Lady.”

“That green bastard was swimming in Tully waters since my grandsire was a boy! Truly Lady Allyria, you must be kinder to your elders!” Lord Hoster clucked his tongue to more laughter.

Men who swam the rivers knew to avoid the serpents that came down from the Neck and wintered in the South; and the Father of them all she called Kalyn - Moat Cailin’s name in the Old Tongue, and where he dwelled in summer.

“What manner of madness has Riverrun sunk to that men would laugh at the prospect of a skinchanger feeding a man of the Rivers to her beast!” roared Ser Vortimer, his fists clenched in fury as veins throbbed in his neck.

Someone tossed a gonfalon at him then, tattered and bloodied, the wavy green and yellow and white of House Butterwell upon it. Ser Vortimer caught it, examining it, and slowly, realization donned on him, and the fury was replaced by horror.

“Fool!” he spat, leaping aside and drawing his blade. “What have you done?!”

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************

The eagle let out a furious scream, and the door burst open suddenly as Dalla’s two horse-sized seals charged in faster than the guards -

- And the hall froze, as Allyria’s beast slithered in from behind the Tully seat.

wider than the wheel of a carriage, and near twice the length of Aerax ; his scales were like polished armour, green as the banks of the Trident and red like the blood that now adorned it. Its head was wider than a man’s chest.

It encircled House Tully in its entirety, shielding Edmure, his Father, the Household, and the throne - as it opened its maw, revealing hook-like fangs the size of a man’s hand and hissed as loud as lesser beasts roared.

“Kalyn is an old man of these Rivers, and he does not take kindly to mutinies against his Lord,” Allyria announced to the hall at large. Lord Hoster’s eyes flickered, and she knew he’d somehow been counting on this.

Ser Vortimer Chambers fell to his knees and held his sword aloft. His tone was sombre, and his sons were terrified into statues beside him. “Forgive me, my Lady; I meant no mutiny.”

“You had no knowledge of this?” Hoster queried incredulously - a sham much like his other shams, Allyria guessed.

“I would sooner rot in the ground than lay with Lannisters,” Ser Vortimer insisted, his eyes hard with outrage and his cheeks red with shame. “I am an unwitting accomplice to treason most foul, and for that, I offer my life; I only ask that you spare my sons.”

“You fool! They cannot win! The trout is done!” snapped Amos Butterwell, which was all Dalla needed - her seal hurled him bodily onto the floor, opposite the serpent. The man landed with a crack, and blood and teeth flowed from his mouth.

“House Butterwell is attainted,” began Hoster Tully. “Edmure will ride with Aerax within the hour and burn Whitewalls to the ground. Its men, lands, and wealth shall be divided equally between House Deddings and House Chambers….”

Ser Vortimer blinked even as the Butterwell girls sobbed. “My...Lord?”

Hoster Tully laughed a sad laugh, stifling a cough as he did so. “And had you both but waited, I’d have lifted you up as Lords, though still vassal to Lord Deddings.”

With a sigh, Hoster beckoned him to stand. “Ser Vortimer, I demand your life. Ride with your sons and heir so that they might see your valour and die well. A Lord your surviving heir shall be, but he shall never again be a Lord who bows to House Tully.”

There was a moment of silence, but at last, sense won over pride. “I shall serve, as shall my kin.”

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************

That night, a fat fool was beheaded and his corpse fed to a great serpent; and a dragon cleansed the world of traitors.

Chapter Text

A Prince Adrift

“Stop fidgeting, boy,” Oberyn muttered to Quentyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, fidgeted his sash. The skies were gray again, for the volcanoes near the ruins of Valyria were unusually active today, spewing ash, soot, and fire into the air.

Doran had put his eldest son on a different vessel than his brother and Blackwood friends - my brother’s eternal optimism at work. Ensuring that Arianne and Garlan were wed before the end of the year - his family was now firmly positioned to weather whatever war would come to Dorne.

And war would come, for the Demon King would truly be blessed by the Gods, to survive what was coming for him. Martell spies had ferreted out no less than three plots in play - one by his own goodfather no less - in the wake of Roark’s powers waning. 

The Maesters still living were shocked to find the series of shattered rocks that were once grand city gates - and the remains of what were once fortifications that dwarfed Volantis’ famed Black Walls.

Their shock had grown worse once they divined their new hereabouts - in the Sea of Sighs, within the Doom of Valyria.

***************

Oberyn Martell wished he were surprised at the signs of life within the Doom. But he was Dornish, and Nymeria’s blood flowed in him - the will to endure the hardship of fire and wind.

In his travels, he’d heard Winterfell’s Maester, Luwin, posit that the Doom’s miasma would… ebb with time. But even he had not suspected that parts of the peninsula would somehow escape it altogether - not even suffering the fate of Mantarys.

Alas, when he had forged his links, matters of poisons, healing, and warcraft interested him far more than weather and geography. The Gods are cruel, to hand men such as me these greater mysteries .

Oros claimed no descent from Dragonlords; indeed, Nessyeus was horrified when Oberyn and his nephew revealed the blood of Valyria that ran in their veins. Perhaps he believes the blood accursed?

How they reconciled their dragon worship with such philosophy eluded him - they’d not touched any of the petrified eggs that resided within the ruined manses of the Dragonlords. Still Oberyn understood all too well their fear of tamed dragons.

Quentyn had begun pacing again, and Oberyn shook his head. Was I ever that foolish?

The youth sighed and took his pavilion seat. Rhoynar custom the Martells had adopted - no thrones amongst equals. And House Martell the first amongst equals.

“Uncle, why must the Red Viper be so… overcautious?” Quentyn erased what goodwill he had in the next moment, proving himself certainly not Oberyn’s equal. At least he looks the part of a Prince - alas, his sun pales beside Arianne’s. With a long-suffering sigh, he bid his nephew look towards the far end of the valley.

For there, ‘neath clouds of rolling thunder, was a forest - not of trees, but of immense flowers that had begun to glow like the beasts ‘neath the sea. Blues and pinks, violets and yellows; eerily beautiful, and quite capable of feasting on the flesh of man and beast alike - or so their guide said.

“Those flowers can and will have you for dinner. This land is full of such abominations, ” Oberyn paused and grinned, “or have you forgotten that songbird that had its fill of your blood?” He was most pleased to see Quentyn shudder, and make the sign of the Seven in fear.

“Better than remaining amongst these Valyrians that speak in tongues on the best of days,” retorted Quentyn. Nessyeus at least spoke archaic Rhoynar, but these people’s Valyrian had drifted quite a lot in the last centuries.

“Just so,” Oberyn warned. “Their ways are strange, and they have been hidden for centuries! We ,” he gestured to Quentyn and himself, “were caught plundering their abandoned cities; we must proceed with caution here.”

Not that he minded a spot of plundering - but here, such thoughts would spell death for them all.

A bare four thousand had survived the storm. Two sailing ships, and four galleys on their last breath - no, they needed to find land again at the earliest opportunity.

Still, while the gods took away, they certainly gave, and in abundance; Oberyn and Quentyn were certainly two of the richest Dornishmen in the Seven Kingdoms, now. From these empty manses, they had recovered chests filled with the famed fire diamonds of Valyria; and from the forests they’d harvested glowing vine seeds that trapped moisture, and released it deep into the ground at night. A boon that would be for Dorne, and the once-fertile dragon-scorched lands that yet bear no fruit.

Suits of steel armour that had yet to rust - more gold and silver than he knew what to do with, - jewellery pieces worth more than the gold altogether - spices that no longer existed! With that alone, Sunspear will be rich as Dragonstone!

Still, what Oberyn took for himself was no trinket, but Valyrian steel - a pair of dirks, both slender and with a bare curve to them. One, he intended for Trys - and the other to Quentyn’ but only when he stopped acting the cocksure fool.

“What I do not understand, dear uncle, is why our spears aren’t ready,” Quentyn murmured, scratching at the knuckles of his right hand with his left. Gods be good! Can this boy not be still?

“We number but four thousand men! Even hale, any battle would be bloody - even against the levies Nessyeus brought with him. As Princes, it is our duty not to endanger our people foolishly!” Oberyn snarled, and regretted his loss of temper.

Respite lay within a small box, and the thin ivory pipe that he filled with dried poppy and fyreleaf.

Quentyn, not taking the hint, frowned, his frog-like face twisting with concern. “The King was supposed to fly on Maelos and meet us with the banners. Could the storm -”

Oberyn wondered, eyes drifting to the forest of glowing flowers, and the purple and red lightning that cracked above, among the clouds. “Forget the King - first, we must survive this Doom.”

**********************

Ahead of them, Nessyeus rode out of a space between the field of flowers. When they had met, Oberyn had remarked on his four-fingered hands and lilac eyes - and was told that the Doom had touched them, however lightly it laid upon their bodies.

“They ride such small horses,” Quentyn remarked, but he was more interested in the dust cloud a quarter-league behind him. His master, I expect - and not on these dwarf-horses.

“Your master comes, then?” asked Oberyn.

“Not our… Lord,” Nessyeus murmured. His ancient Rhoynish bore only a passing resemblance to what the Dornish spoke today. “but one who speaks with his… words?”

“Voice,” Maester Tywald corrected gently. The man has a distinctly Lannister look to him that made Oberyn distrust him almost by instinct. Still, this is not the place to imagine betrayals.

Nessyeus nodded in appreciation as he dismounted. “Cook?”

He must mean a feast - but we’ve barely enough supplies to make the journey. And he would rather they not touch any of the flora and fauna that thrived here.

The man shook his head as if sensing his concerns. “They bring... fresh, from the fields beyond the… Veil.”

Then they can sail through the Sea of Sighs . We need to find their way out, Oberyn resolved.

If only Aghorro’s ship had made it through the storm. Or perhaps he was coming ashore somewhere else in the world, a White Cloak without a King to serve -

No, I refuse to believe that Daeron and Rhaenys are dead! Not after all they endured! 

The dust cloud had grown close enough, for him to see the banners floating above it; gold and pink and bright blue, the starburst banner of the Golden Khal, and below it, the pentagon in green, surrounded by red flame. Khal Motho… Shit!

“Dothraki,” gasped Quentyn. “Here, in the peninsula! Mother Above, be merciful.”

“That is Khal Motho, the only Dothraki commander to set the Westerosi to rout.” Oberyn sighed. “He broke the Vale’s heavy cavalry seven times - hah! -” Ours as well- and handed Jon Arryn his only defeat in the war. Now do you understand,” he gestured, “why we do not attack!?” The lad - finally! - paled, and looked down at his feet.

“The Golden Khal is no foe of the sunset.” Nessyeus insisted, as the horde came closer. Two thousand riders Oberyn wagered - the rest were the baggage train, and animals that seemed to be able to live off even this land. How do they do it?

In Oberyn’s army, a camp follower - who was with child - had drunk from a seemingly clear pool, in an abandoned palace surrounded by glowing vines.

By dawn, she had - silently - become a puddle of crimson sludge and bone. The sludge had melted away in the span of an hour, and the bones had turned to powder. The gods must laugh, to see her survive the Storm, but not a pool of water.

Nessyeus had revealed to them the scant pools of clean water, and for that, Oberyn and the Westerosi owed him their lives.

“Is that a Septon?!” Quen barked, gesturing to the robed figure riding at the head of the procession, between a golden-haired girl with… green eyes. By the Warrior, a Lannister!?

Khal Motho himself rode between them, long grey hair covered in bells. His ashen stallion was armoured in the Westerosi fashion - and his ko had followed his example. Not heavy cavalry, but close enough for it not to matter.

While his men stopped about a mile out, the Khal himself rode forward with a few of his blood-brothers - the misplaced Septon and the Lannister in tow, along with four lanky and hairless scribes. Eunuchs, most like.

And trailing behind them were a hundred slaves, carrying posts and hammers. They circled Oberyn and his men, who suspected ambush till he bid them stand down. He had seen this before - though he suspected Khal Motho would not welcome the comparison between him and other Essosi walkers.

Within a quarter of an hour, a mighty tent arose, fit for a hundred men and lit with braziers.

******************

When they entered the tent, Khal Motho was lounging on tiger pelts, bare-chested.

A more foolish man might think to jape about Lyseni brothels, but Oberyn knew that the Khal, by taking off his armour, had engaged in a peculiar show of dominance. I wager the septon and the Lannister are part of it too - to show his mastery over our kind.

Khal Motho took a long drag from a pipe very similar to Oberyn’s, ‘ere he beckoned them forward. Servants had begun braising a goat and preparing tubers and leeks. The Dothraki have their own take on guest right, but this bodes well.

Mercifully Quentyn didn’t cough, or do anything that could be interpreted as weakness - and so the Khal rose from his seat, to sit with them as they negotiated. Not just a show of force, if he’s conceded that.

“You address the White Dog of the Wastes, Motho the Cunning, Motho Steel Breaker, Motho the wise, Motho Master of Yalli Qamayi, Khal of the crossways and voice the Great Khal, Khal of Khals! Drogo the Golden!” Oberyn barely resisted raising his eyebrows.

The last time Drogo tried to claim his father’s title, three of his brothers - including Qoggo - had contested it, and the ensuing war had required Westerosi intervention to put it to rest, lest it spill over into their lands. The bards sang of Daemon the Demon King brokering peace between the brothers, and dividing their father’s domains into two kingdoms. A most short-lived peace, that - one that bodes ill for us.

Qoggo and Drogo’s Kingdoms were roughly the size of Westeros - and extended from Mossovy in the North, to the Red Waste in the South. Drogo counted the ruins of the Valyrian peninsula and the cities of Slaver’s Bay as his western frontier. Qoggo counted Norvos, the Ax, and the lands of the Rhoyne his nephews were charged with conquering as his western vassals, with his border ending around Qohor—who had remained defiant till the dawn of the third century.

The Dothraki had done what the Valyrians could not - they had filled the void the Freehold left. In this new world, their only rivals were the Golden Empire of Yi Ti - should it overcome its schisms - and Westeros itself.

“You sit with Prince Oberyn Nymeros-Martell, called the Red Viper, and his nephew -”

“Quentyn Nymeros-Martell,” Motho interrupted in raspy Common.

“Y-you know me?” The youth asked, and Oberyn frowned. Does he fancy himself some baseborn? Of course they knew of him!

Motho hummed in the back of his throat. “You remind me of your Grandsire. He slew a dozen of my Bloodriders, and I dare say he may have come the closest to killing me of all my foes.” The Khal companionably put a spotted hand on his nephew’s shoulder, as Oberyn tensed.

Motho noticed the motion, as subtle as it was, and shifted his gaze to him - reminding Oberyn of nothing less than a wolf, long in the tooth. “And you were a sellsword when the Dragon Khal came to our lands. You laid with twenty-nine of my granddaughters - I’ve seventeen great-granddaughters with your look!”

Thankfully, there was fiery respect in his eyes, rather than murder. Oberyn himself did not recall much of those nights - drunken orgies had a way of blurring themselves into one another.

Still, Motho remained on this side of guest right. His next words were more foreboding than reminiscent. “I bring you news of your nephew, Trystane.”

“My brother lives?” Quentyn gasped.

“Yet,” the Khal hummed again. “He rides with the new Falcon Khal, Elbert Arryn. That boy slew a Khal in single combat!” He erupted in laughter, as Quentyn heaved a sigh of relief.

“How did he achieve this feat?” asked Oberyn in disbelief. The Warrior himself must have moved the reckless boy!

“He leaped from his horse, onto the Khal’s own - and buried an axe in his head!” Motho declared, stroking his great grey beard with pride. “The singers now call him Rizh ki Vezh - Son of the Stallion, for only a boy blessed by the Horse God could have done such a glorious deed!”

*************

A toast of mare’s milk, and guest right was sealed. The Maesters began to chronicle their words, and Oberyn readied himself for the war of words.

“You are marching to war - but surely not against the Khal of Khals,” Motho gestured to the far wall, where slaves had hung a tapestry that depicted Khal Drogo’s vast empire, and its frontiers. “Tell me, what land of ours do you plan to plunder?”

“I would think Khal Qoggo was fair game,” smirked Quentyn, in a way that made Oberyn’s hand itch.

The Khal was similarly unamused. “Once he is defeated, his lands become my Khal’s, boy - do not play clever.”

“Ny Sar for Quentyn here,” Oberyn nodded towards his idiot nephew, “and Rizh Ki Vezh shall have Ghoyane Drohe. Together they shall rule the upper Rhoyne from Ghoyane Drohe to the Noyne. Qohor to the Skagosi, and the lower Rhoyne to vassals of the Khaleesi, Daenerys.” There’s a bone for you to gnaw on, old dog.

Khal Motho nodded sagely, denying either of them a reaction. “In truth, Qoggo overextends himself,” he drawled, rubbing underneath his lower lip, “and we would not begrudge your Dragon Khals those lands - should their vassals prove strong enough to take it.”

The Khal rose, and his countenance darkened. “But Volantis is not yours to claim. Be warned - this Peninsula and all within it are ours, and that includes your ill-gotten loot.” Shit -

Before Oberyn could offer the treasures back, his mood was once again as light as air - and Quentyn hadn't even known to cower, the bloody fool . “I deem your loot a gift - to Khal Maekar and his Khaleesi, who rules in truth.”

The Dothraki turned towards the flap of the tent, with a few parting words. “My men will see you provisioned, and safely escorted to the other side of the Sea of Sighs. From there, you must march North along the Demon Road, crossing the Volaena, Volantis’ mouth.”

“A march through the forests of Sarhoy is your safest route to Ny Sar. But be cautious,” Khal Motho wagged his finger, “Qoggo has eight and eighty thousand riders, and two hundred thousand warriors of sandal and shield at the ready - and mayhap twice that in reserve. Half that power is on our border, but the other half?”

The damned man shrugged nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t thrown a thunderbolt at the Westerosi.

Half a million men… half a million men! Oberyn could have screamed.

Fire upon the Sea

The beacon towers in the bay were alight, and Malentine cursed at the sight. His foul speech was very much at odds with his elegant bearing and armour, emblazoned with the Velaryon seahorse, wreathed in the vines of the Arbor Baratheons.

Lady Alicent had pushed her Uncle Stannis into granting her the honour. She had no doubt her Lord Father would grant her the right to bear the Baratheon crown if she asked; as a girl, Mya was doted upon, as much as a trueborn daughter would have been.

But Uncle Stannis never smiled - instead, he challenged her constantly and forced her to face her failings. She had - stubbornly, as her father would say - risen up to every challenge… and here she was now, the mistress of her own House, flying part of his sigil against the pirates of the Redwyne Straits.

Mya wondered if that was what had possessed him, to declare the High Lords of half the realm traitors. Civil war had followed on his declaration, as sure as the encroaching winter to come, and her Lady of the Vale, Daena Tully, still bed-bound with child.

And I shall soon join her, I reckon, she pondered, rubbing at her belly, that had yet to swell. Some days, she missed the mountains. In the Vale, still days such as these were the worst of omens.

“At Driftmark, we quench our beacons when the foe comes at night,” Malentine remarked with annoyance. “Now, none of them will run aground before making landfall!”

The Mermaid’s Palace was famed across the Reach, as the Arbour’s second largest shipyards. Twenty leagues of forest, fishing villages, lumber, dockyards for trees from as far away as Ironwrath. “Well, our own men should see us repel the invaders,” she muttered.

Gilbert Flowers, their Castle Steward, had stuck close enough to hear her regardless, and laughed wispily. “The seals,” lesser cousins of Aunt Alicent,  Mya knew, who patrolled the Redwyne Straits, “know their inlets and bays, Lady Mya - beacons or no beacons.”

The Order’s castle was situated on a cliff, below which immense seals with elephant-like trunks waddled about the beaches. The foul-tempered beasts were too much for even the local sharks, and only the great white demons - and the spotted whale's men - would hunt them for their hide and blubber.

The seals were a boastful lot, but their loyalty to Uncle Stannis was certain; though she could not say why.“Lead the seals and our household forces from the sea. I shall guard the harbour and shipyards are well defended,” Malentine rubbed her belly soothingly, cradling the life within.

Left unsaid was the very real danger that their son might be an orphan tomorrow.

************

Blood sprayed across her cuirass as she carved up a leather-clad fool with her axe. A quick kick to free the blade, and she split the greathelm of some sellsword in the next breath. Pirates, and unskilled ones, at that.

She’d oft chased The Maiden’s Wail from Lhazareen settlements along the coast near Blackcrown, and not for the hundred-dragon bounty on its captain; the slaver ship made berth somewhere in the Basilisk Isles, and dealt exclusively in flesh.

No, the notorious Sothoryi Pirate D’jimon had vowed to storm the Mermaid’s Keep, and take her son as a slave.

And it was her squire, of all people, that put a spear through him, as she turned -

- Just in time to avoid a sword coming at her face. Blood sprayed from the fool attacking her as she bit deep into his hip with her last axe, then drove a dirk up through his chin strap.

Beside her, Ser Rennifer Brytewyne was tackled from behind - and the two tumbled overboard into the water below.  Seven Hells!

Worse, wildfire had caught on the very ship she was on. I wager we’ll be envying Ser Rennifer soon enough. No, wait -

She felt her knees begin to buckle and dove under an attacker, gripped his leg above the knee, and, with a grunt, threw him overboard.

The flames rising from within the bowels of the dromonds were not green - in fact, they were an eerie pink. Balefire .

Below the seas, a cornucopia-shaped beacon of pink gave off its light. Spiralling down and down, dragging the splintering remains of the vessel with it.

She felt an arrow bounce off her shoulder and turned in time to see another one of her knights hurl a spear into a bowman’s belly.

She needed to get back to her vessel. The ships with catapults might make a difference.  A fortnight of underwater flames ‘neath the pilings would bring down half the harbour!

On her order of retreat, the pirates cheered - and then choked, as her men turned over lanterns and tossed them below decks. This lot deserves to burn.

Then a shape loomed out of the dark.

The orange and black suns of Kenning loomed before her, and before she could disembark, the vessel’s ram slammed into The Maiden’s Wail. The vessel lurched, wood splintering - and it seemed to arch, keel snapping in two .

Half the boat broke free of the grapples of her ship, sending planks and men falling. A rope lashed forward, and she felt something strike her between the shoulder blades.

Air left her lungs, and the world was a myriad of black and indigo with silver dots, and then, a roiling blue ocean filled with driftwood and dead men.

Mya Stone crashed into the water, her armour dragging her down. Her lungs shuddered as she took one last gulp of air before she was pulled ‘neath the waves.

************

The silver moon shone its gentle beams down through the surface, filling the sea below with brilliant silver light.

It was beautiful, in an odd way, and it hurt less than she’d thought, dying like this.

The bow of her ship and foes filled her vision; the breaking, sinking ship began to slowly join her.

Something serpentine streaked across the moonlight, then another, obscuring her vision. Before I drown or am crushed to death, a sea snake shall eat me? What God did I displease?

There was a bright flash of light directly underneath the enemy vessel, and she saw wood shatter, and the serpent crawl in. No, not a serpent -

Her world grew dark.

************

The air burned her lungs with the stink of salt and coal.

And that was when she fell onto the deck of a vessel, covered in clear slime, and looked up around her, the world a blur as she wretched.

Something curled around her; she heard gasps, curses, and then a deep hissing snarl . As she strained to regain focus, she felt something nudge her in the small of her back, and she turned and saw a bright gold nose roughly the size of her chest; the rest of its snout was scarlet, as was its neck and shoulders, and back down the length of its tail.

But its underbelly was a brilliant gold; its tail, which ended in a whale-like fluke, was blue as were half its wings. And its eyes were blue.

Did it save me? Had a dragon saved her? Mya blinked and pulled her helm off her head, hair clinging to her neck. “Why would a…”

“My Lady -” She turned sharply, eying the shadows of the trebuchets, boulders, and pitch. Little fiend brought me to the correct ship!

Mya swallowed and reached out with a shaky hand to rest on the beast’s snout. It seemed to lean into her hand and let out an easy breath. “Those vessels heading to port are carrying balefire!” she roared at the Captain. 

The Captain - another Redwyne cadet, given his freckles and dark red-brown hair - shouted back, “I shall signal to the other vessels; we’ll have them down in no time!”

She shook her head. “No, aim the catapults at the cliffside that fences the beaches! Bring it down into the sea over the ships!”

He paled “But -my Lady. We’ll -”

“Those rocks will break easy enough. We need only enough time to drive them from our waters.” Mya insisted over his objections.

“... Let the rest of the fleet address them in the Straits,” the Captain realized, and bowed - with newfound respect in his eyes.

Behind her, a series of shrill cries filled the night sky as the other dragon broke off from its assault and flew into the air. And the dragon who rescued her did not depart, nor did he leave her side.

***********

Thirty oarsmen chanted their cadences as the men beat drums. The other two vessels began to follow suit, and they were on the foe, losing their artillery over their heads toward the cliffside. The world echoed with the thunder of boulder on boulder and the rustling of many pebbles that would soon begin to slide, if ever so slightly.

The enemy seemed not to notice laughing as they carried their vile cargo towards the harbour. We’ll need to hope those lanterns light…

Something nudged her, and she looked over and again felt like a great fool. The dragon!

But would it obey her? Thrice the size of a horse it might have been, but that wasn’t large enough to bear her weight -

In a moment of utter desperation, she grabbed the dragon by two of its fangs and turned its head towards the ships, approaching the crashing rocks.

My lessons in High Valyrian were…lacking. House Arryn spoke the common tongue unless in official function as a point of pride. The other Houses of the Vale did likewise.

With a sigh, she muttered. “Big boat carry fire, you burn, rocks break?”

The dragon gave her a look that made her want to crawl into a hole. It sniffed the air and then, after a moment, took off into the air.

This beast might have been rather young, but it was bold; it had likely been hunting in the sea and joined a battle to help its fellows safeguard the Arbor, and it was clever, for it understood her gibberish and struck true with a ball of blue and red flame that set a pink cascade the moment just under the water the moment half a cliff worth of pebbles, rocks, and sand buried the enemy ships.

The men around her cheered and embraced each other. She slumped back against the railing and rested a hand on the neck of a colourful beast as it landed beside her.

It was only when they returned to the port that the true extent of the assault reached her. While they had overcome the fleet sent to destroy the shipyards, another fleet assailed Starfish Harbor on the Arbor proper. Uncle Stannis, it was said, had been able to trap them with a chain boom, and cousin Orys and his dragon laid waste to their ships.

But that had been the trap; a gout of wildfire went up and caught Vermithor; no one knew if the dragon or rider lived.

And Malentine Velaryon, her sweet husband, was borne up to her Keep in a litter, wounded fighting on the docks.

As she paced by her husband’s side, listening to his agonized grunts as they set the bone in his leg and used Myrish fire to clean his wounds, she held her sleeping son and struggled not to weep.

*************

T’was only when the dawn came and the Acolytes and Maester said Mal would live and recover fully in time that she allowed herself to lose some of her fear.

When the news came that Vermithor and Orys had survived but that the dragon was alive and well solely because of the power of High Priest Moqorro and that the estuary leading into Starfish harbour would be impassable for the better part of the year while the ocean settled. The coast healed, and she set her son down and ran out for whatever reason.

She grabbed the dragon and wept. They’d been victorious, but she wept all the same.

Chapter Text

DANCE: The Crowning

  **********************************************************

Alicent Hightower strode through the halls of the Red Keep.

These red halls and castle walls had been home since she was a girl - tapestries wrought in the old Valyrian style covered every wall, as she contemplated a marble statue of Daenys, the Dreamer. A maiden of ten-and-four when she prophesied the Doom, and here she is the Maiden in bloom.

The statue bore a scroll in one hand, and pointed… west, with the other. Frescoes of burning dragons in orange skies - and boiling seas - lovers united in a burning tower - death and destruction, all about her reigned. Makes for morbid viewing, but it is Targaryen history.

Wind blowing through the halls caused the torchlight and lantern flames to swirl, their lights flickering. A faint rattling of chains echoed in the hall, but Alicent knew that if it were real, it sounded only in the depths of her immortal soul.

The western wall depicted a reprieve - blue islands, gems of calm in a sea of turmoil… and beyond, a continent divided. Aenar the Exile must have thought it a paradise.

Sometimes, in the days before the King’s death, Alicent could look at the dragons and their riders on the fresco and see her children. She and Rhaenyra had been close once; before the blood and the fury, before Daemon twisted her, and her own resentment and pain overrode her good sense.

Side with the Lord Commander, and war would follow, sure as the dawn.

Side with Jacaerys Strong… War might still follow, and yet it would be with the House of the Dragon and all its myriad banners united, against fools and their follies. Maybe.

Ser Criston Cole was her steadfast shadow, even as Alicent wavered. Prideful and unyielding in their wrath were the Stormlanders, but he looked upon her with respect, now - but he did not slow.

As his shadow fell over her, she yielded, and followed - for he knew her heart well, and in the end, he was right.

Even if Rhaenyra yielded and saw sense, Daemon Targaryen and Corlys Velaryon would ne’er allow her grandchildren to live.

*************

As a child, Alicent’d oft been bid to read to an ailing King, who would more likely than not, confuse her for his slattern daughter, Saera. The woman had returned from Lys near as wealthy as the Reynes, and wed the Lord of Sea Dragon Point.  

Odd, to think I mourned the Old King more than mine own husband - but truly, that was saying nothing at all. The King after that she’d been able to seize power from - power that by right should have rested with him, were he not so… fickle with it.

And now she was at the mercy of her brute of a son - his fickle, oafish desires bore the weight of royal command, now, and men cursed her for it. Worse, she had to rely on a man whose pride dwarfed every other impetus in his head.

When the doors opened, Aegon was stark naked, his brutish form for all the world to see. Built like John the Oak her son was - seven inches over six feet, with broad shoulders and a neck like a tree trunk.

But his father’s love of food and drink was in him as well, and so Aegon had the beginnings of a prominent belly, that certainly did not deter him from the not-so-noble art of wrestling. He’d hold his own against an Umber, Gods forbid, and order the man to kneel if he could not make him do so with his fists!

Alicent was thankful that his lust was not as base - beyond the one harlot, he laid almost exclusively with poor Halaena, who bore his appetites with a better grace than Alicent could ever have. Would Daeron had been my first-born! Instead, his elder brothers must sit the throne first, and ruin the kingdoms with their madness.

************

Looking up, the-once-boy - with no ambition, save to brawl in Clover Alley and fornicate with his sister-wife - gazed at them with glazed eyes, before addressing Ser Criston. “My Father is dead,” he stated. Not a question .

Slowly, she nodded. “He is, your Grace.” Something flickered in his eyes.

“Good, that is good,” he said at last. “Long did he suffer,” Aegon rose, gesturing to be clothed.

“As he made others suffer,” she replied, and was coldly glared at in response. Loyalty? To a man Aegon saw as nothing more than a gaoler?

The boy who robed him, she seethed to discover, was none other than Trystane Waters. “The bastard must leave,” Alicent demanded.

“Why? The King was his Father as well!” Her brute of a son shrugged, and to her shock, set a brotherly hand on his bastard brother’s back. “He is free of his pain, little brother…”

Ah, the men in whose blood flows the fire of dragons. His father had his toy city, and he… “Then Rhaenyra is Queen,” Trystane said softly. 

“She is not, bastard!” Criston Cole spat. “Helaena is Queen.”

“She does not want it!” shouted Aegon in return. “We shall conquer the Stepstones and establish a breeding colony of dragons there, away from the stink of this city! And to one day take Tyrosh as King Jaehaerys dreamed,” he ranted maniacally. “That is her desi-”

Alicent stepped forward, and struck him across the face. Her beringed hand had caught on his cheek and lips, and left bleeding wounds, as he gaped in surprise.

In response, he gripped her wrist and hoisted her up - and in the same breath, Ser Criston had his sword across his neck.

Throughout it all, the bastard stared with calf eyes, like her husband once had.

Aegon did not understand - or perhaps, does not want to understand , something in her heart spoke quietly. “Strike your King again, Mother, if your King I be - then to a Sept you shall go, as you should have!” He seethed, like a child.

“Rhaenyra may endorse your plan , such as it is,” conceded the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, even as his blade hung over her son’s bull neck like an executioner’s axe. “Yet Daemon will not - he will have your head on a spike.”

The brute released her at last, and it took Alicent all her composure to not flop to the floor like a dead fish. “See reason, Aegon -” she beseeched, but he shook his head as soon as the word fell from her mouth.

“Reason?” Spittle flew from his mouth, as Aegon frothed like foam. “The Lords of the Realm mislike my whore of a sister for spending her adolescence fucking her uncle, but what of me? If they mislike her for a hedon, they’ll revile me as a layabout drunkard!”

“Do not forget catamite,” the bastard interjected, and the fool laughed.

“One more word out of you, bastard, and they’ll find you at the bottom of the bay,” hissed Alicent, already planning on making good on the threat. If I have to suffer more of the King’s shame after he’s rotted to dust -

“One more word of disparagement for my half-brother, mother, and I shall have you raped to death,” spoke her once-son, with all a dragon’s fiery contempt, as Alicent stared at something she could no longer recognize.

Ser Criston was not so idle - his blade was now pressing against the to-be-King’s neck, and a thin line of red ran along its edge.

His blood, Alicent realized, and nodded. “As you will it, o King ,” she replied, and hiked up the skirts of her green dress, for the world to see. “Your Kingly Father smiles upon you from the lowest Hell, to see his son follow in his footsteps!”

The men stared at her, aghast, as the King-to-be finally fell to his knees before the weight of the sword bearing down on him. The brute closed his eyes. “Crown me, and be damned. ”

She smiled, for she could hear Helaena in his words. “Too late, o King.”

Soldiers of the Realm

***************************************************

The sun hung high in the noon sky as Ser Richard and his fellows arrived. Though billeted in the monster of a palace House Targaryen now called home, Ser Richard had been more keen to see the town, and several of the Knights of his House had opted instead to stay at one of the finer inns.

On the silver of House Targaryen, of course, Willem Darry thought with disdain. How he likes to look at her askance yet take their coin.

The sullen bitterness and hypocritical mistrust of the Knight of Kisses and Skulls rankled the older man, for many of the Hedge Knights ventured here for land and offices - but also out of a sense of duty.

His own grandsons gaining lands for this service was a generous if unnecessary gift. We came because we remember the good days, before Daemon the Demon and the dimming of our golden age. For all Aerys’ faults, Willem would ne’er forget the liberation of Myr, nor the hand that raised him up to Master-of-Arms of the Red Keep.

Though one of two commanders for the mounted Knights and freeriders who would be present for his little excursion, the benighted sword swallower had delayed and delayed, enjoying an afternoon meal with some young eunuch minstrel. His conduct was that of a man lost, but his choices were little; Lord Ronnel Connington could think only of wealth. Mayhap escape from the near immiseration of his House, and the usury of Lady Baratheon.

Politics demanded at least one Stormlander was present for command so as not to be seen to insult Lord Robert, their Marshall of the Royal Armies and Master of War. Not that the man would care a whit.

And the brat was clever, too, for he absconded with Ser Ormund Wylde and his grandnephews, bastard and true alike. Along with the only other Stormlander with a brain.He and that Bracken lad had ridden off to do battle with an army of Sellswords and the Dothraki thralls under the Blue Khal, the second of the sons of Khal Bharbo and the one with the larger domains.

Son of the Stallion or something they’d called the lad in the gibberish they called a tongue. The lad had earned that by slaying a Khal at ten and four! Willem shook his head; not even the Kingslayer could boast such a feat. And, of course, he steals my first choice to second this mad mission, little brigand! They would feast together upon their return and celebrate their victories.

Princess Daenerys had journeyed with them at Lord Elbert's urging, taking Ser Perwyn Frey and Aemon Truefyre with her. Willem tried not to join Prince Maekar in his worries. The girl would acquit herself well; no child of the Quiet Wolf could fail at war.

Ahead of them was a small cottage in the training yards, a quiet assembly for a small host.

One thousand foot, half the newly trained Silver Legion (The other half were now training other bands of the legion across the Eigth Kingdom.), one hundred horses, and fifty heavy horses. A small band, able to move at lightning speed, overrun small garrisons and inspire slave rebellions across the region.

To represent House Arryn, the future overlords of Pentos, and the City's domains. Lady Jeyne and Monterys Velaryon would join them, them and their dragons, young, small, and lightning fast.

Useless in a siege but sure to put terror in country guards and flaccid overseers. Useful as scouts as well… Swyftwing had proven that as a courier dragon for Lord Stark, and Princess Rhaella had done likewise during the war here long ago.

With him were Knights of the Stormlands, Riverlands, Hedge Knights, and quite a few Knights and mounted foot from local domains around Myr. One could spot them for their armor, which was even more garish than his own. Knightly pageantry became a grand spectacle of art, and these men reminded him more of the dressmaker balls that were hosted in Darry, Riverrun, and Maidenpool. Ser Richard ought to feel quite at home…

What a man did in his own Keep was his business, but pillow biters who lost lovers during war often went bloodmad, and that made them a liability. Not that he could blame them; if someone turned his wife into a straw hedgehog made of arrows and blood, he, too, would go mad.

But not all women were warriors. Near every man who lay with a man Ser Willem ever knew was both a warrior and madly in love with his squire. They never have the sense to luster after a Miller or a Blacksmith.

Arrayed about a trestle table sat Prince Maekar and Lord Robert, Lord Elbert, and Ser Osric Rivers. The Prince was flanked by that boy from House Payne, the stammerer, and Simeon of Cailin Starks.

Only the Prince was adorned in more than a surcoat, a dark blue cotehardie with silver dragons in flight as buttons on the placket and a black surcoat of fine linen, his quartered grey and red dragons upon the sleeves of his surcoat and upon his breast.

Lord Robert and Lord Elbert had little more than their surcoats of black, gold, blue, and ivory. Both men had spent the morning wrestling, and both men still had the bodies of warriors. Willem’s eyes shifted between the reactions of his men and of the foot; the soldiers showed no shock at a man of nine and sixty looking as he did. But my Knights are somewhat shocked… That irked him.

Both peoples had a proud warrior tradition, but only one was long accustomed to being more bureaucrat than warrior. These men trained by Unsullied expect to serve their whole lives, any boon that arises from it is good fortune. My Knights see comfort as hand in hand with honour.

Rather than food or wine, lemon water was in the silver-framed crystal goblets of every man at the table. And each one, even Lord Robert, was eyeing the map.

The Blackfish and Greyworm, the rebellious Unsullied who were helping create this army of the Eighth Kingdom, were busy inspecting the thousand men who volunteered to come on this grand adventure. I suspect all four thousand volunteered; as did every Knight in the Royal Army I broached the topic with.

In that, he felt a swell of mutual pride. “They look presentable.” Ser Richard conceded, trying to keep the respect from his voice. “Almost reminds me of a host from the Stormlands.”

Ser Osric grinned. “hmm, Deez boys’ll march like men from da Stormlands set up camp like dem giants o’Winterfell, I guarantee M’Lords!”

Lord Robert tapped the map at the table, showing the Sea of Myrth, its estuaries and inlets, and the rivers that fed them. “you’ll cross into the Sea of Myrth, then into the Golden Lake passed the bay.” Tracing his immense fingers along the bay that opened to the sea and then a seemingly narrow river into a slender spear-head shaped lake. “Here, at the southern shore of Golden Lake, you will enter this Serpentine River here.”

“River Wyrm, so named for the Riverwyrms that once were sighted there,” Prince Maekar corrected with a teasing smile, prompting Lord Robert something about “blasted mapmakers.”

“Cartographers M’lord,” Responded Ser Osric, though he mangled the word, and Ser Willem could never tell if the man exaggerated his Riverlander accent or not.

Lord Robert frowned. “That sounds like a pox you’d catch from an alley-back whore.”

There was laughter at the table as Lord Robert seized the distances involved. “Fortnight of travel total, ride hard and fast, stir up a right bunch of shit, and then return; you’ve four turns of the moon before we take you for dead.”

“Any slaves that should wish to come with us?” Ser Richard asked.

“Leave them, tell them to form their own caravan and ride for the border of Myr along the Rhoyne, ne’er stay more than a night at any of these towns.”

“Twenty in total.” Prince Maekar remarked, eying them all as the weight of their duty fell upon them all.

Raid twenty towns across the Father alone knew how many leagues… setting rebellions in them all and do so in under half a year. Not since the days of House Hoare had a Knight from the Riverlands faced a challenge so daunting.

Ser Paul Rivers and his famous ride to warn as many settlements and Keeps as possible of the oncoming assault by the Ironborn came to mind. And he and his died in the end…

If they succeeded, they’d become legends; if they failed, they’d be outnumbered beyond count in hostile lands where the vendetta against them ran deep. Their deaths would not be glorious nor swift.

But if they succeeded, it could disrupt the foe and slow their advance into the Eighth Kingdom. And force Qoggo to divide his monstrous powers.

Undaunted, Ser Richard allowed himself a smile. “Our Knights can achieve this, your Grace - but can they?” He asked pointedly.

The challenge was answered by Greyworm, who walked over, his armour of silvered steel shimmering in the noonday sun. The red three-headed dragon upon his breast and the red crest upon his helm filled Ser Willem with a sense of pride and fond memories.

“Ser will find that this one and his men can march longer than Ser can ride.” He answered with defiance on his tongue and a friendly challenge in his eyes.

To his credit, the Knight of the Stormlands laughed and nodded. “Aye, then, Captain.” He said, extending his hand. “Then let us bring fire and steel to our foe.”

Defiance

 ***********************

Halys Hornwood died to a host led by his little brother, a boy of nine namedays. Rickon - the only blessing in all this is that he had not become kinslayer in the act of trying to prove himself.

Robb broke his fast on meagre fare, as he read the report on Rickon’s latest adventure; a sortie against enemy raiders - garbed as brigands, and eyes only for gold and grain instead of beef as the Hornwoods usually did.

One could almost believe Halys Hornwood had learned something - if he hadn’t been at the raiders’ head this time. It had complicated matters. Daryn Hornwood was part of Robb’s honour guard and had engaged sellswords and men loyal to House Karstark on many occasions, and his younger brother Larence Snow was a lad of unimpeachable character.

He’d meant for the man to take the black, and save them from dishonour, but his little brother had fed the man to his direwolf instead. Thank the Gods Osha had enough sense to burn the body.

As he finished his chilled ale, Robb let out a sigh and collapsed his head into his hands. “By the Old Gods and the new…”

“Tis an opportunity.” ‘Nyra counselled; she was seated opposite him, resplendent in her armour, ready for war at a moment’s notice and bearing Winterfang at her hip. At five and ten now, she looked every bit a Warrior Princess of the Old Freehold. “We needn’t mention the treason; say Master Halys was killed in a fire by the Hornwood…”

Robb snorted. “Aye, t’wouldn’t be a lie.”

“And we grant Alys to Daryn as planned…Her lands could be divided with the peninsula going to Rickon and the remainder granted to Daryn as dowry. Though you’d have to elevate him from head of a Masterly House to a Lordly one.”

“He remains a Manderly vassal,” Robb stated flatly, causing ‘Nyra to giggle. A sennight prior, she joined her dragon to Willas Tyrell’s four thousand Reachers, and Shireen and her dragon. Together, they had taken the southern half of the Karstark lands, dislodging the Skagosi and bringing Alys in hand.

In truth, this civil war was over; the Skagosi set sail for Myr as they promised and gifted half their plunder as a tribute to “The Magnar of House Stark,” and with the Reachers holding their southern lands and Rickon utterly savaging the Grey Cliffs, they were cut off in the south and east.

Harrion had retreated north and ceased fighting, holding out on a small Keep belonging to the Karstarks on their northern border. Husband and wife had decided to pay him a personal visit - and lay out the terms that they planned to give Alys as well.

Robb presently had a force of twelve thousand poised to advance on Karhold. Arnulf and his kin would surrender or face dragonfire - and he fully expected the soldiers to turn him over before such an atrocity would occur.

After a moment, Nyra gave a nod. “Wolfsbane and Sixstreams benefit the most from this. The Hornwoods double their size, but the crippling debts your great-grandsire enacted on them will mean they shall not be able to use their new gains for another generation.”

“Forgiveness of a quarter, mayhap,” Robb muttered. Daryn deserved that, at least, even if he couldn’t make him a direct vassal after all the infamy. “But what of Larence?”

‘Nyra smiled that soft smile she did when she had a notion. “Legitimation now, Lord Stannis sent the edict. In any case, let us see how the war in the South fares, my love.”

Robb raised an eyebrow. “You think we ought to impose him upon the Westerlands?”

With an indulgent sigh, she rose and walked over to kiss him on the cheek. “Tis hardly an imposition when there are quite a few Houses under the banner of Casterly Rock with Northron blood in their veins! The Merchant’s Court meant a rather lucrative alliance between them and us for centuries...”

‘Ere the foolishness of the last two Lords of the Rock Robb though nodding. “No doubt they’d wish for a return to such days.”

“Many do, in fact.” ‘Nyra insisted.

Upon news of his Father’s murder, Robb had called the banners. The powers of the North were finally joining, but that meant Ser Rodrick Cassel, poor Maester Luwin, and Vayon Poole had to find a way to keep all that power diverted at Winterfell.

Though they could afford to billet such puissance for the time that was needed, bored soldiers were oft more deadly than starving ones, and Robb did not want to throw the whole might of the North into this affair. This needed to be concluded by the end of the eighth month of the year, at the very latest.

Shifting his thoughts to the other letters scattered about the table off to the side of the tent, he shifted when ‘Nyra sat upon his lap, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his head on her chest. “Did you read the raven Mother sent from Tarth?”

“About the queer explosion at sea?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Robb nodded. “It vexes me, though I cannot say why, you dabble in the Higher Mysteries, know you anything?”

She shook her head. “I wrote to Archmaester Wilde and Maester Luwin; both men believe it was the wooden dragons Jon and Dany use to call their banners…Some friends of ours in the Alchemist Guild of White Harbor Concur.”

Robb frowned; if they were capable of interacting with wildfire to such a degree, then their potential at war could not be ignored, but he wasn’t certain. “With Tywin deploying that…Sorceress in the field, we may need to train our forces to expect Engines of War from Yi Ti.”

“A problem for when we’re in the Riverlands, surely.” ‘Nyra murmured, shuddering at the thought. For five thousand years, the Freehold’s ravenous hunger for gems, gold, and silver guided their expansion in all directions.

The Golden Empire possessed a similar hunger. Yet they always expanded across the sea.

And the Freehold refused to bring their dragons further East than old Ghis save in celebrations and friendship.

Two titans. Yet they never made war upon each other. Most scholars suspected distance, which was the most reasonable. But Robb was never certain.

The Freehold had explored Sothoryos extensively and even moved immense amounts of troops to the Basilisk Isles; surely, a jaunt across the same continent would not be so taxing.

Rising, Robb summoned his squires and took ‘Nyra by the hand, t’was time to start the day and start it with a war council. There were other letters brought by raven and courier; the most vexing was one from King’s Landing. Evidently, the little fool Tommen demanded his oath of fealty.

He’d written Jacaerys at Dragonstone but received a reply from Aegon Blackfyre instead, demanding he abandon the war entirely and do nothing until he brought the power of the Narrow Sea Domains to bear.

Robb tossed both into the flames.

***********

They’d made their camp near the Long Hall Keep of a vassal of House Karstark who’d bent the knee and vowed he would never strike the blood of kin, however distant. Being in part descended from both Houses.

Robb bid that he only let them pass.

The Master of these lands welcomed them into his Hall as was custom, but Robb doubted such a petty Lord could host such a fine gathering of Lords without immiseration, and so he ordered their tents be struck instead. Victory, his Father oft said, must occur in the heart as well as on the field.

Part of that was pageantry, part of that kindness, most of it violence.

Savagery, mummery, and mercy were the true tools of war he was learning, reminding him of an observation a King of the Rock once made about it being a mere continuation of politics.

Lyonel Tyrell, a son of Ser Leo, the new Steward of the Dreadfort and Master of House Tyrell of one of those domains named after Lichyards (He could not recall which.), and Jorah attended them at the fold of their tent.

Jorah was named after his cousin. A fierce warrior and former Lord of Bear Island who died during the fighting at Pyke and who once stood before the Kingsmoot during the Rebellion and challenged any Lord to a duel who dared demand Daeron Waters take the Black, including King Daemon. He’d been the champion of Lady Dacey’s husband and a staunch loyalist.

This Jorah held the traditional Mormont features, dark hair, and almost copper skin. But his eyes were violet and ringed with blue, and his hair was silky and wavy. A boy that represented the North his forebears worked so hard to build, one of many peoples united under tradition and a desire to defy the winter’s wrath.  Both were adorned in greys and silver, a white Direwolf blazoned about their tabards.

Lyonel Tyrell was of a similar height, but slimmer. His hair was brown-gold, and his eyes were like two amber garnets. Their House had chosen an amethyst rose on a field of green for their device, and his armour bore that dark green hew with roses made of beads amethysts.  Like the Manderlys before them, these Tyrells had come North with a few thousand Smallfolk, Septons, a great deal of gold, and treasures that were more vital still. Bolton lands will thrive under their care. His Father was sworn to Lord Rickon, and never would Robb allow any of Roose’s former vassals near his little brother.

Ser Raymund Darke, ever Rhaenyra’s shadow, awaited in the new set of white armour that Robb had made for him. An ivory brooch fashioned his cloak, and the leather keeping his plate from icing was dyed white.  “Your Grace, My Lord.” He bowed.

“They’re outside by the fire. Shall I summon them in, my Lord?” Jorah asked. From the sound coming from without, Robb gathered they were riotous - and shook his head at the thought of corralling them in.

Bronn, who was waiting for them on a barrel by the tent flap, beamed. “Morning, my Lord! Princess!” the cat who’d caught the mouse proceeded to toy with it. “The Greatjon is saying we ought to invade now and leave the Karstarks for Winter.”

“And why is that?” Robb would never leave a foe at his back, especially one who blasphemed with his rebellion. Surely, the Greatjon would have known that?

“There was a raid on the Arbor; Ryam’s port remains undamaged, but Starfish Harbor will be impassable til year’s end.” Bronn shrugged as though revealing to him that one-half of the power he was relying on to invade the Westerlands would not be able to make a move for another year, if not longer, which was a calamity.

“And they received word of this before I did,”  Robb growled.

Both Rhaenyra and Ser Raymund were gaping: “The Arbor commands the largest navy this side of the Sunset Sea…”

“This side of the known world,” Robb grumbled. “Dickon Tarly must stand alone…at least for a time.” And House Bulwer and the others still loyal to their King.

He clenched the paper as he neared the dying remnants of the great fire at the centre of camp. Faint orange embers burned amidst grey ash, casting pale blue smoke that began to dance and twist in the autumn wind.

***********

The Lords who’d marched with him were arrayed about the dying firepit in their cups with their blood up, and it took a howl from both Grey Wind and Mag, the Mighty, to at last silence them all.

The Lord of the Giants looked at Robb and nodded. “Lord…speak now…Little Lords hold tongues!” His words may as well have been a divine edict handed down by the Old Gods themselves for how swiftly disorder turned to order and his Lords arrayed as if on parade.

Robb eyed them all: ferocious Greatjon Umber, contemplative Torrhen Stark, immense Manderly, avaricious Master Harwood of House Stout. The Lords of the Gate and chief sentries of Barrowton, vainglorious Gareth Long and Clay Cerwyn, and tranquil Master Overton. Dacey and a score of others, who stood like multi-colored sentinel pines. Men and women and Giants he’d marched with to settle his lands.

“We’ve dithered long enough,” He began. “At Karhold in four days' time, Arnulf and the others will bend the knee, or we’ll take the castle by dragonfire.”

“Are we to truly risk kinslaying?” asked the newly Lorded Alaric Wolfsbane incredulously.

“These traitors are in consort with a man who holds our King in fetters,” stated Osric Sixtreams, stroking his shaved chin with gloved hands. The morning sun shone on his head, making him look more Thenn than his shaggy kin. “Should the Riverlands fall, we’ll be forced into a war that might go on  all winter,” he shuddered.

“And should Queen Sansa conceive, there’s no reason to believe this false Protector Of The Realm shan’t murder his own grandson to gain a prolonged regency.” 

Robb hadn’t considered that. Would Tywin Lannister be mad enough? ‘Nyra had paled at the notion.

“Kinslaying, fah!” spat the Greatjon. “There has not been a Stark wed to a Karstark since the days of Jaehaerys the First!”

“Kin is kin, Umber,” warned Lord Alaric.

“If we go back far enough, all are kin.” Spoke Styr of House Thenn, Lord of lands loyal to House Stark and descended from Wildings who came south a century ago. Many of the more devout began to nod, for the Thenns were oft seen as the closest the North had to clerics.

Lord Manderly nodded, his jowls bouncing as he did so. “The Seven-Pointed Star makes allowances for such trying times, else all violence would be proscribed!”

Robb motioned for silence. “Many of you have no doubt received the same Ravens I have from King’s Landing and Dragonstone.”

He could see a measure of contemplative pause amongst his banners.

The men knew the stakes. Putting Stark blood upon the Iron Throne - the marriage pact between Houses Blackfyre and Stark as embodied by Maelys and Sansa - represented nigh two centuries of careful planning by the North.

Others dreamed Cregan’s dream. One Kingdom, one continent under the guidance of Winterfell. Others still realized that Aegon Blackfyre rebuking the Kingsmoot at the start of the Rebellion meant any House with dragons could do the same.

Much to his despair, the Greatjon fell into that last category. “King Tommen! Fah, a soft limbed ponce! And Aegon? Aye, a mighty pirate hunter in his time, but his time is past. Daeron was the future, aye! But the future drowned with him!”

Suddenly, his sword was in his hand, and Ser Raymund, Lyonell Tyrell, and even Jorah Mormont reached for their steel, only for Bronn to stop them with a gesture.

“Maelys is a simpleton and a hostage besides! Everyone knows it! Forgive me, Princess, but tis true, and Sansa is a clever girl, gentle aye, but she’s her mother’s daughter, and Lady Catelyn is no weakling! And the Old Lion will strangle them both for it! The Greatjon boomed, and Robb clenched his fists.

“Here before me is a Queen who knows the Wolfswood, who has earned glory in battle upon her dragon and even riding a direwolf!”

His roar had roused the dragons, Robb could see. “Here is a Queen named for one denied her birthright and descended from another!”

Men pounded their chests in approval. Rhaenyra’s hand gripped his like a vice to steady herself, and she shook slightly.

“And what finer consort than the Lord of Winterfell!” The Greatjon again thundered. “South, West, and East, these minor Kings can never fill the shadow of Daemon Blackfyre! Nor fulfil Daeron’s promise! But here stands a Warrior Queen. I can bend my knee, too!”

The world was silent; none moved, and none dared to speak. And he knew in that instant that the beast of a man spoke aloud that which many had been thinking, even himself, much to his own shame.

Robb looked upon his wife, and said what everyone was thinking. “Yea or nay, ‘Nyra?”

Beside him, ‘Nyra was laughing, laughing and weeping. “I am moved, Lord Jon.” She began, her voice breaking at first and strengthening as she began to walk forward gingerly. Her velvet cloak of red fluttered in the wind, her armour seemed to shine.  “To be given such trust, I do not believe a King has been crowned in the North since Torrhen’s ascent more than three centuries ago.”  Her voice grew then, and her smile waned slightly, sombre and honoured.

“The last Queen named Rhaenyra and her drunken, poppy-sotted half-brother burned the realm to ash! All the Smallfolk and even the beasts of burden who helped build our Seven Kingdoms!”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “Nay, I shall not repeat the sins of my namesake! This third Dance hearkens back to the first, my Lords… I must refuse.”

To the shock of all, save Robb, t’was the Greatjon who rose first, laughing a deep laugh. “Rhaenyra The Wise and Robb the Cunning, they’ll call you two the Winterfell Kingmakers…” With a nod, he lifted his sword and roared. “FOR KING MAELYS!”

One by one, the other Lords followed.

Chapter Text

Countryside Stroll

Castamere was a sennight past, back on the once-neglected hill path they’d taken, on this leisurely stroll .

The hands of peasant labourers and tradesmen had attempted a hasty revival of what was once the Reyne-road. Gravel laid over layers of cement - a Westerlands innovation - spoke to their efforts; the road crunched as the wheelhouse travelled.

More than once, Lady Jeyne picked pebbles out of the paw pads of her unfortunate direwolf. Sansa could barely recall the days when she’d professed an unreasoning fear of Lady - now, the pair were thick as thieves.

Lord Westerling had proposed the tour; something about the King and Queen needing the fresh air. Sansa could not refuse the notion, for her two-faced vassals were fighting to make their home a second nest of vipers.

Maelys would be crowned in a fortnight, and we still aren’t wed . Her Prince was in a right fury about it, and their so-called vassals had, more than once, baulked at the prospect. Worse, Lord Spicer had chosen then , to suggest Jeyne's marriage to Lancel be annulled.

The High Justice, Kevan, had entertained the idea for but a moment. Sansa thought he’d taken more umbrage not for his own son’s wishes, but with the notion of sullying the royal line with merchant's blood . It was very Lannister of him, and she’d regretted overhearing that particular conversation.

Rolph Spicer found himself challenged to a duel to defend his actions - and when the man refused to rise to the occasion, Maelys grabbed him by his cuirass and beat him through the training yard leaving him a bloody ruin, soiling the High Justice’s lofty white cloak.

She had cradled his hand that night, knuckles bruised with the effort of punching the Spicer through half-plate. His fingers were gentle in hers, as if he feared to move them -

- Even to entwine them in Sansa’s, even as she rubbed his back in soothing motions, as if trying to calm a wild beast.

*************

Mighty Ashemark’s twin towers dominated the plateau it stood on, and its surrounding tower-house keeps.

Ser Addam had bragged of his House’s seat; that the fortress and its keeps dug into the land itself - a herculean endeavour by the miners of the West, and the twin symbols of Marbrand power.

Maelys and Sansa’s banner - the direwolf head on a Wyrm's body - fluttered alongside the burning tree of Marbrand, and the dragon of Blackfyre.

And beneath them all, the Lannister lion, a sight which put her in much better humour. Flying their House and King’s flag above their Lords’ - Perhaps they will favour Maelys over his Grandsire, after all. Perhaps that was why they hadn’t entered the great Keep, something Sansa found remarkably unsubtle. Of all the surviving children of Lord Tytos only Gerion seems to be above pettiness….

Once, on the bustling road to Ashemark, Sansa saw dwarf elephants lazing in the sun, their riders rubbing dust and clay on their shoulders, while oxen ate greedily from haystacks.

“They pull the heavier loads from the mines to the markets. Descended from war prizes taken from Lys," Lady Jeyne remarked, her voice tinged with sorrow, "unlike those in Castamere, born from shipwrecks. I do so love elephants, and they deserve better than being used as beasts of labour.”

“Lancel thinks it may be within Our authority,” a sprawling Maelys remarked, wineglass in hand, “to mandate verderers and game-wardens in keeping such… exotic beasts in good conditions, as dragons are wont to.”

“Within reason,” Sansa warned. The elephants did look miserable, but even her Lord Father had to consider such writs carefully - lest the smallfolk grow wroth over what they saw as unreasonable restrictions.

“And a census of dragons…and lions!” Jeyne put in, earning a laugh from Maelys.

Foremen overseeing the laying of new tracks oft had to halt entire crowds on their behalf. "Move, ya lazy shits! 'Tis the King's wheelhouse!" they bellowed, cracking their whips overhead.

Lady had somehow befriended a pack of wolves, and they lurked about, when their party pitched camp. Their presence kept the lions from getting too close, though Sansa could still hear the roars at night.

Her Lady sometimes hunted with the lions at night. One day, Sansa’d work up the courage to accompany her - in spirit, of course.

*****************

Oxcross was a market town that sat on a crossroads of major trading routes and waterways. Brick and stone dwellings mingled with manses and markets.

Sansa spied a vibrant jeweller's market, flanking a butcher's row and a grain market. To her eyes, it seemed as if the traders had set up wherever the whim took them. Perhaps there’s an art to it, somewhere?

The Order of the Golden Lion, it seemed, governed this town as no other knightly orders did. The Keep flew the banner of the royal House, and their Captain and his entire company out to greet them, as befit a King and Queen - all bedecked in armour bearing the black dragon.

She learned more of the war from gossip, than from her own vassals. Some vassals. The townsfolk were in a black mood; at the loss of trade, she heard, and the oncoming armies - but Sansa only had ears for her family.

They whispered that House Karstark was decimated. House Karstark had routed Robb and driven him back to Winterfell. Rickon Stark had amassed an army of thousands of beasts and invaded Karhold. To avoid kinslaying, he fed the Karstarks to his animals.

He was crowning himself King in the North, King of all Beasts, Emperor in the West, and God King of all of the Seven Kingdoms, amongst scores of other silly rumours she heard through door mice, lazy cats, and sleepy dogs that made her laugh.

Sansa did not think herself particularly weepy, especially at breakfast, but the bard that sang Seasons of My Love had touched them both, somehow. Even her so-reserved-Prince grasped her hand, and held it tight ‘neath the table, at the trials of the slave girl who longed after her Valyrian love.

Afternoon meals they’d take amongst their subjects, in a townhouse or tavern or some such; not only would it win them the hearts and minds of the people, but it had been two years since she attended a fair.

If she were being honest, all she wanted was to be with Maelys without interlopers . Privacy was hard to find in Castamere, and even harder here, and so they were restrained to the occasional touch and gaze, and Sansa oft feared she’d been reading more into them than her Prince had meant. A child’s fear, but -

Then she recalled that Shae had caught Lady Sybil Westerling with her hand in Sansa’s wine - some potion in hand that was widely known to curb fertility. Her maid-turned-spy had shown her claws then, and Sansa had no doubt the Lady would have been found dead the very next morn, if she had not interfered.

Traitors or not - she firmly believed that curbing but one snake would only cause ten more to crawl out of the woodwork.

******************

Sansa met her Prince at the gates of the Order’s great keep, flanked by engravings of serpents, coiled around a man and a woman on either side. She stood beneath the Lady, as befit her, and Maelys opposite her, as they regarded each other with want hidden in their eyes.

Maelys was in black velvet and red silk, dyed with the Blackfyre wyrm - but what truly drew men’s eyes was the crown of Aegon the Conqueror; a simple band of Valyrian Steel with seven red rubies.

Sansa had last seen it at Daeron’s wedding - and now it was on her Prince’s brow. A sign of Kingship - All that’s missing is Blackfyre!

And with one of the Kingmaker dragons - Maelos, or Aegos - the transformation would have been complete… but for the look on his face. He looks… haunted.

Her Prince did not hesitate to pull her into a hug… and a kiss that spoke so much more desperation than he could ever put into words.

But then Sansa kissed him back, and as they shared breath and stared into each other’s eyes… something in his eyes eased, if only for a moment.

Dragon banners announced the fair and celebrated the coming of the King and Queen. The Lion of Lannister and the arrow of Sarsfield, and the sun-on-blue of Lefford had pride of place as well, as town criers declaimed and innkeeps and jewellers awaited their leisure.

Septons preached against the Lutherites while others shouted their benedictions. The jewellers were particularly bold - some thrust beautiful necklaces into the hands of their attendants, while others had to be driven off by their guards.

So much for a simple stroll, Sansa despaired quietly.

Lady had taken to lolling hungrily at the carts of meat pies, her tongue hanging out. One of the merchants seemed to take pity, and tossed Lady one - which the direwolf promptly caught in the daintiest manner possible, and nibbled at it like Sansa would a lemon cake.

Laughter rose in the air. “To our Queen and her wolf! My thanks for reopening the Castamere mines!” The bronze-bellied cook shouted. Cheers and chanting and men and women drumming out on pots and pans followed, the cries, “Blackfyre! Blackfyre!” “Maelys King!” “Hail to the delving dragons!” on every tongue.

Some of the Westermen in her retinue smiled sadly, while others shook their heads. “Descendants of reavers,” explained a tanned blonde guard, to Sansa’s questioning look.

From when the Kingdom of the Rock was sundered by the Hoares, she finally recalled. Tyrion the Terrible had put many to the sword later in his bloody reconquest, her Braavosi tutors had described at length.

Sansa had vomited, but only after the lesson - it wouldn’t do to show such weakness to outsiders.

“Many of us expected similar disdain, from the grandson of Tywin Lannister,” Ser Reynald spoke softly enough that her Prince could not have heard - yet Maelys clasped him on his back all the same.

Ahead of them was a sort of amphitheatre, the sight of which Sansa had anticipated keenly - for she recalled Oxcross’ burgher urging them to see one of these dramas that were taking hold, in the cities of the Seven Kingdoms. “There is a drama about the Last Hero.” Ser Reynald remarked.

She was surprised - the Last Hero, if she recalled, was one of the more obscure Northron legends. “Truly?”

“‘tis a First Man Legend, my Lady,” Maelys said, sliding his hand into hers.  “Lord Blackwood first spoke it to me, but the Last Hero is… relatively well known, even among those who do not hold to the weirwoods.”

Ser Reynald nodded sombrely. “Indeed! House Westerling traces its lineage from him, even! A savage time it was, where Magnars were the highest authority, and their domains ended a day’s ride from their longhouses.”

“Bringing order and light, to a world gripped by darkness,” Maelys said with a wistful smile.

Sansa watched him keenly as his troubles seemed to fall from his shoulders, as they all struggled to imagine such an ancient time. It didn’t seem real to her - the Starks had ruled the North for millenia, and even the earliest years of the Wolf Kings’ reigns had been lost to antiquity.

“Then it’s decided!” she said, mustering as bright a smile as she could. “Let us see this drama!” At the very least, ‘tis a chance my Prince shall have his spirits lifted.

***************

Her Prince had commandeered a box that was normally reserved for the High Lord - and took quite some pleasure in the act, Sansa found. She giggled when the lead mummers stepped out, and thanked The King and Queen for their attendance, and praised their reign. If only every day as Queen were like this!

A series of wooden frames meant to depict an ancient longhouse, had been erected behind a man - a Stark, she gathered, seated upon a throne of bones, brooding and lamenting the winter.

“Magnar!” his wife cried - one of these women mummers, she noted, scandalized. But her plea was impassioned, intended to rouse her husband from his brooding seat and take up arms against the Others - and Sansa could not fault her skill.

Men hidden at either side of the stage beat fans of bronze to mimic howling winds. Lady herself howled a lonesome howl seemingly into the spirit of the thing, and the audience seemed to think it was part of the performance, for they grew solemn.  

 “How can I fight what I cannot kill? I am not Magnar Starfall with his sword of light!” He groused. “My Father’s Father has taken to wandering again, but the Greenhand does not come here…” 

“He has other lands to heal.” She pleaded. “If you do not rise, our children will freeze and starve!” Still, the Magnar did not move.

Not until a great big fat man with brown hair came. “I am the Magnar of the setting sun! Castor, son of Corlos, son of Caster! And I come to you with knowledge lost!” a great big thing meant to be a crude blade was revealed.

Sansa recognized it immediately, but the mummers portrayed it as dragonsteel - which was certainly not true, then. Ice was a weapon of the Others, stolen by treachery and used to slay their King.  The King of the Fair, they called him...a foe of Garth the Greenhand.

It was only then that the winter's wrath grew unbound, and the Night’s Queen brought her terror upon the land and all would have been swallowed up had not the last hero and his friends and his trusty hound ventured forth.

In the mummery, Castor brought him a blade forged by the last dragon in their once fair lands, and still the Magnar did not march, for he was afraid. 

He was afraid to face the horrors beyond his hall.

Afraid of the evils about his lands.

Afraid of his people, whom he shamed by inaction.

Afraid to lose his sons and his dear wife.

In the end, he lost them all.

Sansa clutched Maelys hand, gripping it with all her might at that. Turning red when she found herself laying her head on his shoulder as he squeezed back.

The mummer’s tears and baleful howls of grief made Sansa weep bitterly as Maelys gazed at the performance with blazing eyes.

In the end, the Magnar bestirred himself, but all was not lost. One son endured the cold, and he held his boy tight, calling him the Stark for his gaunt features - played by a boy apprentice, with white flour upon his face.

The hero departed then into the wild, and the scene changed, in shadow men scrambled to pull down the false longhouse and replace it with branches and brooms. A facsimile of a Godswood, Sansa supposed.

The last hero had failed to bring back the dawn, but his faithful hound returned old and afflicted with rheumatism. But with him came the blade and the men and boys the Stark’s father had saved in his doomed quest.

The Stark had taken a bride then, and a child was born of that union - which Sansa recognized them to mean Bran the Builder. Why does Lord Tywin allow this nonsense?

Together, they fought one final stand, the orphans for their Magnar all in black and the Stark for his love, a child of the East. With children all in green motley, they slew men in preposterous white rags, and “winter fell.”

And the story ended with a kiss between husband and wife - and up in the stands, Sansa felt Maelys grip her by her arm

His eyes burned with resolve. “King or pauper, remember - you shall ever be my Queen.”

And Sansa felt the force of his kiss, the heat of his breath, and felt herself pinned to the wall beside her.

*****************

Sometime in the middle of the night, she awoke.

He was pale in the moonlight - an image of beauty in her eyes, almost divine. But it is his heart that my Prince has entrusted to me.

And it was then that Sansa knew; no matter what came, they were bound by oaths - far older, and far more sacred than a Septon’s prayer.

The Lady of Winterfell

The babe came sooner than Catelyn expected, and faster than Lysa had anticipated. She took to her labours in the morning, and little Lyonel arrived before luncheon, a shock of black hair and eyes as blue as the seas around Tarth.

Lord Robert had wished to name the boy Kaldor, after a Greyskull King he idolized in his youth. But Lysa wisely persuaded her lord husband that the name was better suited for Gendry and Arya's firstborn, ensuring continuity in the land they ruled.

The boy's birth was marked by a clear day, the sky a brilliant blue with only a few wisps of autumn clouds. Yet, the weather soon turned, bringing almost two weeks of relentless rain and cool winds. 

The babe's cries, not of distress but of joy, seemed to embrace the storm, as if he were a knight of a tempestuous region, a harbinger of change, and a symbol against the Baratheon cadets and Houses of the Stormlands that might challenge Lysa's progeny.

An heir she would not declare.

In many ways, it mirrored her troubled dealings with Jon—the determination to keep the lad apart from her eldest, a strategy to thwart the Karstarks and their allies from undermining her marriage and her authority. At least she shows love for the boy. Whenever mother and son were together, the room was filled with laughter.

Lysa often occupied Lord Galladon's solar, directing the war efforts by raven. In rare moments of solitude, she sought solace in prayer and wept for Gendry. Initially disdaining the bastard-born lord, something shifted over the years, a transformation Cat couldn't quite articulate. What began as a strategic ploy to wield the boy against her son's foes evolved into a genuine maternal bond.

Navigating politics and matters of the heart proved equally treacherous and complex. As she glanced at the letter addressed to the Prince of Myr, a smile graced Cat's lips. She realized she, too, stood at a crossroads. As she read the letters to her nephew cradled in her arms, Cat longed for her family, grateful that bitterness– unlike her sister's, didn't dictate her fate after their encounter in the Godswood.

Lysa uses her children as Cyvasse pieces, then weeps for them like any mother would. 

A cry echoed from the yard below, likely heralding another bout between Gal and Marq Piper. Ser Walton Frey had departed for The Wall as planned, leaving a void in Catelyn's companionship. She entrusted her baseborn niece Valaena to Val and together the task of probing the treachery stemming from the Twins, a matter that drove many to seek refuge in Essos or The Wall.

With Valaena journeying to Riverrun, Catelyn harboured concerns for her safety, realizing only a warg could adequately protect her niece. Until Lysa regained her strength, her bastard daughter assumed the mantle of Master of the Office of Whispers, a responsibility that weighed heavily upon her young shoulders.

And The Wall…

Such a redemptive act by a Frey unnerved her deeply, compelling her to the decision she had reached that morning. Though she loved her niece Shiera dearly, esteemed her nephew-by-marriage, and found herself enchanted by the loud-mouthed, pot bellied newborn nephew in her arms, it was time to return to Winterfell.

She rose and handed her nephew to a wet nurse, who bowed low and hurried off. The girl, scarcely seventeen, wore a gown of fine wool. I wonder if she’s a merchant’s daughter. It wasn’t uncommon for the gentry to place their surplus offspring in elevated roles within a castle, and a wet nurse was no small responsibility. Still, it was an unconventional arrangement, to be sure.

Then again, much about Lysa’s tenure as Lady of Storm’s End seemed unconventional. To start, bastards of wives were seldom raised alongside trueborn children, yet Robert flaunted his cuckoldry brazenly. A luxury I was never afforded.  The shame such behaviour brought a man was far more violent in its consequences, but Robert seemed immune to it all. 

He is indeed the Demon of the Trident.

The mutiny of Griffon’s Roost and other domains would never have occurred had Robert remained to train up another host out of Flea Bottom and Duskendale. 

Many faults had marred the events of the last year; they found themselves reacting, manipulated, and in their hubris, banking on dragons to quash their dilemmas. Yet the tempest that ensued was anything but natural, leaving their alliance vulnerable and inviting the adversaries' advances as if they had foreseen it all along. 

Zhan Fei. The more she pondered Tywin's consort and sorceress, the deeper her suspicions grew And the further her thoughts strayed from confronting the unsettling notion that Tywin Lannister harbored a weapon capable of countering dragons' might, poised to be unleashed at the most inopportune moment, and the dire implications for her surviving children.

As the weight of her surroundings pressed upon her, her thoughts drifted northward, toward home. Amidst torchlit halls echoing with the melody of Tarth's hills and the whisper of wind, she found solace in the chorus of songbirds and the clash of swords below. Yet, Cat's hands trembled with fury, haunted by recollections of scullery maids cast aside for spreading vile gossips.

The mere suggestion that she— No!

*********************

Unwittingly, she found herself once more in the Godswood, its towering Heart Tree dominating her view. Its expression appeared oddly jocular in the shifting light of day, almost as if it taunted her. "I can hardly fault you," she muttered.

Her gloved hands tightened on her shoulders, grappling with the maelstrom of fury, sorrow, and restlessness. She felt as though she convulsed under its weight, aware of the likely spectacle she presented. "You may not be my gods, but I owe you an apology," she confessed, exhaling a sigh as she struggled for composure.

“It was easier to blame them for making you feel alien in your new home, I suppose.” Lysa's words pierced the air like a sharp blade, shattering the tense silence. She turned sharply to her sister, who stood in the shadow of another Weirwood, a serene look on her face that she knew belied her own roiling emotions.

Cat seethed at the sight of her sister's composed demeanour, a far cry from the tearful girl she once knew. "And what of it?!" she quickly retorted. "Arriving at Winterfell with my child, only to be scrutinized and doubted at every turn for years! All because—“

"Princess Rhaella still lived," Lysa interjected, her tone deceptively calm, yet a subtle glint in her eyes betrayed a deeper undercurrent of emotion that stoked Cat's anger.

 “ How dare you!” she spat, shame rising to the surface. Does she take me for some petty spinster? “Rhaella Targaryen has been nothing but a generous mentor and invaluable aid in my–”

"Yes, how convenient for her to cast such a vast shadow to conceal your failures, as I'm certain the Karstarks have remarked more than once," Lysa replied, her tone mild, yet her smirk betraying an innocence at odds with her penchant for destruction.

"Enough!" Cat erupted, gesturing accusingly. "Do you believe I am some ungrateful wretch who draws strength from resentment? Do you consider me a stranger to such sentiments?" Cat paced, her heart pounding within her chest.

" ‘Do you take me for you, sister?’ " Lysa interjected, "Those were the words on the tip of your tongue, were they not?"

Cat’s breath hitched, stolen from her by a single sentence. She turned slowly to lock eyes with Lysa, who seemed so consumed by her own fury, yet embodied House Tully’s words better than any of her siblings. “This isn’t about you.” She asserted, straightening her back. 

“It never was,” Lysa responded calmly, a voice soft and devoid of any venom. It was a serene acknowledgement of the truth. “I was merely an afterthought until father saw a chance to hitch our wheelhouse to a Crowned Stag. I was the spare, hardly given an education, not that he stopped me from sitting in on Petyr’s lessons.”

A palpable hatred seeped into her tone at the mention of his name. “What happened between you two?”

Lysa gave an indifferent shrug, though Cat could tell it was a well-rehearsed gesture. “Delirious with poppy after your Brandon’s maneuver with a sword, he called your name for hours.” She recounted, turning towards the Godswood. “It must have been before Harrenhal because that night…” Her smile twisted into a cruel grin. “I came to him, mounted him, blood flowed between stitches and I– well, I cannot say if he found pleasure, but he did utter a name.”

No…

Cat recoiled, horrified as the revelation dawned on her. "Lysa, he was barely conscious, near death. How could you–”

Lysa waved away her concerns. “It is no more than men have done to who knows how many whores in my brothels over the years.” She paused, then added. “In his brothels, they don’t beat the man senseless, merely charging a stag for the trouble.”

  My sister…

“A child was conceived that night, but a moon’s turn later, he died in the bushes in the Godswood at Harrenhal.” Lysa continued, her voice distant as she remembered those days long past. “Father said,” Lysa smiled, tears brimming in her eyes. “ ‘That’s for the best, I don’t think Robert Baratheon would take you if he knew, and if I had to force Moon tea on you so young, I might be selling a false bill of goods.’ ”

The contrast between Hoster Tully’s demeanour with his men and with his children was stark, and he had always struggled with one and excelled at the other. But those words, it was not easy to try and reconcile that with mere difficulty; what a fool he’d been. “He’s changed.” Cat murmured weakly. 

“We all have. I’ll not deny my children a Grandsire that shows more love to them than he’s ever shown any other.” Lysa conceded. “And do you think on our wedding night that Robert Baratheon cared? He told me true that he appreciated my candour, for I had divulged this in tears. I felt hope then.” She admitted with a bitter laugh. “Till he took my shoulders and told me that he would never love me, that in his heart he was wed to Lyanna, and I would only ever be a placeholder.”

“Lysa, I’m,”

What could be said of such a thing? Gods, Robert…

“Silence.” Her sister bit back, her tone laced with a harshness that contradicted the tears streaming down her cheeks. “In time, he did come to love me, love me, trust me, and entrust the governance of his lands to me. Ironically, it took us both having bastards and him near choking me to death. But love came to us nonetheless. I do love him, not with the same passion that he loves me, but enough to die for him. I would raze cities to the ground to fulfil his desires. And our children?” Lysa laughed. “Even Gendry, who is mine in all the ways that truly matter.”

Cat felt a sudden sting on her cheek and realized Lysa had slapped her, only to then cup the same spot gingerly. Part of her wanted to return the strike, to pull away.

“Two Houses left behind by history spread lies about you,” Lysa said, leaning forward. Her pale eyes blazing like garnets in a lantern’s glow. “You allowed their slander to plant a seed of doubt in your heart, and it nigh tore your family asunder. Lord Estermont attempted to have our marriage annulled; I’ve had footpads and members of the Assassins Guild of King’s Landing come for me. Accused of all manner of crimes in an attempt to abolish our union and delegitimize our children, and yet I’ve endured. I’ve made these lands mine .”

Cat hung her head in humiliation. She’s right. I am a fool and a weakling. 

As if sensing her thoughts, Lysa laughed. “No, you wondrous simpleton. I am telling you that I know your pain, placing it in a new light and asking my elder sister to trust me and unburden herself to me.” 

To her shock, Cat felt herself rushing into her sister’s arms as tears dripped from her eyes. “When Jon first came to us, I was overjoyed– a companion for Robb, I thought, One he could trust. But then I saw his eyes, purple, and his hair so dark compared to Ned’s own. And…And…the whispers of his passion for Ashara. I felt like an intruder, a usurper in mine own home! That– that Robb was the cuckoo in the nest.”

“They sought to drive you two apart,” Lysa murmured, soothingly rubbing her back. “Prince Maekar would have needed a bride with strong Northron ties to maintain control of Winterfell in the wake of such an event.” 

“And yet, you persevered,” Lysa continued. “You earned your right to stand as Lady of Winterfell.”