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Chapter Text

"You know what I call that man", remarked Prince Gendry, to Jon. He glanced up, as the major domo announced the new arrival to the assembled gathering.

"His Excellency, Petyr Baelish, Marquis of Rosby, Principal Secretary of State to his Majesty, King Renly Baratheon."

"Do tell me."

"Shit in a silk stocking.". Jon laughed.

"He's negotiating on behalf of your uncle, my Lord Prince."

"I know. It doesn't mean that I have to like him. He turned his coat, with perfect timing, from serving the Committee of Public Safety, to the Directorate. Then, he served the Empress, before abandoning her, and somehow he persuaded my uncle that he'd always been a Baratheon loyalist. He's a traitor."

"They say that treason is simply a matter of dates. I see he's making his making his way towards us. Ah! he's taken the arm of Lord Varys."

"Vice, leaning on the arm of Crime. Another turncoat." The two men approached them. As if by magic, servants appeared, offering them all fresh glasses of champagne and sweetmeats. Lord Baelish bowed to both men. He had a pointed chin beard, Jon noted. For some reason, it irritated him.

"Allow me to say what an honour it is, at long last, to meet the Conqueror, of the Conqueror of the World." He held out his hand, and politeness required Jon to shake it.

"You have performed a service to humanity, your Excellency", remarked Lord Varys. His hand was limp, and the man wore a scent which smelled like violets. He knew him to be King Renly's Minister of the Interior, a man who likewise, had deftly switched from one regime to the next. He had a formidable reputation for cruelty.

"I am surprised to see you here in Oldtown, my lord. Surely, the Empress has her loyalists back at home, who bear watching."

"She's finished, for ever, and her people know it. The country, I can assure you, is quite tranquil. In due time, our excellent Prince," and here he bowed to Gendry, "will ascend the throne, to the universal acclaim of his subjects." It was a fairly open secret, in diplomatic circles, that the King of the Crownlands was not a ladies' man, and would never have children of his own. An act which remained a crime in his own country, had been made legal by the revolutionaries, when they seized power. The Empress had not sought to reverse that change, nor, obviously, would the new monarch.

"I assume that you have already met my Lord Manderly", he remarked to Baelish, his own country's Foreign Secretary.

"I had the honour of breaking my fast with him, this morning. A most formidable man." Opinions differed, among the governments of the Seven Kingdoms. Some, led by Prince Tywin, First Minister of the Westerlands, favoured making a harsh example of the Crownlands, exacting a huge indemnity from their beaten enemy, along with substantial territorial concessions. Jon knew that privately, his own government trusted the ambitious rulers of the Westerlands and The Vale, less even than their recent enemy. "The Crownlands must be punished, yes", Manderly had told him. "But, not to the extent that they'll plan a war of revenge in the future. Who knows? Five years from now, they might be our allies”.

And that had been the Empress’ chief fault. She had imposed terms on her enemies which left them no option, but to return to war eventually. That, and her Dornish invasion. Dorne of course, was where he had made his reputation. Sensing an opportunity, and commanding the Western Sea, his own government had sent him there, at the head of an expeditionary force. Dorne’s army, and the partisans who harassed the invaders, had taken their toll. But, it was the Northmen and Free Folk, who’d won the decisive victories, that drove the imperial armies back into the Stormlands. He had been rewarded with the Marquessate of Moat Cailin, and a most handsome pension, from a grateful Parliament.

”A question, my Lord, if I may”, remarked Baelish. “In my country, all young men are eligible to serve, rich or poor. That was the Empress’ decree, exempting only those with widowed mothers or young children, to support. In yours, only the very poorest join the army, other than the officers. How is it, they achieved so much? “ A good question.

”It’s true. We recruit the desperate. Thieves, drunkards, gamblers, men who’ve failed in life. The Scum of the Earth, truly. And yet, you’ve seen what fine fellows we made of them. Discipline, pride in their regiments and love of comrades, that’s what turns them into soldiers. For the first time in their lives, they’ve been taught to respect themselves.” Baelish nodded. The man had seemed genuinely interested, not merely trying to flatter him.

Baelish glanced at the entrance, gasped out loud, then asked, "What Goddesses are these?" It was his cousin, Sansa, Countess of Last Hearth, and her mother, Catelyn, the Duchess of Winterfell, accompanied by a very young man, wearing the black and silver undress uniform of a lieutenant in Lord Rowan's Hussars. He wore a pelisse over his left shoulder, a useless garment, but highly fashionable among cavalry officers. He was very handsome, no doubt extremely arrogant, and in all likelihood, the latest paramour of one of the two women, or maybe both of them.

"Allow me to introduce you to my cousin, and my step-mother." He led his companions over towards the women, and made the introductions. Prince Gendry was affable, but slightly reserved, as befitted royalty, whereas Baelish positively grovelled towards them - well, he was one of the most eminent lechers in the Seven Kingdoms. Of course, the ladies revelled in the flattery, each of them possessing an atrocious taste in men. Eventually, he drew Sansa aside. She looked quite beautiful this evening, wearing a low cut gown of maroon velvet, and a ruby necklace which matched her red hair perfectly. "Is he yours or Mama’s?" he enquired, glancing at the young officer.

"A friend of mine," replied Sansa. Jon rolled his eyes. "Oh come now Jon, I should think you are the very last man on earth who could lecture me on the subject of infidelity?"  Like most of his class, Jon had enjoyed a number of discreet affairs.  

"I just think, you could do a lot better for yourself."

"Oh, Rudi is sweet, and very ardent.  Of course, it won't last."  Sansa gave a wicked smile.  "Lord Rosby seems to have taken a keen interest in me.  And, Mama.  Perhaps we can serve our country, by seducing him, and persuading him to spill his secrets."

"That one hasn't come as far as he has by spilling secrets."

Before his cousin could reply, the major domo cried out:  

"Your Highnesses, Your Excellencies, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen, dinner is now served!" They adjourned to the dining room, although the words "dining room" hardly did this chamber, in the Hightowers' Palace, justice. It was a vast room, the ceiling and walls bearing frescoes which depicted the Long Night, illuminated by priceless crystal chandeliers. Perhaps two hundred were gathered for the feast, all to be seated strictly in accordance with precedence. With one exception. It would not do for the foremost commander of the era to be seated anywhere other than on the top table, along with those royalty present.

"It is a privilege to be seated next to you, my Lord", remarked the lady to his right, Princess Desmera, the niece to the King of the Reach.  She was quite stunning, with auburn hair and green eyes, and displaying a generous amount of cleveage. 

"The honour is mine, your Highness."

"Oh dear."

"What is the matter?"

"The soup. Look, they're serving it in golden bowls. The Hightowers are so frightfully vulgar, you might almost imagine they had risen out of the ranks of the herd. Besides, gold makes food go cold so quickly." He tried the soup. It was turtle, delicious.

"I can assure you, Ma'am, at Moat Cailin, the soup is served out of china." She laughed at that, and they talked at length about his military career. She had this knack, he realised, of making you think you were the most important person in her life. The soup was removed, and replaced with fresh sea bream, cooked with fennel.

"Changing the subject, the Hightowers may be vulgar, but their art collection is unparalelled. Have you seen it? "

"Not yet, I'm afraid. My time has been taken up with the negotiations, and answering invitations to dinners and balls."

"I heard that two nights ago, a group of Crownlands officers were disgracefully rude, at Queen Alerie's ball. Her Majesty told me that they turned their backs on you."

"Tis no matter. I saw their backs often enough in Dorne!"  She burst out laughing, before whispering to him, "I think we had best converse with our neighbours."  She turned away from him, and he began to talk to Prince Quentyn of Dorne, an earnest if dull young man.  The man was full of awe about Jon's exploits in his own country, assuring him of their undying gratitude.  The Prince might admire him, but he was sceptical about his country's nobility.  The Dornish had accepted Northern aid, and most were brave.  But, it had shamed them that they could not liberate their own country, without such aid. Relations with the Dornish generals had never been easy ones.

"Tell it true, my Lord, what do you think of our armies?"  A difficult subject, yet he decided that the truth would be best.  This man would rule Dorne, in years to come, and so he was owed honesty.

"I have nothing but praise for the Dornish infantry.  They are valiant, well-disciplined, and they keep their heads under fire.  Your artillery is competent, but lacking in numbers. Your irregular forces proved invaluable to me.  But your cavalry ... I'm afraid, that was a disaster."  That was simply the truth.  Time and again, Dornish cavalry had broken, in the face of their Imperial counterparts, leaving the rest of the army to its fate. "And, whilst I believe that many of your officers are able men, too many of your commanders are appointed on the basis of political favouritism.  Men like Yrnwood and Uller!  I'd have had them cashiered!"  The Prince looked shocked.  "Believe me, your Highness, we appointed our own share of incompetents, in the early years of the war, but they were weeded out eventually."

”I shall bear that in mind”, the Prince said finally, as the next course arrived, roast rack of lamb, with rosemary. The man sighed, before remarking, “the war has left us bankrupt, and our colonies are on the brink of revolt.” Lord Manderly had briefed Jon on the matter. Lys, Myr, and the Stepstones, all long subject to Dorne were looking to break away. The Dornish wanted military aid from the other kingdoms, to put down the rebels. The Foreign Secretary had told him his own government’s sympathies lay with the latter, seeing them as potential trading partners. “The gentry want the income tax abolished and either this government must do it, or they’ll elect another. The last thing we want is another expensive war, against people who simply wish to be independent.” That the Free Folk chafed at Northern rule, went unmentioned.

He resumed conversation, with Desmera, who by now, was gently stroking his foot with her own, as ices were served. "Of course, you will wish shortly to retire with the other gentlemen, for brandy and cigars, but afterwards .... I would like to show you the picture gallery. " In due course, the dinner ended, and he left for the smoking room, exchanging pleasantries as he sipped an extremely fine thirty year old brandy from the Arbour. He did not smoke, and after perhaps thirty minutes, he excused himself. She was waiting for him in the gallery, which was empty. She took his arm, and showed him the old masters, which were indeed outstanding. Afterwards, she suggested he might like to join him in her chambers.

"And your husband, Ma'am?"

"He is a long way from here. As indeed, is the Lady of Moat Cailin." That was true enough. His marriage had proved unsuccessful, and the pair led mainly separate lives.

Princess Desmera proved to be a most skilful lover. He had no doubt, he was far from her only conquest. He left her chamber before dawn, then bathed, and broke his fast. He had learned, whilst on campaign, to rise early. There then followed hours of turgid negotiations, as each of the parties set out their positions. Of course, the real negotiations would take place, well away from the plenary sessions, at breakfasts, informal lunches, even at dances, or while out hunting. His step-mother had rented a mansion adjoining the city's ancient university, the Citadel, and had arranged a ball, for that night. It was while he danced with Sansa, that she told him the news, flushed with excitement.

"I've just heard Jon, from Prince Tywin himself." The Old Lion was one of the guests at the ball. Plainly, Sansa wished to savour the moment.

"Heard what."

"A rumour, no more. They say the Empress has left her exile on Driftmark, and is to march on Kings Landing."

Chapter Text

Jon approached the First Minister of the Westerlands, who was in animated conversation with Baelish.

“I have heard the news, Excellencies. “

“I stress, it is only a rumour”, replied Prince Tywin.

“Even if it’s true, the King has forty thousand men protecting the capital,” replied Baelish. “The Empress has what? A guard of honour, eight hundred, all told. She’ll be shot on sight.” How can a clever man be so naive?  Or perhaps, he's simply afraid.  He knows he has burned his boats with her.

“Forty thousand men who she led to victory across the Seven Kingdoms”, replied Jon. “Would you wager they’ll fire on her?”

“They’ve taken oaths to King Renly”. And you, of all men, should know what such oaths are worth.

“Actually, I fear that you are right, my lord”, said the Old Lion. “Their loyalty to King Renly must be open to question.” He gave a nasty smile. “Were King Mace a sterner man, we would have our solution to the problem. Her son resides at Highgarden.” Prince Aegon. Ever the opportunists, the Tyrells had formed an alliance with the Empress, at one point, sealed by her marriage to Prince Garlan. The boy was now five years of age, and treated as a part of the Reach’s royal family, despite the subsequent dissolution of the marriage. 

“Do I understand your meaning correctly, Sir, that in your opinion, this child should be treated as a hostage?” The Westerlands was a brutal realm, its rulers prone to assassination, thought Jon, but still…

"Entirely so.  Our ancestors would not have hesitated to treat him as such.  They were hard men who knew what must be done, in order to survive."

"Perhaps among Dothraki savages, that remains the custom, Prince Tywin, but not among civilised peoples."

"Consider, my lord.  If threats made against one child will keep a whole continent from war, would that not be the more civilised option?”

"The Empress is not too old to bear more children.  Our ancestors were quite prepared to sacrifice their own offspring, if it were to the advantage of their House."  Had Prince Tywin known of the connection that Jon bore to the boy, he would have been more than justified in calling him out.  But, this is a piece of family history which must remain buried. 

Tywin gave an exaggerated sigh, before remarking;

”Alas, King Mace and Queen Alerie dote on their brood of grandchildren. If this rumour is correct, and King Renly’s soldiers do revolt, then war must follow. You have what, forty thousand men on the borders of the Crownlands?”

”Nearer fifty.” The Prince nodded, before remarking. “The West can put sixty thousand into the field, the Vale similar, the Riverlands thirty, and the Reach, a hundred. We have the numbers, if needs be.” He nodded, and yet, with the Empress, one could never be too sure. In the closing months of the war, as he’d advanced through the Stormlands, Marshal Selmy had conducted a fierce fighting retreat, in the face of massive odds, even once mauling Jon’s vanguard, outside Storms End. In the North, against similar odds, the Empress had achieved a succession of lightning victories over the Coalition. But in the end, her people had had enough, revolting against the taxes and conscription, and leaving her no choice but to abdicate.

Selmy was now King Renly’s commander in chief. Would he truly remain loyal?

Jon excused himself, and sought out his step-mother.

"I've heard", she told him, before he could speak. "If it's true, I'd say you're facing quite the dilemma, with such divided loyalties."

"That did not prevent me from fighting her armies in Dorne."

"But, you never fought her;  only her Marshals.  Now you command the Allied army, and you must kill her, if needs be.  Can you bring yourself to do that?  What if she's captured, and brought before a court-martial.  Could you sentence her to die, ovesee a firing party? "  All good questions, and ones that he'd rather shied away from asking himself.  Ever since he'd been a boy, Catelyn had had the habit of putting him on the spot, of asking the sorts of questions that no one really wanted to know the answers to.

"I'd do my duty."  Not really a proper answer.  

"I pray that you will.  For all our sakes.  But if you can't, then it would be best if you turned over your command to another.  You could always find a pretext."

"Fuck Rhaegar Targaryen", he muttered.  

"Your mother did so, and you were the end result."  

Thirty five years ago, Rhaegar, the dashing young Prince of Dragonstone, and cousin to King Robert Baratheon, had visited Winterfell, for a season. And there, he had fallen for the Duke's daughter, Lady Lyanna. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance, and the upshot was that she had become pregnant with the child who would become Jon. Rhaegar had assured the old Duke, Rickard, that he would wed his daughter, only to abscond back to the South. Subsequent enquiry had made clear that he was already betrothed to the Dornish Infanta, Elia Martell. Word had been sent to Dragonstone that should the Prince ever set foot in the North again, Duke Rickard would personally geld him. A hasty marriage had been arranged between his mother, and the second son of Lord Cerwyn, a family who stood well below the Starks in the pecking order. But needs must. As far as the world knew, Jon was a Cerwyn. Further tragedy had ensued, two years later, when a ship carrying his parents to Braavos had foundered. He had been raised at Winterfell, by Lady Catelyn..

"Your true father was mad as a March hare. That is the kindest thing that any of us can say about him. But, I can see what my good-sister saw in him." Catelyn was eighteen then, newly-wed to Lord Eddard, the Duke's son. "He was, to outward appearance, a beautiful man, charismatic, charming, a gifted musician."

"But still, he lost his head." Literally. The Committee of Public Safety had sent him to the guillotine, after deeming him a counter-revolutionary, and that was quite ironic.

"Imagine it, Jon, calling himself Citizen Rhaegar Equality, and voting for the death of his cousin and the Queen! He was a traitor to his class, who pandered to the mob, and it did him no good at all. The Revolution devoured its own! And, we are far too liberal in the North. We allow the smallfolk to take far too many liberties, quite unlike our counterparts in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms!" That was a constant refrain of his stepmother's. In fact, she was quite generous towards her own servants and tenants, but she was adamantly opposed to the notion of granting any say in government to the middle classes, let alone those further down the social scale. Jon shared her scepticism about schemes for Parliamentary reform, but perhaps it was safer to let the smallfolk speak their minds, rather than bottle up their grievances.

"When all's said and done, Mama, I think I'm the only general who is capable of taking on the Empress in pitched battle, with a reasonable chance of winning."

"There is the Archduke Hardyng, but otherwise, I tend to agree." Catelyn was well-informed about military affairs. "The Gods know what will be left of us, if we have to endure another decade of war." The cities of the North thronged with limbless veterans and beggars, and the gentry grumbled at the cost of the poor relief, for those left widowed and orphaned by the fighting.

It was time to leave. He bowed to his step-mother, while taking her hand and kissing it. She smiled at him, before remarking, "Princess Desmera is a desirable woman, Jon. Bed her by all means, but never trust her. That one is a snake."

"I would never make that error, Mama." He turned and left.

"Good evenin' m'Lord" said the coachman respectfully, as he opened the door to the carriage which awaited him.

"Evening, Jessop", he responded, before climbing in. A Snake. That was perhaps unfair on Desmera, yet, clearly she was working in the interests of her family. The Reach and the North were not at odds, but that meant little. The needs of power politics meant that they might be in conflict, in years to come. Yes, he'd bed her again, but he would tell her nothing of import.

Chapter Text

Fifteen Years Ago.

She had moved through the barracks, with her paramour, Daario Naharis, a battalion commander, well-regarded by the soldiers, talking to the men in small groups. Her brother, Viserys, she trusted to win over the senior officers of the Corps. The General, Monterys Velaryon, she knew to be a lost cause. But, the soldiers themselves, they were full of disaffection. People might talk of bread shortages and political dissent, but she was convinced that the real reason for the success of revolution, four years ago, had been the soldiers' grievances. They had suffered defeat; their pay had lagged price rises, and was well in arrears; promotions were scarce, and discipline was both harsh and arbitrary, according to Viserys. Once the Revolution began, many had joined the rebels, or else they had stood aside. The old regime of the Baratheons had fallen, and eventually, the King and Queen had been sent to the guillotine. The rest of the Seven Kingdoms had been appalled, most of them declaring war on the Crownlands, and invading their territory. The Committee of Public Safety had responded by ordering a general conscription, and at the same time, conducting a reign of terror against suspected opponents at home.

Her own brother, Rhaegar, idealistic fool that he was, had fallen victim to the Terror, along with his wife, the Infanta Elia, and their two children. She and Viserys had been detained in the Red Keep, for several weeks, and she'd expected to be sent to the guillotine in due course.  But, the military situation was desperate, and her brother was a highly capable officer.  Eventually, they'd been released, and he had won renown, fighting the Reachmen, eventually being promoted to Chief of Brigade.  She had accompanied him, acting as his secretary, and making a point of befriending the soldiers, many of whom now saw her as one of them. Four years ago, she’d been a Princess of the Blood, arguing with her companions about dresses and cosmetics. Now, she was Citizeness Targaryen, helping to run an army brigade. She’d done a lot of growing up in that time.

Still, the Committee remained unpopular.  The people might hate the arbitrary executions, yet truly, it was rising prices that had turned them against the government.  The coinage had been devalued repeatedly to pay for the wars.  The soldiers had been promised pay increases in turn, but they had been paid in coin that had been debased.  Their anger was at boiling point.  The government had brought General Velaryon's corps back to the capital, to protect them from the public's wrath, with Viserys as second in command.  A fatal error, as it would turn out.  Several hundred men were now gathered to hear her.

"My brother is a soldier, just like you.  He shares your hardships.  He has led you to victory repeatedly.  And that stirs jealousy in the Committee. Your courage stirs jealousy in these men, for they have none. Do they share your hardships?  Do they go near the front line? Do they lift a finger to support you in war? Of course they don't.  They gorge themselves on fine food and wines, with their lovers, while the army goes hungry. They rob the public purse.  But much worse, they have brought you back here to defend them from the righteous anger of the people.  You, who have marched to victory, and plundered your foes, are now expected to murder your countrymen, so that these cowards and thieves can remain in power."  There was a groundswell of anger now, from the men. Drag them, drag them, some began to chant.  

"They promise you money, but when have they ever fulfilled their promises.  Look", she held up a coin, coated in silver, but four parts copper.  "They pay you in these coins, coins which are worthless.  Truly, they must think that you are simpletons."  She'd learned how easy it was to appeal to the soldiers' avarice.  To the Guillotine, shouted one man, Show them the meaning of suffering, shouted another, before hundreds began to chant, To the Guillotine, To the Guillotine.

She saw the crowd part, as General Velaryon hurried towards them, accompanied by a group of aides. "Men, remember your oaths to the Republic. Do not listen to this syphillitic whore!"  That struck the wrong note, and there was a growl of anger, from the soldiers.

"General, I believe you should leave this camp," she said, politely.  He shook his head, even as she saw her brother emerging from the headquarters, flanked by a group of colonels. "I am truly sorry about this", remarked Viserys, even as he drew his sword, and ran Velaryon through the belly.  He gave another good, hard, thrust, as the man writhed on the ground. Daario shot one of the aides, and the rest fell to bullets and blades.

”Time to strike", said Viserys. Within the hour, the Red Keep had been stormed. Within three hours, the members of the Committee of Public Safety had been condemned to death by a Court Martial, formed of the senior officers of the corps. They were shot immediately, something she’d insisted upon. She had drafted charges against them, the previous night, but the crucial point, which she'd made repeatedly, was they only had one choice. The deaths of the Committee members, or their revenge.

Two days later, the Directorate was formed, in which her brother had a leading role. They’d turned the tide of the war, striking far into the Reach and Riverlands, and enriching the soldiers with plunder. Rhaegar had been an idiot, but revenge for his death, what the Valyrians had called Ultio was a sacred duty. That had been fulfilled. It remained only to track down the murderers of Elia and her infants. Their dying would be very hard.

Now

The same choices that can propel you to greatness can see you sent before a firing squad.  Shortly, she'd find out which it was to be.  She was rolling the dice again, just as she had all those years ago.  

The Commander of her guard, the Easterner, Grey Worm, entered her chamber, as she broke her fast. She invited him to join her.

"I have news, Your Majesty. " Despite her best efforts, she could never persuade him to use her first name in private. He handed her a set of documents, written in cypher, by her most trusted agent in Kings Landing. She smiled as she read, for it confirmed all she had been hearing over the past six months, ever since she had accepted exile to Driftmark. King Renly had apparently learned nothing, and forgotten nothing, during his years in exile. Nor had many other returning aristocrats. A new Terror had been established, with savage retribution in the countryside for her supporters. To save money, thousands of soldiers had been dismissed from service, men who were used to fighting, and who now had a grievance against the authorities. The government was bent upon trying to reinstate all the noble privileges that had been swept away by the Revolution.

During her time in power, she had been careful to compromise, keeping the best achievements of the revolutionaries, whilst ending the policies that were unpopular. Ancient feudal privileges remained abolished, and absolute religious tolerance continued in force. At the same time, she had reinstated the Faith of the Seven as the country's official religion, and a new nobility of service had been created, in place of the old nobility of birth. She had enacted laws to enable the peasants to own their own lands, but fair compensation must be paid to the estate owners. The plunder from foreign wars had enabled her to keep both the aristocrats, and the peasants contented, at least for a time. Some of the old nobility had been invited to return home, and had been granted offices and new titles.

Not only was the new government becoming wildly unpopular, due to attempting to reverse twenty years of change, her enemies abroad were at odds. They were meeting at Oldtown, to resolve the fate of the Continent. They were divided, not only about how harshly they should treat the Crownlands, but also about the boundaries of the other kingdoms. The Riverlands had proved itself weak, during the course of the fighting, and the governments of both the Westerlands and the Vale were suggesting the country be partitioned between them. This was fiercely opposed, not just by the Riverlands, but also by the North and Reach. There was perhaps, a chance there to drive a wedge between her enemies. Yes, it was time to gamble, once again.

She rose, and accompanied by Grey Worm, made her way down to the harbour at High Tide, where her small army was embarking. She greeted them, eight hundred in total, and veterans of her wars. Unsullied infantry, Dothraki light cavalry, minor nobles and farmhands of the Crownlands, who'd been forged into a mighty army. Almost all of them, she knew by name. When all was ready, she embarked on her own brig, The Inconstant, and then they set sail for the mainland.  She expected a good reception from the people of Cracklaw, but of course, she had little idea how the soldiers, sent from Kings Landing, would react.  Were they to shoot her on the spot, well, the Baratheons would be returned for good.  Or at least, until the people overthrew them, once again. She turned back to look at the island which had been her place of exile, a place of beauty in the morning Sun. She hoped, never to set eyes on it again.

The weather was fine, the voyage uneventful, and lasting no more than half a day.  They disembarked at a small harbour, to find a few hundred people already gathered, waving Targaryen flags, and cheering themselves hoarse as she descended the gangplank. "The Empress", she heard hundreds of voices cry, and then they were pressing forward, to shake her hand, some of the more bold even kissing her. She knew Grey Worm feared assassins, but that was a risk she would take. These people were the surest guard against any who might try to murder her. The Mayor of the town approached, wearing the Targaryen colours, and then he knelt before her, proclaiming:

"Welcome Madam, and may the Gods speed." She raised him to his feet, before replying;

"I'm overwhelmed by your support, good people." Then, she smiled at the Mayor, before gesturing to him, to kneel again, which he did. "Your sword please", she said to Grey Worm. She knew the name of the Mayor, and proceeded to dub him, on the spot. "Arise now, Ser Richard Crabbe, a knight of the Legion of Honour." The crowd roared their approval.

She stayed overnight in the Mayor's house, before rising early, the following morning. She rode with her cavalry, for she wanted the people to see her. At every village, people turned out to cheer. It was quite plain, that the Baratheon monarchy was not popular in these parts. She stopped for lunch, and it was while she dined on cold chicken and dry white wine, that one of the Dothraki scouts came back with the news.

"Your Majesty, a regiment is stationed in our path, on the road to the capital, a league from here." She nodded. Time now to wager her life. She rode with the cavalry, to within four hundred yards of the waiting soldiers, then bade them let her continue on her own. The Dothraki protested, but she was adamant. If she were taken, or killed, they must make their escape. Then, she rode on, to within little more than a hundred yards, the soldiers remaining perfectly still. She had never felt so calm. Either she would be dead in moments, or she'd prevail, and that's all there was to it. Then, she dismounted, and continued to walk towards them.

"Present arms", she heard the order given by the Colonel, and men raised their muskets. She must show no fear. No more than fifty yards away, she stood still, before opening her coat, and shouting, "I am Daenerys Targaryen. If any man would shoot his Empress, here I am. " Time slowed to a crawl, as they stared at each other. Then, the regimental Ensign stepped out of the opposing ranks, and raised up the Baratheon standard, before hurling it to the ground, before her feet.

"Long live her Majesty the Empress", roared the soldier. Then, all along the line, came the cry "Long Live the Empress." They broke ranks, and surged forward, crowding around her, and assuring her of their loyalty. Two men hoisted her on to their shoulders, as the rest cheered. In the distance, she saw the colonel galloping away, but no matter. These men were hers, now and forever.

Chapter Text

Now

"Are you saying I'm going to have to do ... THAT with men. And, with other ladies?"  Myrcella smiled at the young lady in waiting, her cousin Joy Hill, but newly-arrived from Casterley Rock. The pair stood before the painting that hung opposite the bed of the Princess Royal, and which depicted Queen Rhaenys performing cunnilingus upon her good-sister, Argella Durrandon, who in turn, was fellating the first King Aegon.  Her cousin had blushed bright red, her eyes like saucers. Myrcella had taken up residence in The Little Summer Palace of the Baratheons. It was five miles removed from the stink of the city, exquisite, and enjoyed wonderful views over the estuary.

"I'm saying, dear girl, that provided you take a few elementary precautions, you can do it or not, as often as you like, with as many different men - or ladies - as you like, in as many different ways as you like."

"But Myrcella", the other squeaked, "You have never done anything of the sort." She wanted to burst out laughing at the girl's naive innocence.  Honestly, it was all quite delicious.

"Both your brother and your sister are quite adept at giving pleasure to a woman. Your sister, in particular, could be described as silver-tongued. Why are you so incompetent?" The young man had turned the colour of beetroot, but she was pleased to see that Joy seemed genuinely interested in the spectacle.

"I... I don't have much experience."

"Have you had no experiences with serving girls?"

"I have ... Mistress. But, usually, I lie on my back, and let them do all the work." She tutted.

"We have no use for someone who is less a man, and more of a beached walrus. Luthor, perhaps you could show Tarly how this is done." Arianne's face lit up at the prospect. The Viscount sighed, then rose, and knelt before Arianne.

"Watch, and learn, Tarly", he informed him.

It was that very evening that Myrcella learned that Empress had left Driftmark, and was marching on the capital. Thousands of soldiers guarded the approaches, but it was said that three regiments had now gone over to Daenerys Targaryen, without a shot being fired. Her own relationship with the Empress was, it must be admitted, a complex one.

Seven Years Ago, at Highgarden

"Are you intending to murder me?" asked the Empress.  She had spent the past week pursuing the woman shamelessly, whenever they were alone.  And, now she'd tracked her down in the Gazebo of the Rose Garden.   Murder might indeed have been an option, but she had other plans.

"Quite the reverse, your Majesty".  She leaned in to the other woman, fastening her mouth on hers.  Time seemed to stand still, as Daenerys kissed her back, their tongues meeting.  At last, the Empress drew back, breathing heavily.

"That was ... unexpected, Myrcella."

"But, not unwelcome, I think."

"Not unwelcome in the slightest ... were we private citizens. But, I have come to Highgarden to obtain a husband, not to acquire a mistress. "

"Why not both?"

"Neither the King, nor Prince Garlan would approve, I imagine.  This is not Kings Landing, and it is not Dorne.  Nor do I think your uncle would be agreeable."

"My uncle prefers young men, why should he care?"

"Because your uncle would like nothing more than to see me hanging from the Lion Gate, that is why."

"I believe your offer to be more than fair."  Now that the Tyrells were allies, Daenerys had suggested that the surviving Baratheons, living in exile at Highgarden, shoud return home.  They would not be restored to the throne, but they would receive high rank in her new state.  Myrcella and Gendry had favoured the idea, but uncle Renly was adamantly opposed. Daenerys stared at her thoughtfully, a while.

"This isn't just about desire, is it?  You want to be my successor, have me adopt you?  You're the only legitimate child of King Robert's left alive.  But, your family's stupid law bars you from succeeding because you're a woman. "

She nodded.  "Why should an uncle, and a legitimised bastard, stand above me?"

"Well, they would not, under my laws.  But, I will shortly wed Prince Garlan.  I will hopefully, bear him a son, and the boy will inherit, in due course.  Were I to break off my betrothal, the result must be war."

The wedding had gone ahead, and the Tyrells had made them leave for Casterly Rock.

Now

Marriage to Prince Garlan had not prevented the Tyrells from turning on the Empress, eventually, even granting a colonelcy to Gendry.  They were a family of snakes, including Margaery, for all her piety.  She resented her position now, just as much as she had then.  The Salic law said that no woman could sit the Iron Throne, a ridiculous precept.  Yet, there was no chance that the Tyrells would ever send Prince Aegon back to his mother.  Daenerys Targaryen was once again, without an heir, and who better to fulfil that position than Myrcella Baratheon?

 She smiled, as she stared across the ink-black ocean. Perhaps once in a lifetime, if you are lucky, a great opportunity will present itself. She intended to grasp that opportunity.

.  

Chapter Text

"Duskendale has surrendered, Sire." Renly cursed inwardly, but he remained impassive, before the Small Council. He had begun to detect just the slightest hint of panic, among the inhabitants of the Red Keep. Some courtiers would look away, when he caught their eye; several had discovered that they had urgent business to attend to, on their country estates.

"Will no one do the King's bidding, and bring us back the head of the Ogress?" demanded his niece, the Princess Royal, Myrcella. He and his niece had differed, when the Usurper had made her offer to let them return home, but she had been very young and quite naive, back then. Had they accepted the offer, they would have been quietly murdered on their return, for certain. Yet, he knew Myrcella to be a pious young woman, and loyal to the core. She, at least, he could rely upon. But, who else? It occurred to him, yet again, that he was surrounded by turncoats. Would they switch sides yet again, or did they fear the wrath of Daenerys Targaryen too much?

"Even so, she has no more than seven thousand under her command, with perhaps twenty guns," continued the speaker, Marshal Barristan Selmy, the Duke of Bitterbridge. "The Third and Eighth Foot, the Second Light Infantry, The Fifth Dragoons, the Duskendale garrison, together with whatever she brought from Driftmark. Marshal Naharis and I command more than thirty five thousand between us, and a hundred guns. We shall commence our march, the day after tomorrow. It would be politic, I think, if she were to be shot, "resisting arrest". There is no need to make a martyr out of her." Marshal Naharis had, of course, been that bitch's paramour, at one point, although the relationship had ended acrimoniously, so he'd been told.

"Those four regiments who switched sides", said Renly, "they were quite sufficient to finish her off. Yet, they deserted. Tell me, Marshal Selmy, where does your army stand?"

"It stands behind me, Your Majesty." Not the most encouraging of responses.

”Duskendale concerns me”, said Lord Stokeworth, the Deputy Minister of the Interior. “The city was commanded by Brigadier Massey. “The bravest man in the entire army”, you once called him, Marshal.”

”So, I judged him,” replied Selmy. “My army came close to disaster, during the retreat from Dorne. The Northern army was in hot pursuit, while a strong Dornish force lay in our path. We abandoned the guns, and left the main road, seeking escape along mountain paths. At one point, our route took us over a bridge, across a deep ravine, but the bridge had been dismantled, save for a few planks. A force of partisans waited for us, on the opposite side. Massey led the forlorn hope, in driving rain, under enemy fire. Some men slipped and fell to their deaths, and he had half an ear shot off. But, he slaughtered the enemy on the other side. Our engineers were then able to repair the bridge, so we could escape. He repeated that feat, the next day, taking a bullet in the chest. He saved twenty five thousand men. But, that doesn’t excuse his treason.”

Renly had heard this story before. After the first fight, Selmy had taken off his own Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour, and pinned it to Massey’s breast.

"Traitor or not", remarked Stokeworth, "the defection of a war hero does not assist us."

"This proves we have been far too lenient, for too long", remarked Baron Merryweather, Master of Laws, and a leader among the Ultras, the most hardline legitimists, who wished to turn the clock back, to before the Revolution. More royalist even than the king, they dominated the administration in much of the countryside, and were conducting their own brand of Terror, despite Renly's instructions to the contrary. He shook his head at the man.  

”Perhaps I should ride at the head of the army?” he mused. “Let the men see, that their king is with them.”

Princess Myrcella shook her head. "Your Majesty’s person is invaluable. Imagine, Gods forbid! if you were to be captured by the Tyrant. No, Sire, your people love you well, and you must remain here in the capital, to inspire them." The other councillors murmured their agreement. He brought the meeting to a close. Myrcella followed him into his study.

"I don't trust Selmy. That one is a turncoat,” she remarked.

"I'm not sure I trust anybody, outside my own family, apart from the ultras. And, they cause me more than enough problems." A thought suddenly struck him.

”You must remarry”, he reminded his niece. Ideally, a member of a powerful royal family.  If needs be, then, he could call upon foreign soldiers to put down revolt. 

”I know.  But, I still mourn for Yohn.” He had arranged for his niece to wed the elderly Count of Runestone, one of the wealthiest men in the Vale, three years previously. A royal marriage was out of the question, so long as he remained in exile, but Myrcella was beautiful, and a good match for a nobleman.  A year later, the Count had slipped down a flight of steps, and had broken his neck. It seemed that water had been spilled on the steps, and had frozen in the cold weather.  Myrcella had inherited a substantial part of the man's fortune, much to the annoyance of his children by his first marriage.  It was hard to imagine her truly mourning a man who had been more than twice her age, and yet, she had assured him, that theirs had been a happy marriage.  His death had mortified her.

"Merryweather thinks I should send assassins after the Empress."

"Well, we know that her execution was debated by the other monarchs, and rejected. Monarchs don't like the idea of any one of their number being put to death. Assassins are quite capable of bungling the job, and causing us massive embarrassment.   Selmy's suggestion is the better one, I think.  She is offered quarter, refuses, and is shot whilst resisting arrest.  It's plausible, it solves your problem, and it leaves no grievance in its wake." 

"And what if the whole army should switch sides, what then?" His brother, nephew, and good-sister had been borne in tumbrils to the guillotine, and there beheaded in front of jeering crowds. By all accounts, King Robert and Queen Cersei had met their ends, bravely enough. But, as for Prince Joffrey! The young man had fainted several times, on the way to his place of execution, and had even proclaimed his support for the Revolution, as they led him on to the scaffold, while the crowd mocked at him. By the time, he'd been trussed, and his neck placed beneath the blade, he'd been screaming incoherently with terror, and had lost control of his bladder.  The Republican newspaper, The Friend of the People, had taken great delight in publishing an account of the Prince's humiliation.  Renly had no desire to meet a similar end.

"Make a ship ready, Renly, and set sail for Dorne, if the worst should happen."  He nodded, it was wise advice.  

"As must you, Myrcella."

"Of course, though I'm in much less danger.  I have no claim, and so, my death means little to Daenerys Targaryen."  That made sense, as well.  She curtseyed, then exited the room, leaving him prey to his fears.  Ever since his brother had been put to death, he had dreamed of returning home, to reign as King.  But for now, it seemed an impossible burden.

Chapter Text

Daenerys sat at the head of the table, in the Mayor's Parlour. In the Middle Ages, the Dun Fort had been the seat of House Ryker. Now, it was both a modern fortress, and the centre of government in the region. With her were Brigadier Massey, Grey Worm, her dear friend Missandei of Naath, the city's mayor, Rilona Rhee, a handful of sympathetic notables, and the colonels of the regiments that had declared for her. A gifted scholar, her friend had served as her Mistress of Laws, and had supervised the drafting of the new Civil Code which she'd promulgated. She had opened certain offices to women, including mayorships, a contentious policy which had been reversed, after she abdicated. A staunch supporter of hers, Rilona had been confined to the city's prison, awaiting probable execution. Now, her gaolers had taken her place. Increasingly, a centre of industry, Duskendale had been a hotbed of Revolution, and at the same time, favourable towards the Targaryens. There was no love lost here, for King Renly. They discussed both civil and military affairs.

"Naath must remain free soil", insisted Missandei

"Agreed".

Prior to the Revolution, the island had been the most profitable of the Crownlands' overseas possessions, producing half the world's sugar, and a quarter of its coffee. The owners of its plantations had lived like princes. But, their wealth was wrung from the labour of the slaves, who made up two thirds of the population. Two years after the Revolution had begun, revolt had broken out among them. Years of brutal repression had seen them take savage revenge on their masters. Refugees had brought dreadful tales back to the capital, of slave masters being flogged to death, or even cannibalised, and of their wives being publicly raped by enraged rebels. Rather less had been said about the cruelties inflicted by the masters, which Daenerys had learned of, from her friend. The various governments had dithered, switching between appeasing the freedmen, and supporting the masters, as the island was devastated by civil war.

Upon taking power, and influenced by Missandei, Daenerys had decreed that slavery be abolished on the island, while the masters would receive compensation, in the form of government bonds. Privately, she’d confided in her friend, her view that the masters deserved a short rope, and a long drop, but it seemed the simplest way of handling the situation.

It seemed that was not good enough for the ultras. They were pressing King Renly to send an army and navy, to restore slavery to Naath.

”Any man who practises slavery will go to the guillotine.” There was no dissent. “Now, the franchise. My proposal is that any man or woman who pays the income tax will have the vote.” About twenty four million people inhabited the Crownlands and Stormlands. Perhaps eight hundred thousand men and one hundred thousand women were wealthy enough to be directly taxed.

”I’d sooner see everyone have the vote,” said Rilona.

She smiled at the Mayor. “I’d have the entire middle class fighting me, never mind the nobility.”

”It’s far more generous than anything Renly Baratheon intends,” said Missandei. Fewer than a hundred thousand people could vote, under the Baratheons’ constitution.

They discussed a variety of matters that would be included in the manifesto that Daenerys would publish. There was a knock on the door, and an aide entered, bearing a letter. She read it carefully, written as it was in her cypher.

”The royal army is on the march, perhaps ten days from here. Do I advance to meet them, hoping they’ll switch, or await them here?” There was a time for caution, and a time for daring. This must be judged to a nicety.

”Whose side is Selmy truly on?” asked Grey Worm.

”I’ve lost track of them”, she replied. “He was a royalist, a republican, an imperialist, and now a royalist, once again. Have I missed anything out?” she asked, to general laughter.

”Your Majesty made him a Duke”, continued the Unsullied leader, “and this is how he repaid you.”

”I suppose I must console myself with the fact that Renly Baratheon is probably saying much the same, right now”, she replied. “I have eight thousand men. I can’t fight the royalists in the field, but retreat would be fatal. Morale would collapse.”

”Hundreds of discharged soldiers are joining us each day, your Majesty”, said Massey. That was true, but...

"They must be armed, and provisioned." Massey nodded.

"I have a thousand muskets in stock, give or take, and more than enough powder and shot. This city, I believe can produce a couple of hundred guns a day."

"So, then, we can arm, perhaps, three thousand more, by the time the royalists arrive. Enough to make a fight of it certainly, but those are poor odds, still. And, as for cavalry..." She shook her head. Infantry could be recruited, but cavalry horses could not be conjured up out of thin air. The dragoons numbered no more than four hundred, with the Dothraki light horse a couple of hundred more. "Still, they would find it hard to take the city, or this fortress."

"And the people of this city are with you", said Rilona.

"Your Majesty", asked a colonel, named Boggs. "Have you no agents among the enemy, who could inform us of their mood?"

"Possibly. I have agents in the capital, whose names are known to Grey Worm, and Brigadier Massey. I hope they have infiltrated the army, but I can't be certain, at this point. They may have been captured, for all I know."

"Then let me make a suggestion," said Massey. “I can send out a handful of my best men. They’ll pretend to be deserters, then escape back to us, bearing information about the soldiers’ mood.”

”They’d be shot, if they were found out”, Daenerys replied.

"A risk they are well aware of. I trust that I can offer them rich reward in your name."

"Of course. To go to their families, if they should be killed."

"If ... no when, you win, your Majesty", asked a city councillor, "what then? Will you return to war?"

"That's certainly not my intention. I shall offer peace to all the Seven Kingdoms, so long as the boundaries of the Crownlands and Stormlands are respected. I shall want my son to be sent to live with me. “

But I suspect those terms will be rejected.  And, what reason have I ever given them to trust me?  Not for the first time, she cursed herself for imposing harsh terms on the defeated kingdoms, in the past, terms that made a fresh round of war inevitable. "I fear, however, I shall have to prepare for another round of war.  But, truly, I pray for peace."

 She brought the meeting to a close, and the others filed out, leaving her alone with Missandei.

"Thank the Gods, the Lannisters don't hold my son. They'd be returning him to me in pieces. " The Westerlands Kingdom was a savage place. The current ruler, King Kevan, had ascended the throne, following a coup d'etat which overthrow his father, King Tytos, a coup which many believed the son had orchestrated, along with his brother, Prince Tywin. The latter had turned savagely on supporters of the previous regime. There was a hideous story, which she'd never managed to verify, of women and children being drowned in a disused gold mine, on his orders.

"The Tyrells are a different family," replied her friend. "Utterly untrustworthy, of course, but they do have standards. The Lannisters have none."  One in particular.

"Better than a Lannister. I suppose that's the best that can be said for me. I'd be a hypocrite if I denied, I've waded through blood, to get where I am." Missandei took her hand.

"You freed my people. That in itself, makes you a great leader." She smiled, and hugged the other woman. How lucky she was to have Missandei, intelligent, ever loyal, and supportive.

"I don't deserve you," she replied.

Chapter Text

“Jon, never doubt for one moment, a woman can be as wicked as any man. And your Aunt is the very Beast of the Apocalypse”, said Catelyn with some feeling. She had grown more devout, following Ned’s death, five years previously, and she feared they were living in the end of times.

”Oh please, Mama”, said her daughter, rolling her eyes. “You’ve been listening to Mellors, again.” She knew it to be a fairly open secret that the head gamekeeper at Winterfell was her current lover, a man half her age. He was most devout, and like her, a devotee of the Seven, which was unusual in the North. She had enjoyed various of the young men who worked at the castle, following her husband’s death, but she’d found herself, much to her surprise, actually falling in love with this one. While considerable latitude was given to widows to remarry, to wed a servant would have been a scandal that was hard to live down, so they needs must live in sin. Sansa, whose own love life was complicated, was amused by the affair. Arya, who possessed Radical opinions, was entirely supportive. Robb, the current Duke, disapproved, but loved his mother sufficiently to tolerate it. Rickon and Brandon had ... views on the matter. And as for her step-son? Well, Jon had never expressed an opinion on the matter at all. He was always close-lipped, guarded.

The three of them were taking tea together, in her drawing room.

”Arya rather admires her”, remarked Jon. Her younger daughter, who refused to marry except for love, was a lost cause, she feared.

”Far too many of our class do. For the life of me, I cannot understand why.”

”Like it or not, she is one of us”, replied her daughter.  “Nor is she her mad brother.”

”Nor the other one”, said Jon.  Viserys Targaryen had been quite pitiless as a commander, she knew.  That one could easily have been another Tywin Lannister. The world had breathed a sigh of relief, when he fell victim to a stray shot in battle, until his sister had emerged on top, after the power struggle that followed his death.

”She brings war,” replied Catelyn, “and in her wake follow famine and plague.”

”Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves?” asked Sansa. “We know now she’s marching on Duskendale, but then what? Won’t the army stay loyal to King Renly? What do you think, Jon?" He'd got up, and was staring out of the window. Then, he turned,

"Scarcely a man of them will fight for Renly, I fear, from the Colonel to the private in a regiment, inclusive. He might retain a Marshal or two, but nothing worth a damn. Come and look. " Catelyn rose, with Sansa, and Jon gestured to the square that led to the Citadel. A couple of off-duty Northern soldiers were gaping in amazement, at the statues of ancient heroes. Jon pointed down at them. "If it comes to war, it all depends upon that article there, whether we can do the business. Give me enough of them, and I think we can."

To Catelyn's own surprise, she'd gradually found herself starting to question much of what she'd grown up to believe in, in recent years. Her step-son plainly respected the common soldiers who he commanded, and without question, they had fought with valour and loyalty during the wars. Her own lover was of the smallfolk, and yet he could hold his own, when they discussed religion and politics, as could the Faith's own lay preachers. And, without question, in the early years of the fighting, there were members of her own class who had disgraced themselves, through cowardice and incompetence. One of them, an Admiral named Byng, had even been condemned to death, and had been shot on his own quarterdeck. Viserys Targaryen had allegedly quipped in response,

"from time to time, the Northmen find it necessary to shoot an Admiral, in order to encourage the others."

"Renly's own tastes can hardly endear him to the soldiers," remarked Catelyn. Jon nodded, before replying,

"If he had a decent military record, it might not matter. But, he fled abroad, at an early point in the Revolution, before sitting out the fighting. Prince Gendry would honestly have made a far better choice of monarch." Gendry had distinguished himself, commanding a regiment of the Reach's army, in the final stages of the war, and unlike his uncle, he was most certainly, a ladies' man. She hadn't asked, but she strongly suspected that her own daughter had shared the Prince's bed. It was well that her husband was a thousand miles away, in Last Hearth.

"If war is coming, Bran and Rickon will want to served you as aides."

"I'd rather they did not, if I'm frank. There's no more dangerous occupation than serving as a general's aide on the battlefield." The aides would ride across the battlefield, conveying orders from the commander, and bearing messages back to him from his subordinates. Jon had told her he’d lost count of the number of gallopers who had been killed in the process. "By all means, purchase them commissions, but I'd rather they were kept out of harm's way."

"I've told them all of that, but you try telling young men to keep out of danger. You know what they're like. They hero-worship you, Jon. Even if Robb says no, they'll simply run off and enlist as gentlemen rankers, if that’s the only way they can get to join the fighting.”

Jon frowned for a while, thinking about this, before replying, "Well, in that case, I'll take them on to my staff, but I'll do all in my power to find them tasks, away from the battlefield. Once they're under my command, they must obey my orders, or I'll clap them in irons."

"Thank you, Jon." That was at least, a partial relief. "So, what happens now?"

"We await the news from Kings Landing, but frankly, Prince Tywin, Prince Willas, Lord Manderly, oh, and Gendry himself, they're all expecting the Empress to take the city. We've sent word to our respective governments, warning them to mobilise. I'm making arrangements to return to the borders, to take command, and I've written to the Archduke Hardyng, requesting his assistance. I've advised Prince Quentyn to return to Dorne. I know that country's exhausted, but every little helps, and they could tie down some of the enemy in the Stormlands. Between us, we can put more than three hundred thousand into the field. The Empress would struggle to find half that number."

"Never underestimate her, Jon. She's vile, but deadly dangerous."

"Believe me, if there's one person on this planet I shall never underrate, it's Daenerys Targaryen."

Chapter Text

Hold me safe in your hands.

The Sun would be setting now, although it was hard to tell in the bowels of Rosby Castle, which served as the headquarters of the army camp.    

All the Seven, hold me safe in your hands.  The Marshal prayed silently, his lips moving.  Mother, Father, Maiden, Smith, Warrior, Crone, and ...The Stranger.  See me safe through this crisis.  Watch over me.  Watch over King Renly.   it was years since he had truly been a believer, but still, he prayed. From somewhere nearby, came the noise of something breaking, disturbing his thoughts.  A servant emerged, apologetic, fearful.  Selmy glanced up at his three companions, three of the army's generals. All of them royalists who had returned from exile, they were staunchly loyal to Renly.

If only the same could be said of the rest of the army.

"Marshal Naharis will quell the mutiny," said one of his companions, Viscount Bar Emmon.  He suspected the man was saying it more to reassure himself, than to convince Selmy.  

None of this was his fault, none of it.  The soldiers had sworn oaths of allegiance to King Renly, received rich rewards, at his accession.  Before marching from Kings Landing, he had made them renew their oaths of allegiance.  Only a handful had refused, and they had been placed under arrest.  

You served the Empress well, when serving her was easy answered the traitor in his mind.  Just as you served the Republic, and King Robert.

No, he had always served the Realm. Was he to blame, that he lived in a period of political turmoil? Had he done any differently, from countless thousands of men and women? Perhaps not, but there were those, such as Grey Worm and Lady Missandei, who had accompanied her to Driftmark, or else had gone into voluntary exile, overseas.

The soldiers had grumbled, almost from the moment they began the march from Kings Landing. It meant nothing, he'd thought. Soldiers always grumbled. Far worse had been the attitude of the officers, who from the outset, had proved sullen, defeatist, and quite unwilling to discipline their men, or recall them to their duty. After the first couple of days, men had begun to desert, culminating in an entire regiment of cavalry, the Fifth Lancers, riding out of the camp one night, and heading in the direction of Duskendale. That had been two nights ago. It was once they'd reached Rosby that the mutiny had broken out, with soldiers flatly refusing to march any further. Just three hours ago, he'd gone out to confront them, to remind them of their duty.

They had at least listened to him in silence, acknowledging him as a commander with a distinguished record. But, the protests had begun, the moment he stopped.

"We aren't going to fight for that arse fucker", shouted one sergeant. He'd ordered guards to arrest the miscreant, as the mood had turned increasingly ugly. Chants of "boy fucker", "coward" "tyrant", and "Long Live the Empress", had reverberated around the camp. He'd tried to answer the men back, but their jeers had drowned him out. Someone had thrown a cabbage in his direction, and before long, scores were following his example. He'd retired to the castle. He hoped his own guards, at least, were loyal.

Marshal Naharis had joined him. "The situation is not irretrievable", he'd insisted. "Allow time for their tempers to cool. And, do I have your permission, to promise them a large donative, in the name of King Renly? The greed of the soldiers is insatiable. They will no doubt want the head of Baron Merryweather,". The Master of Laws had insisted upon accompanying the army, presumably to ensure that the Empress died. "Frankly, apart from the five of us, I take it I have your agreement to offer anyone up to them?" He'd nodded. Naharis was a subtle man, perhaps he could restore their loyalty.

Time seemed to have slowed to a crawl. Not for the first time, he wondered if the soundest course of action would be to escape Rosby, and ride hard for the capital. If the army was determined to switch sides, well, nothing would prevent the Empress from retaking the Red Keep, but then, she'd be at war with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Not even she, for all her brilliance, could hope to defy them, and then, surely, they would put her to death. He could escape abroad, and then return, to pick up the pieces.

But, that would be the act of a coward, and honestly, he'd sooner die than have the world regard him as such.

For the first time, he found himself wishing the Revolution had never taken place. He'd reached the rank of Lieutenant, in the Royal Army, when it started, and no doubt, by now, he'd have made Colonel. He'd never have reached the heights the Revolution propelled him to, but he'd be safe, and able to look forward to a comfortable retirement. Now, the future looked increasingly uncertain. The other alternative of course, was to put himself at the head of the army, and go over to Daenerys Targaryen. But, she might not be in forgiving mood, and King Renly would definitely not be, should he prevail again, with the backing of foreign armies. Either way, he could expect to go before a firing party.

Damn Renly.  Does he have to be a pervert?  Couldn't he at least have fought to regain his throne?  At least he might enjoy the respect of the soldiers!

He cast his mind back to the days of the Terror.  He had accepted promotion from the Committee of Public Safety.  He'd commanded the troops, stationed in the square at the front of the Great Sept, watching as the royal family were brought on tumbrils to be executed.  The old King and Queen had met their fates with dignity, but as for Joffrey!  The young prince had been been an abject creature, screaming for mercy, and shitting himself.  Whatever befell today, he'd make a better end than that.  

He saw a look of fear, in the face of the servant who had entered the room, earlier.  He turned, to see that the door was ajar.  A pair of soldiers were peering in at the them.  Where the devil were his guards? He drew his sword, as did the other three, and the men vanished.  No, he was not fated to die today.  Soldiers did not murder a Marshal of the Crownlands, least of all, one with a solid military record.  This would all end well.  Naharis would recall the men to their duty, and they would march on Duskendale.  He turned, and poured himself a glass of wine, sipping from it, relieved.  He heard a commotion behind him, and turned back to the doorway.  Marshal Naharis stood there, a group of officers behind him.  He held something in his hand, hard to discern in the half-light,

"It is over," said Naharis. He walked through the door, and threw the object on to the ground. It was the head of Baron Merryweather. "The soldiers won't be satisfied by one head, I'm afraid." He noticed that the officers were drawing their swords, as they crowded through the doorway. "Believe me, Selmy, when I say that I am truly sorry about this. " His fellows had drawn their swords, but there were just four of them, against at least a score. He felt calm. At least no one could accuse him of dying a coward.

"I suppose, we'd all be wasting our breath, if we were to beg you for mercy, Naharis, or offer you an immense bribe. " The other man nodded.

"It is over."

"Murderers are paid in just measure by the sorrows the Gods will upon their houses." He remembered the verse from the Seven-Pointed Star. They all stared at each other, motionless.

"It is over. Go, depart," said a colonel, breaking the spell. The man lunged at him, fast as lighting, and he barely deflected the blade. He and his comrades fought as long as they could, disdaining to call out for help which they knew would not be forthcoming.

Chapter Text

"The Army has mutinied, your Highness, you must make ready to escape. " Myrcella had been roused from sleep, by Joy Hill, who told her that a messenger had arrived in a hurry from Rosby, with urgent information. She had received the man in her study. It turned out he was a sutler named Milton, an agent of hers, who had ridden hard for the Little Summer Palace. He was plainly exhausted, and she told one of the maids to fetch him food and ale, while she listened to his tale. No doubt her uncle would have been made aware of the situation. "Baron Merryweather and Marshal Selmy ...", he continued, plainly disturbed.

"Yes? What about them?"

"Their heads were paraded on pikes, Ma'am, in the army camp." Her heart gave a little lurch. His account reminded her, that this was no sporting contest that she was playing at. She cared for neither of the dead men. Nor did she imagine that Taena would mourn her husband, a man who was twice her age, and according to her, impotent. But, if she were to misjudge the mood of the populace, it would be her head that would shortly be paraded through the city's streets, just as her parents' and brother's had been. Perhaps she ought just to flee abroad, as Renly no doubt would. No. She was not destined to live and die in comfortable obscurity.  She had not been sending coded reports to the Empress, detailing the political and military situation in the capital, for the past six months, only to flee before her supporters, the moment that success was within her grasp.  When you play the Game of Thrones, you win, or you die.  There is no middle ground.   

She thanked him, and rewarded him with a purse of coin. It was time to think long and hard. Taena, the Infanta, and Lord Samwell remained at the palace, with her, Joy, and the servants and guards. Luthor had returned to the Reach, to embark on his seduction of Princess Margaery. She had used Samwell to carry out menial tasks, which he seemingly enjoyed performing, and for which he was rewarded, by being allowed to pleasure Joy. She realised, there might be another use for him now, as well as for Arianne. The latter, she had counted as a friend, but politics imposes an iron logic, all of its own.

She summoned Milton again. “Will you return to Rosby, bearing a message.”

”If the price is right, Ma’am.” She suggested a figure, and they agreed on half now, half to be paid on his return. She named one of the army’s captains, also in her pay, to whom he was to give her letter. She could rely on the latter forwarding it to Daenerys.

Swiftly she wrote in cypher, outlining her plans. She thought of claiming credit for the mutiny, but no! That lie would be easily exposed, and nor was he sure that the Empress would approve of taking heads. Her agents had been instructed to report on the army’s mood, but none was of sufficient importance to stage a coup. She instructed the man to take a fresh horse, and return post-haste. Next, she turned to her friends.

”We must make for the capital”, she told them. “We are in very great danger.” She was amused at the look of pure terror in Sam’s face. He had inherited none of his father’s martial prowess. The young man would melt on the spot if he knew what she had planned for him.

It took them all a while to make ready, and then they got into her carriage. They had a small escort of cavalry, members of King Renly's household guard. Dawn was breaking, as they rolled through the city gates, and even at this early hour, the streets were thronged with people going about their business. She peered out of the window from time to time, but there seemed no obvious signs of dissent. She and her companions said little to each other on the way. It took perhaps another hour, from entering the city, before they finally reached the Red Keep. As she entered the courtyard, she noticed that there seemed twice as many members of the Royal Guard on duty now as usual. Plainly, the news had reached her uncle. The guards saluted them, and she sought out the King, while the others were conducted to her chambers.

Renly was awake, and alert, and greeted her. "I take it, you've heard the news, Uncle." Servants and aides were scurrying about, as the two broke their fast together.

"Aye, and I should have purged the army, on my return. Too late now of course. But, the other Powers won't stand for this. They'll launch an invasion, and either way, that Monstrosity will be destroyed. And, I've decided, I'm going to stay and make a fight of it. I have the Royal Guard, and the Goldcloaks. All I have to do is hold out, till the Allies arrive. " Myrcella shook her head.

"Oh, Uncle. No one disputes your courage, but we can't allow you, of all people, to fall into enemy hands. Hundreds of years ago, yes perhaps, the Red Keep might have been held, but it's not a modern fortress. Artillery would smash the walls apart. And as for the Targaryen Whore ... just think what she'd do if she captured you. You'd be paraded through the city, naked, the mob pelting you with shit. And then they'd drag you up to the scaffold, just as they did, my poor parents and brother", she gave an artful sob, at this point. "She'd want to mock you, and degrade you. That risk can't be borne." She shuddered, at the prospect.

"Even so ..."

"Please uncle, for the love I bear for you, take ship for Dorne, while escape is still possible. It would break my heart, were you to be captured." She sobbed again. She had always been able to produce tears at will.

Renly sighed, then replied, “If I flee, the city will erupt in riots.”

”I’ve thought of that. Appoint me Regent, in your absence.” He frowned at her, pondering.

”And, if you are captured?”

”I’m expendable, Uncle. You and Gendry, you’re the future of our dynasty. A woman cannot inherit the Baratheon throne. If I'm taken, it costs you nothing." He thought about it, for a while, before finally nodding, then writing out a decree, which appointed Myrcella as Regent, in his absence. He sealed it with the golden stag of the Baratheons, and and handed it to her.

"May the Gods protect you, Myrcella,."

"And, may they guard and guide you, your Majesty."

"The Infanta should accompany me to her father's court."

"Might I suggest not. It would be wiser if she travelled separately. Suppose, Gods forbid, the ship were taken or it foundered. I can arrange her departure, incognito." He nodded, seeing the sense of it. She rose, kissing her uncle on the cheek, as she left him to make good his escape. She made her way to her chambers, where her companions were waiting. They assailed her with questions.

"King Renly is leaving the city for Dorne. Arianne, I shall make arrangements for you to leave, in a separate vessel. Samwell, I must ask you to remain here with her Highness. " There was a look of distaste upon Arianne's face. Well, Samwell's company was not such as any woman would welcome, but needs must. "Taena, Joy, I shall require your assistance. We are faced with a crisis."

"But, what will you do?" asked Taena, who appeared quite unaffected by the news of her husband's death.

"I am to serve as Regent, for the time being."

"But, you'll be putting your head in a noose, Ma'am" squealed Joy, who had become quite devoted to her.

She smiled sweetly at the little simpleton. "I hope it won't come to that, Joy. But, that's a risk I must take."

"So brave", she replied blushing. The girl was quite in love with her. The three of them left the room.

"Taena, I need you to make your way, as swiftly as you can, to the Gold Cloaks' barracks. Tell Lord Slynt that I have been appointed as Regent, and I shall require his presence in the Small Council chamber, within two hours. "Come with me, Joy." She made her way to the headquarters of the Household Guard, seeking out the Colonel, The Honourable Sir Simon Staunton. She showed him the sealed warrant, which appointed her as Regent. "Sir Simon, the King's Majesty will be departing this city. It is our responsibility to maintain order, do you understand?"

"Of course, your Highness."

"I wish you go to my chambers with a detachment of your guards. Kindly take the Infanta, Arianne Martell, to the Maidenvault. She is to be treated with every courtesy, but on no account must she be allowed to leave, nor to receive visitors. This is for her own protection, you understand?" The man nodded.

"But..." began Joy. She held up her hand to silence her.

"She has a companion, Lord Samwell Tarly, of the Reach. I have concerns regarding his loyalties. I wish him to be conveyed to the Tower of the Hand," and placed in a black cell, she was tempted to add, for she was heartily sick of him.  But, no caution, first, and always.  "Confine him to one of the upper cells, one with a window.  Ensure that he is fed, and well-treated."

"But ..." squeaked Joy, again.

"All in good time, Joy."

"Your Highness, it shall be as you command", replied Sir Simon.  She left for the Small Council Chamber, Joy trying to keep up with her.  She felt exhilarated, alive as she had rarely been, not since her late husband had slipped and broken his neck. Sharing a bed with an elderly, semi-tumescent man, had been a nauseating experience.

"Ma'am please, why aren't you sending Arianne away.  And, Samwell, is he really a traitor?"

"Reasons of State, Joy, I'm afraid you will have to trust me, when I say that Arianne will be safest in protective custody.  As for Samwell, sadly I have found him engaged in treasonous correspondence with Daenerys Targaryen.."

"Never!" said her cousin, open-mouthed.

"I fear it is so."

"Then, he must be put to the Question", she replied earnestly.  "Hot irons and thumbscrews will open his lips."  Now that is a surprise.  Perhaps you have a career as a torturess ahead of you, sweet cousin. As they made their way back to the courtyard, she saw her uncle's carriage leave, guarded by an escort of cavalry. Good. The pair ascended the Serpentine Steps, and made their way to the Small Council Chamber, to await Janos Slynt. She had got to know the man quite well, over the past six months. She had peered inside his soul, and found it black as pitch. He was entirely venial, and she had hinted, but no more, that he might enjoy her favours in due course. He would be ideal for her purposes.

"What do we do now, Myrcella?" asked Joy, as they waited for the man.

"We're going to make some lists". Lists of leading royalists, to be arrested by the Gold Cloaks, and held to await the pleasure of the Empress, when she took possession of the city. From far away, she fancied she heard the sound of a crowd singing the Imperial anthem.

Arise, children of the Fatherland,
The day of glory has arrived!
Against us, tyranny
Has raised its bloody banner.
Do you hear, in the countryside,
The roar of those ferocious soldiers?
They come right into our arms
To slaughter our sons and companions!

To arms, citizens! Form your battalions!
Let us march! Let us march!
May impure blood Water our fields!

This was turning into a very good day.

Chapter Text

"When do we rise?", he asked, without thinking.

"At break of day," came the inevitable answer. Gendry suppressed a sigh. He'd learned better than to ask what was for breakfast, knowing that the answer would be, just as inevitably, "cold meat". He'd come to dread both phrases. He'd travelled by coach with the Marquess, and the man’s two secretaries, up the Roseroad, from Oldtown, league after relentless league. After three weeks, they were now close to their destination, Tumbleton, the headquarters of the Allied army. Thank the Gods that the inn they'd stopped at, for the night, looked decent, a solid stone structure, well-maintained and clean. Some of the places they’d stayed at had been no better than sties.

”Hot baths, if you please”, said his companion to the innkeep, as they entered the tavern. Those, at least, would be very welcome. “We shall dine within the hour, your highness”, remarked the Marquess, as he was led upstairs.

Sansa enjoyed hot baths, thought Gendry, as he relaxed in the warm water. Especially, the ones that she'd shared with him. The Countess of Last Hearth was a most passionate lover. He found himself growing hard, as he remembered her. Did his companion know that they’d enjoyed a torrid, if brief affair, after she’d dumped her cavalry officer lover? He'd spent these weeks in Jon’s company, yet even so he barely knew the man. The days in the carriage were mainly taken up with his dictating letters and orders to his secretaries, or reading despatches that couriers delivered along the way, some of which he shared with Gendry. At supper, he would talk mainly about military and political affairs. So, it was tonight. The secretaries ate apart from the two of them.

The meal was a vegetable pottage, followed by roast pheasant, a welcome change from the mutton in vinegar that his companion generally preferred. At least he’d brought a substantial stock of excellent wine, even if they drank sparingly, no more than a couple of glasses each, followed by a pear brandy from Tyrosh. Tonight was no different.

”I have news from Kings Landing, your Highness.” He read out the despatch:

”My Lord Marquess,

As predicted, the Army has declared for the Empress. Marshal Selmy was murdered, and his head paraded through the soldiers’ camp. King Renly fled the capital, leaving the Princess Royal, Myrcella Baratheon, as his Regent.

Princess Myrcella took control of the city, with the support of the Goldcloaks, the urban gendarmerie. Units of the regular army were admitted to the capital, and the Royal Guard disarmed, after some hours of fighting. The Princess has pledged her support for Daenerys Targaryen, and she has arrested numerous of her uncle’s supporters. The Infanta of Dorne, Arianne Martell is held captive…”

”Lies”, cried Gendry. “My sister is no traitor!”

"We must hope not your Highness. Who knows if she had any choice in this matter? Perhaps the Goldcloaks seized control, and held a knife to her throat? But, we must assume that the basic facts are correct. My source is a reliable one. And assuredly, you will have to fight for your throne."

"My throne?"

Jon stared at Gendry for a while. "A slip of the tongue, but no matter, you will know soon enough. The Allies are convinced that you would make a more suitable monarch than your uncle. You have commanded men in battle, and you have proved your bravery. Your uncle has done neither. There are, perhaps ... other reasons why he struggles to retain the loyalty of his soldiers." Well, yes, Gendry knew what those other reasons were. King of the Crownlands and Stormlands! The thought excited him beyond measure. But no! It was shameful to usurp Uncle Renly.

"I have no doubts as to your intelligence and courage, but ...". And, every word before the word "but" is horseshit. "I doubt your ruthlessness. Believe me, when I say that is a slight compliment. You are not a man who is cruel by nature, I judge. But, do you have it in you to put traitors to death? Your sister, for example, if she has truly, switched sides. Could you look her in the eye, listen to her last words, before she was shot?" The other man's eyes bored into his, searching deep into his soul.

"I don't think I could.." he whispered. Not Myrcella! His sweet, gentle, devoted, sister, with whom he had grown up in exile. And yet ... there was ambition in her, he knew. Once or twice, he'd gained the impression that she might actually resent the fact that her sex barred her being a ruling Queen. And, if he were honest, he'd have to admit, that law was a stupid one.

”I too, face a conflict of loyalties,” continued Jon. “I may even have to damn myself, for my country’s sake.” He seemed now, to be speaking to himself. What his secret was, he would not reveal. “No matter. It will come to war, and you’ll be granted the command of a brigade of Reachmen.” Two regiments, three thousand men, a big responsibility.

”Thank you.” Gendry frowned again, thinking back to the past. “There is something … Myrcella and I met the Empress, some years ago. She came to Highgarden, to wed Prince Garlan. Uncle Renly refused to meet her. She’s very beautiful, and she can be very charming, although I suspect it’s all an act. She suggested we return home, if we renounced our claim to the throne. She promised us all sorts of offices and titles, and ‘Cella and I were in favour. Uncle said no, we’d all be quietly murdered, if we returned. I dare say he was right.”

Jon shook his head. “I can lay many charges at the feet of the Empress, but nothing I’ve heard about her suggests she’d betray you like that. That offer was genuine, I suspect. How better to strengthen her claim than have her rivals publicly renounce theirs?”

“Well, we did take the throne off the Targaryens, five hundred years ago. They failed in the male line. And the leaders of the Faith “discovered” that a woman was barred from the succession. The lords agreed. It was all humbug, really. Rhaenys and Visenya were queens, after all.” Jon nodded.

“Medieval clergy always found a justification for whatever it was they wanted to do”, said Jon drily. “But, what bearing has this on matters at hand?”

“Myrcella seemed besotted with the Empress. If she wasn’t a woman, I think she’d have offered to marry her, herself,” he said, laughing. “Who knows? Maybe she fell under her spell? And yet, she’s said some harsh things about her, too.”

”Well then, let us hope your sister remains true”, said the Marquess, rising from the table. He frowned at Gendry, before continuing. “A Brigade is an important command. Don’t let me down. Good night, your Highness.”

Chapter Text

Fourteen Years Ago

The day was set to be a fine one, as they rode up to the Summer Palace of the Baratheons. Dawn had just broken, and a fresh wind blew in from the sea, bringing with it a salty tang. Even from here, she could see the haze in the sky above Kings Landing, left by a hundred thousand chimneys. The capital was a city that stank of smoke, cooking oil, and horseshit. She ate an apple, as they rode.

"You look especially beautiful this morning, Dany," remarked Viserys to her.

"That's no more than the truth, Vis," she replied.  "All you're showing to me is, you've got a pair of eyes in your head. "  She paused, for effect, before turning in her saddle, "but please continue."

"Your hair is like to ... a shimmering river of silver."

"Oh, for the Gods sake, how unoriginal is that! Yesterday, you told me it was like the silver sea at dawn. Now, that's poetry. Bad poetry, but still ...."

"Your eyes are like amethysts."

"A pair of stones, is that what you're saying?"

"Your lips are like rosebuds, and made to be kissed." She threw the apple core at his head, and he ducked, laughing.

"Alright then, Dany you're a thief and a blackmailer."

"True."

"A betrayer."

"That, as well."

"A murderer."

"I can't really dispute it," she replied, laughing in turn. "You in turn, are the foremost General of the Republic, famed for your ruthlessness, and feared by your enemies. You are the third most important man in the State."

"I will soon be the first."

"And, you can't achieve any of that, without getting your hands dirty."

"Of course I can’t." They rode through the gates, into the palace courtyard, as soldiers saluted them. Viserys leaned over to whisper;

"I love you, Daenerys."

"I've never doubted it", she replied.

Now

When news was brought to her, four years later, that Viserys had been killed by a stray bullet, at the moment of victory, she'd picked up a pistol of her own, walked into her bathroom, knelt on the floor, and put the gun in her mouth. She’d remained in that position for half an hour. To this day, she wondered what had stopped her from pulling the trigger.

She rode at the head of ten thousand men, now, approaching the Little Summer Palace, a league away. Thirty thousand more she had sent under Grey Worm, to guard the Western border. The enemy would be gathering their own forces close to Tumbleton. As she rode, so she calculated yet again, in her mind, just how many muskets, how much powder and shot, how many cannon could be produced per week, in readiness for the fight which would surely come. Naharis, her former lover, she had left at Duskendale, to recruit fresh forces. Thousands of men were seeking to rejoin her army, many of them prisoners of war who had been released by the Allies, over the previous six months. Overall, she had calculated that she could recruit and equip, somewhere between one and twenty, and one hundred and forty thousand men. Were she to go onto the defensive, they would not be enough. The enemy were too numerous, and they would whittle down her forces. No, she must attack. Destroy the Allied armies, around Tumbleton, and then she would offer a generous peace, renounce any territorial claims, and free her prisoners unconditionally. Her chances of succeeding were slim, but they were not non-existent.

Fail this time, and she would not hesitate to pull the trigger.

The army halted, and she trotted on, with Massey, now promoted to General, Missandei, and a squadron of cavalry. As she rode up to the palace, so a full battalion of the Gold Cloaks presented arms. They had seized the capital on her behalf, under instruction from Princess Myrcella, who she saw waiting for her on horseback, along with the gendarmes' commander, Lord Janos Slynt. An unsavoury pair, who she would never trust as far as she could piss. But, the Princess Royal had proved invaluable to her, and she must be rewarded, at least for the time being, however distasteful she might find it. Head hunting was likewise, distasteful. She had insisted that Marshal Selmy, and his murdered generals, receive a proper burial, along with the dead Baron, Merryweather, but she'd had no option but to praise and reward Naharis and the other conspirators.

Myrcella rode forward, before dismounting. Dany dismounted in turn, and then walked towards her. They embraced, in show of amity. "By all the Gods, your Majesty, it is so good to see you again. This palace, the Red Keep, the capital, the entire Realm, they are yours."

"I owe you a debt that can never be repaid, your Highness." Gods, this woman was lovely, the personification of the Maiden! The kiss they'd shared so many years ago, at Highgarden, had lingered in her memory. Viserys had insisted that every woman possessed a sapphic side, and perhaps he’d been right. But, she has the soul of a devil.  how can she betray her own brother, and her uncle?  How can she not want vengeance for her parents? Ambition and cunning, obviously.  I must tread warily, with this one.

The frog-faced commander of the Gold Cloaks came up grinning, hoping for a similar greeting, no doubt.  With him, she was more formal, thanking him for his loyal service. She knew him to be thoroughly corrupt. Before her abdication, she'd been on the point of dismissing him.  She would find him some sinecure, where he could do no harm.

"The city is secure your Majesty", said Myrcella, as she led Daenerys into the palace's Atrium, trailed by the others. It was a great edifice of soaring marble pillars, supporting a ceiling showing a fresco of Robert Baratheon as the Warrior, surrounded by a throng of mostly naked, and decidedly large-bosomed angels. The sight had always wanted to make her giggle. An immense stone staircase led to the upper floors. She noted, amused, that a picture of King Renly was being removed from one of the walls, and replaced with her own. "Tomorrow, you shall ride in triumph through its streets. The people eagerly await your return."

"I understand, you have been making arrests. I don't want a bloodbath, Myrcella. That would not be politic."

"Some hundreds are held securely, your Majesty. A few ..."

"Yes."

"They resisted arrest, and died." That would be a problem. Their families would seek vengeance.

As they walked down the hallway, Daenerys enquired; "the Dornish Infanta, I trust she is unharmed?"

"Of course, your Majesty. She is a dear friend, although relations are somewhat strained, I fear. I have told her that my only concern was for her safety, and that no harm will come to her. She is, well, rather bitter."  Rather bitter?  I've no doubt she wants to strangle you! And me, of course.

"Where is she held?"

"I have returned her to this place, from the Maidenvault. I thought it a more pleasant environment for her. Have no fear, she is well-guarded."

"Good. Missandei, please escort the Infanta Arianne, to the Rose Garden. Arrange refreshments. I wish to speak to her. You will accompany me, Myrcella."

She was waiting in the Rose Garden, with Myrcella, when Missandei joined them with a beautiful, buxom, olive-skinned woman. Guards stood at a discreet distance. Daenerys rose to greet her, and offered her tea and cakes.

"Are they poisoned?" asked the Infanta, in acid tones. The look she gave them would have curdled milk.

Ostentatiously, Daenerys poured herself a cup, and swallowed half, and took a bite from one of cakes.

"Your death would gain me nothing, your Highness."  Especially in light of what happened to my good-sister.

"So, tell me what your plan for me is? If my father goes to war, will you start sending him parts of my body? “

"I'm not a Lannister, whatever you might think."

"That one is", she nodded at Myrcella.  

"Her name is Myrcella, and she has kept you safe, during this time of troubles."

"Please don't insult my intelligence like that. It annoys me, intensely. I asked you a question, Your Majesty.  What do you plan for me?"

"I plan to return you to Dorne, without any preconditions, that is what."

"Is that a joke?  If so, it's in poor taste."

"I have no desire for war, with Dorne, nor with any other nation.  By returning you to your people, without ransom, or any other demand, I'm showing to the world, that I mean what I say.  I will fight if I have to, but I would rather not have to.  There is no reason for more good people to have to go back to the mud."  She sensed Myrcella's annoyance, at the idea of giving up a hostage, but the Princess had seized Arianne without consulting her, and she had discussed the matter at length with Missandei, on their way here.  "My only request is that you tell your father that. I shall of course, be communicating that fact to every other government, but I'd find it helpful if you told King Doran, too."

"I doubt if he will think you sincere.  But, assuming you're telling the truth, let me offer you something in exchange.  Never trust that woman who sits next to you."  Nor shall I ever do so.   "My people will want revenge, I expect."

"Your country is exhausted.  I believe there are revolts in your colonies.  Revenge will offer them very cold comfort."

"Perhaps, but they remember what you did to them.  Tell me, Your Majesty, if you were to meet the survivors of your campaigns in Dorne, men and women who'd seen their towns and villages burned, murders and rapes committed by your soldiers, what would you say to them?" Daenerys thought about her answer.

"The day that my soldiers came to your towns and villages, that was the most important day in your lives… But, for me, it was Tuesday." 

She rose.  "I wish you a good voyage, your Highness", she said, before turning back to the palace.

Chapter Text

Ygritte had risen before daybreak, with her cousin, Gilly, washed quickly, and then walked the few miles that lay between their village and the capital. Like all their neighbours, they were used to making the journey, often bringing produce with them, from their market gardens, to sell in the city, but their purpose was a different one on this occasion. To see the Empress ride in triumph into Kings Landing, with her soldiers. They hurried, for they expected big crowds, and sure enough, by the time they got there, hundreds were already lining the Rosby Road. From inside the city itself, she heard the sound of scores of bells peeling, to welcome the return of Daenerys Targaryen. Within the next hour, pretty well anyone who could walk or ride from their village had arrived, and by that point, the crowds had spread another mile up the road towards Rosby.

”Make a space for me, girls”, she heard a familiar voice say. It was old uncle Tormund, supposedly in his sixtieth year, now with as much grey as red, in his hair and beard, and walking with the aid of a stick. He grinned at them, as they budged up. He held up his mutilated hands.

"Tell me girls, what's the price of Uncle Tormund's thumbs?", he asked, for the hundredth time.

"Twenty Northern lives, uncle", replied Ygritte.

"And, his fingers?"

"Twenty more", said Gilly. Best as she could tell, the two of them were about half way there. When the Northern soldiers had come to Hardhome, their uncle had fought with the defenders. In retaliation, the Northmen had chopped of his thumbs, and his index and middle fingers. Like thousands of others, their family had fled South, rather than live under Northern rule. Enough for the Crownlands to form the Royal Regiment of Free Folk, known generally as "The Wild Geese."

"I heard, they're re-forming the Wild Geese", their uncle told them. The Free Folk, including some women, preferred to raid, trap, and ambush their enemies, and that had been their role under the Empress, the regiment renamed as the Tenth Light Infantry. After being petitioned by them, the Empress had agreed to let women join the regiment, and there was a small battalion of them by the war's end. Ygritte's and Gilly's fathers both had taught them how to hunt, shoot, use a blade, and (if they were honest about it), how to poach game. The pair had joined up, once they'd learned that Northmen were fighting in Dorne, each one reaching the rank of Corporal. The new government had disbanded the regiment, upon taking power.

"Heard the same tale, uncle", she replied.

"Will you join up?"

"We avenged yer thumbs, uncle, but not yer fingers", Gilly replied. "So, the answer's "yes.".

"Good on yer", he replied. "Yer dads'd be proud of yer."

Far off down the road, she heard the sound of fifes, and before long, hundreds of horsemen came trotting into view, lancers and Dothraki, as the crowd cheered. The former were singing a song she knew off by heart, by now, even though it was a cavalry song.:

Let the Warrior's sons be not dismayed
but join with me each jovial blade
booze and sing and lend your aid
to help me with the chorus

Instead of water we'll drink down ale
and pay the reckoning on the nail
no man for debt shall go to jail
from Garryowen in glory.

We'll beat the bailiffs out of fun
we'll make the mayors and sheriffs run
we are the boys no man dares dun
if he regards a whole skin...

The latter, something in their own tongue, no doubt quite filthy. The cavalry passed, now followed by thousands of marching infantry, singing the Imperial anthem, about watering the fields of the Fatherland, with the blood of foreign foes. Rank after rank passed them, a mix of heavies, lights, Gold Cloaks and Unsullied, all treading carefully to avoid the deposits left by the horses in their wake. Their uniforms were immaculate, their weapons burnished to a shine. From further down, she heard the sound of the cheers rise to a crescendo, and then they were all joining in, as she appeared, the Empress herself, riding a white horse.  Gods, she was beautiful, silver hair shimmering in the light of the early morning sun, dressed in a uniform of black and red.  She was flanked by an attractive dark-skinned woman, and another woman, equally stunning, with golden hair and green eyes. The Empress and the brown woman seemed to be delighted, the third looked more wary, calculating. She wasn't sure who the other women were, but someone pointed them out as a Lady Missandei, and Myrcella, the Princess Royal.

"But, she's a Baratheon", Ygritte replied, amazed.  "What the 'ell is she doing 'ere?"  She knew that the Baratheon King, Renly, had run away.  

"No idea", said the other man, "but seems she's on the Empress' side." She frowned. How could you trust anyone who turned against her own family? Still, the doings of the highborn were none of her business. Finally, the rear of the procession was made up of horse artillery, followed by more cavalry. It was a bold show, but she knew full well how dangerous the enemy were. She'd joined up, just as the Dornish war had turned sour. They'd retreated North towards the Stormlands, then kept retreating, even as she and Gilly took their toll on the enemy. She'd ended the war at Storms End, after the enemy had taken Summerhall and Weeping Town.

The crowds were dispersing now, some returning to their homes, others following the soldiers into the city. She'd heard there would be free food and drink on offer, but honestly, there was work needed doing on the smallholding, and that was a damn sight more important.

"Let's go," she said to the others.

"Wait a moment, Ygritte", replied her cousin. She saw a party of soldiers, wandering up the road, led by a Sergeant-Major. Young men were crowding round them, and it was plain they were looking for recruits.

They Joined the queue, earning some ribald comments from some of the waiting men.  

"Are you Wild Geese?", asked one of the Corporals, among the recruiting party.

"Aye, that we are.  Both corporals in the Tenth Lights" she replied.  

The man nodded in response.  "Well, they're reforming the regiment.  You'll need to go to the Street of Steel, the day after tomorrow, to sign up, at the Armourers' Hall.  With any luck, they'll make you both sergeants."  

Sergeants! Well, she'd welcome it if it happened, but it was quite a responsibility.  All the junior officers leaned heavily on the sergeants, who quite frequently, were a damn sight more experienced at war than they were.  As they reached their home village, talking about the wars to come, the same thought kept coming back to her.

Would they avenge uncle Tormund's fingers this time round?

Chapter Text

Joy lay fast asleep, her head on Myrcella's shoulder. Beneath the sheets, she gently caressed the girl's hip. Joy gasped, as she woke.

“Have you ever done this before?” Myrcella asked her.

"Done what?" She had to suppress a giggle at the girl's naivety.

"Loved a woman." She felt Joy shaking her head.

“Never?” She heard Joy catch her breath, and decided it was time to explore further, sliding her hand up the girl's ribcage, before touching the underside of her breast.

“It is, I just— I didn’t realise such a thing was possible,” Joy replied. “I felt… curious, sometimes. But I was so afraid of what uncle and my septas would think." Oh yes, grandfather Tywin would be utterly disgusted by this. He had made a point of never remarrying, after the death of his wife. But, Myrcella knew full well he made use of whores, in private, while presenting a mask of piety to the world. He was no different to her really, but she'd grown to hate the man during her period of exile at Casterly Rock. He'd made it plain to her, constantly, that she was the poor relation, dependent on his family's charity, and she was expected to be grateful for it. Joy, on the other hand, he'd rather doted upon, despite her being a bastard. It added considerable spice to what Myrcella was doing now.

When she kissed Joy, she found her a sweet girl to taste, but the best part was how the girl tasted her, how she clung to her, to the point of clumsiness when she kissed back. Cautiously, she explored Joy's body with her hands, moving ever lower, her lips now closing over a nipple. Joy had to be taught, that she was not a royal, nor even a lady. She was nothing but a bawd, not even a drab who sold her body out of desperation, but instead, a whore by choice. As the other cried out, and writhed beneath her, so she felt a stab of vicious satisfaction.

But, Luthor was right, too, she thought, as she lay in the early morning gloom, when it was all over. She might laugh about it later, with Taena and Falyse, but, seducing a convent-educated half-wit was scarcely a contest. She'd find a purpose for Joy. She had been shocked, at first, to learn that Myrcella had switched sides, but she'd persuaded her of the necessity for it. "Would you rather we were sent to the black cells?" she'd asked her, more than once, and when put like that, the question answered itself. Now, when she needs must strike political deals, free use of her cousin's body would be a handy bargaining chip. But, the Empress! There was truly a challenge. She'd gained a fairly clear idea, during her life, when men and women desired her, and she was quite certain that Daenerys Targaryen was one of them. Why therefore should be so determined to deny that part of her own nature?

She would find out, later that day.

She rose, and summoned her maidservants, instructing them to prepare her a hot bath. When she was finished, she had Joy dress her, amused at the way the girl blushed scarlet, every time she caught her eye. After an hour of preparation, she surveyed herself in the mirror. She wore an emerald gown, which matched both her eyes, and the necklace she wore.

"You look like a Goddess," whispered her cousin.

"Hopefully, not the Crone", she replied, smiling.

Hastily, Joy shook her head, blushing again. "No, no, I meant ... the Maiden ... or the Mother", she stammered. When her handmaidens had left her, she whispered, "I love you, Myrcella, more than life itself." She kissed her on the lips, then exited her chamber, to break her fast with her friends.

Breakfast had been prepared, in one of the drawing rooms. Falyse and Taena were waiting for her, and rose as she entered the room. Taena was dressed in black, as befitted a widow, and she poured coffee for the three of them. They helped themselves to cakes and fruit.

"My commiserations for the loss of your dear husband," she began. "And for the imprisonment of yours," she added, nodding to Falyse.

"Oh, I believe that Falyse and I can bear our burdens, courageously," replied the Myrish beauty, appearing quite untroubled.

"As I bore my grief for the Count of Runestone." She sighed. "Those old ones, they can die so suddenly, I'm afraid. A chill, a bad humour, or ... slipping on the ice, down a flight of steps." She shook her head, sadly.

"Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet, the death of some old husband," remarked Falyse, and the three of them laughed at that.

"Talking of which, the Empress has agreed that you will inherit the widow's portion of your husband's estate Taena. Falyse, you shall act as your husband's deputy, for as long as he is imprisoned. That means, the incomes of the estate will be yours to use as you see fit." They thanked her, before Lady Merryweather asked, 

"And what of dear, plump, young Samwell. Such a natural submissive."  A long night of passion with a furnace and a set of razors, and an even longer morning, in the presence of an anvil, a sack, and the bottom of the Blackwater Rush would have been Myrcella's preference, but sadly, the Empress would not permit it.  He had been moved, on her orders, from his Tower cell, to the Maidenvault.

"For the time being, he must enjoy the hospitality of Her Imperial Majesty."

"A shame about dear Arianne", remarked Falyse.  A shame indeed.  She had disagreed with the Empress strongly, believing that she had value as a hostage.  

"There is propaganda value in releasing her", had been the latter's response.  

"I fear we did not depart upon good terms, but in public life, one must set aside considerations of personal friendship." She rose, and left her friends, to attend meetings of the new Small Council. The Empress had made her substantial grants of land, as well as making her Grand Chancellor of the Legion of Honour, her predecessor dismissed as being a partisan of Renly's. Yet, she still wished her son, Aegon Tyrell, to succeed her, unwilling to accept that Highgarden would never set him free. She hoped, at least, to be made Regent, once the Empress departed for the fight. That she herself was heading for an appointment with a firing party, should her uncle and brother prevail, was something she understood. Great reward requires great boldness after all.

All the talk was of preparations for war, at the Council meeting. The Empress was well-briefed, as ever, and she had made sure to have studied her papers in detail. Daenerys seemed pleased with her contribution, nodding with approval at her, on several occasions. At the end, she invited her to dine, that evening.

As she was dressing for dinner, so a maidservant brought her a letter, from Highgarden, written by Viscount Luthor, no less. That promised some amusement, and since she had the time, so she read it, chuckling from time to time. He had returned to the palace of the Tyrells. Prince Garlan, the Duke of Brightwater, had threatened to run him through, but he had apologised profusely for his past misdeeds. Princess Margaery had reminded him that he was a man of most vicious repute;

"Once, Dearest Cella, I would have embarked on a lengthy oration, justifying my sins in terms that would leave the most cynical of sophists astounded at my eloquence.  But, on the contrary, I bowed my head to her chastisement, before remarking, "Your Highness, you are correct.  I am indeed, a man of vicious repute.  And, your censure is justified, for I have led a most vicious life.  I have seduced highborn ladies, and low born maidservants alike, and laughed as I abandoned them.  I have mocked the Seven, and yet, they are gracious beyond desert, granting another chance of repentance, even to a sinner such as I. "  He had spoken at length of Margaery's virtues, before continuing,

Your Highness, you are beautiful, and yet, if I may say it, beauty is the least of your qualities. I have become fascinated by your goodness. I am drawn by it. Tell me what to do. Show me how to behave, how I may redeem myself in your eyes. I'll do anything you say.”

It seemed that Margaery was truly, one of those fools who had fallen for the Septons' lie that a man could repent his true nature.  Luthor had accompanied her each morning to chapel, and again, when she visited the lazaret that she had constructed nearby.  Oh might he finally breach her defences, and conquer her chastity!

Her reply must wait, and she made her way to the Royal dining room, for supper with the Empress.  As at the Small Council, their conversation was of military affairs, only turning to personal affairs, as they sat together on a settee, sipping dessert wines.  The Empress told her that she needs must remarry.  "The Faith would deem me a bawd should I remain unwed.  You too, Myrcella.  Your period of mourning is at an end, and surely, you must desire a husband."  

"I shall, once I meet a man I love."

"I fear, love is very much a luxury, for those of us in public life."

"Did you not love Prince Garlan?"

"Ours was a political marriage.  Love might have developed between us, but our countries went back to war.  I sent him back to Highgarden, else I must keep him here as a prisoner."  

"Have you ever been in love, Daenerys?"  Gently, she brushed a loose strand of silver hair back behind her ear.  She sensed a shiver in the Empress. 

"I have been in love twice.  Once," and here Daenerys looked her full in the eye, "with another woman.  She was a maidservant, and I was infatuated with her. Truly."

"What happened?"

"She betrayed me, and my brother.  It almost cost us our lives.  It did cost the lives of some who were useful to me.  Some of them were even dear to me. "  Here, the other woman's face looked decidedly grim.  "I locked her in a vault, to perish."  Myrcella felt a shiver run down her spine.

"And the  other occasion?"

"That is a secret I shall take to the grave."

"Then, I must ferret it out", she replied lightly.

"Never do so, unless you wish to end your life in the vault."  The Empress's eyes bored into her own, like chips of purple ice.  

Some questions, you do not wish to know the answers to.

Chapter Text

I feel distinctly in need of bath, after having spent time in the presence of that pair.

Jon had just shown Lord Baelish and Lord Varys out of the office he had taken in The Bawdy Badger, an ancient, stone-built inn, located on the market square of Tumbleton.  They had followed him, from Oldtown, at a more leisurely pace, to the headquarters of the Allied Army.  They had a proposition for him.  It seemed that Lord Varys had a young girl, in his employ, whom he named "Martha" who worked in the Empress' kitchens.  He had listened with incredulity, as the man had suggested introducing a slow-acting poison, into Daenerys Targaryen's meals. Only his immediate family knew of their blood tie, but the idea of giving consent, to the poisoning of his father's sister, made his skin crawl. He had rejected the proposal with contempt.

"My Lord", said Baelish. "It is a dishonourable proposal, of course it is, to administer poison to a young woman. But, we who are in positions of power, must get our hands dirty on occasion, for the good of all."

"Is it not kinder to the world, when all is said and done", asked Varys, "to remove the source of all our troubles, without the need for war, in which thousands must perish?"

"With the best will in the world, she is a monster", continued Baelish. "A thief, a murderer, a blackmailer and ...." and here, Jon could sense the relish with which he said it, "a keen practiser of incest. They say she can perform fellatio better than any professional. ..." Jon held up his hand. He had had enough.

"And yet, my lords, the pair of you served her well, when serving her was easy. Kindly leave me."

They left with ill grace. He would not allow his kin to be dishonourably murdered.  Leave alone the fact that the Liberal Opposition would be howling for his blood, if it were to transpire that he had been party to an assassination plot. He summoned his spymaster, Lieutenant-Colonel Flint, informed him of what the two men had told him, and instructed him to alert the Empress, through back-channels, of the danger she faced.

He returned to his work, reviewing, once again, the order of battle. Reinforcements were marching to his aid, from across the Seven Kingdoms, but far more slowly than he'd have wished. In and around Tumbleton, he had two Northern infantry divisions one heavy, commanded by Roose Bolton, and one light, and largely made up of Free Folk, under Robbett Glover, known as "Black Bob", to his men. Twelve thousand in all. On top of this he had two brigades of Northern cavalry, again, one heavy, one light.

The best-mounted cavalry in the whole Seven Kingdoms, and the most ill-led. His cousin,Lord Cerwyn, commanded the lights, and the King’s younger son, Prince Beric, the heavies.  He had little confidence in either man.

There were two divisions of Reach infantry, twelve miles away, at Linden, and an entire division of their cavalry, in whom he placed a lot more confidence.  Their light cavalry, under Prince Loras Tyrell, patrolled the frontier.

There was one division each, of infantry from the West, Riverlands and Vale, along with brigades of cavalry from the Vale and West. The Westermen were based at Redgrass Field, scene of an ancient battle. In all, forty thousand infantry, seven thousand cavalry, plus five thousand artillerymen, with one hundred and fifty cannon. Not enough, but Hardyng would bring as many again, from the Vale.

He summoned his secretaries and dictated orders, advice, letters - and invitations to dinner, the following night. The guests would want something other than mutton in vinegar, he supposed. They would all be male, for it would be at least another week before his step-mother, and other ladies arrived. Catelyn had taken one of the Tyrells’ country residences, a few miles from here, very much against his advice. The last thing he wanted was her and Sansa being made prisoner, if he was defeated. Still, Desmera was accompanying them, and that was something to look forward to.

One of the secretaries, Jessop, cleared his throat, before remarking "My Lord, a personal communication from Winterfell." He took the letter from the man, and broke the seal. It was from Rickon. It seemed he and Bran had actually formed a party of volunteers, from the Stark estates, and they would be sailing from White Harbour to Maidenpool, before travelling to join them. Apparently, his cousin thought the campaign would be "a lark, a dare and a jape", and he groaned inwardly. War was nothing like what these people imagined. Then he swore softly, under his breath, upon reading that Cat's paramour, Mellors, would be joining them. He'd nothing against the young man, who was indeed, an excellent gamekeeper, but truly, he could not approve of his stepmother consorting with a servant, half her age.  Still, her bed, her business, as they say in Dorne.  At least the man was a crack shot, and might make a fine skirmisher.  And he might even catch a bullet, an unworthy thought intruded. He'd prefer it if the government had barred the party from setting out, but there was no way that a member of the North's only Ducal family would be gainsayed.

He thought again, about tomorrow night's dinner. Obviously, Bolton and Glover must be invited, along with his cousin and Prince Beric. Several of his staff would join them, and Prince Gendry? He'd grown to like the young man, notwithstanding his affair with Sansa, and suspected he might make a good king in time, so long as he survived. A crazy thought suddenly struck him. If Gendry were to marry the Empress, surely this whole damn business could be brought to an end, without loss of life on either side! He'd little doubt that if she did, truly, wish to live in peace with the other kingdoms, his aunt would make a much better ruler than Renly, as would the young Prince. He dismissed it as a pipe dream. Certainly, he would like to have dinner with the young man, but courtesy would require him to invite his commanding officer, Lord Randyll Tarly. The latter was a competent general, but truly, a vicious martinet, who wielded the lash with enthusiasm. Flogging should only ever be a last resort, but for Tarly it was a first. The Empress indeed, had abolished the practice completely, in her army. She was on record as saying if a soldier merited a flogging, she'd sooner see the man dishonourably discharged. In the end, he relented, and issued the invitation to the pair of them.

It was high time to take some exercise, and he dismissed the two men. He descended to the Inn's common room, and there, a pair of his aides joined him. As they walked out into the market square, he noticed a how cold it was.

"Winter's coming my lord", remarked another Flint, this one a major on his staff.

"A distinct chill in the air", he replied. It was true, but armies were used now, to fighting in Winter, at least here, in the South. It would not deter the Empress. The other man suddenly burst out laughing.

"Might we share the joke, Flint?"

"Not a joke my lord, but Colonel Poole of the Light Infantry's just resigned his command. He and Black Bob had a falling-out." In his way, Glover was almost as much a martinet as Tarly, but his harshness was directed towards incompetent officers, rather than the other ranks. His men respected him, for he was careful with their lives.

"Oh, I've yet to hear this."

"The General was training his men. It seems they had to cross a river waist-deep. Colonel Poole didn't like this, and actually got one of his men to carry him over on his shoulders. He had the bad luck to find the General waiting on the other bank. "Drop him now!" was Glover's command, so into the water he went. "

" Glover did right", was Jon's reply. Good Gods! Where did they find men like Colonel Poole? One useless colonel weeded out of the army was only a minor benefit, but every little helps.

Chapter Text

“Don’t flatter yourself Rudi. Gendry Baratheon’s twice the man you are - in bed, or out of it.”

“I’ll call him out!” shouted Rudolph “Rudi” Fossoway.

“You’ll find yourself cashiered, you fool. Gendry’s a Colonel in your army, and you’re a lieutenant. You can’t issue a challenge to a superior officer. And over what? What wrong has he done you? Taken your place in my bed? I’m not married to you.”

“I should have known better than to fall for the the North’s most rancid whore! Like mother, like daughter”, replied the other bitterly. “The Gods alone know if I’ve picked up syphilis from you.”

”Get out now, you little shit!” She threw a paperweight at him, as he fled.

Sansa was most displeased as she alighted from her carriage that had taken them to Cliveden, their destination, to find her former lover in charge of the men guarding it. Their break-up had not been at all pleasant.

”My lady”, he said curtly, giving a perfunctory nod of his head. She ignored him, and stalked into house. As ever in such places, an army of servants was waiting to attend to her every whim. Mama took her hand, and led her into a small parlour, where tea and cakes were laid out for them.

”I take it, you and Fossoway did not part on good terms, Sansa?” She shook her head.

Catelyn sighed. “Ned and I should have waited until you found a man you loved, rather than insisting you married as soon you had come out. I see that now. I’m sorry.”

"I am in love, for the first time in my life." There had been numerous men in her life, but this was the first one she had ever found herself falling for.

"With Prince Baratheon?" Sansa nodded. Her mother sighed again.

"He will wish to marry a member of another royal family. And besides, there are no grounds to dissolve your own marriage to Lord Umber."

"But, kings can have mistresses. Most of them do, in fact."

”And your son? You could hardly bring him to Kings Landing. Prince Gendry is not his father. And, suppose his queen objects?” Of course it was true. Just a hopeless dream. If she were honest with herself, she scarcely knew her own son, Russell, and mostly left his upbringing to tutors. She’d leapt at the chance to come South, for the Congress at Oldtown, but sooner or later, she needs must return to Last Hearth. She was trapped in a loveless marriage, but, privilege must always come with a price attached to it. Her parents had ensured that her marriage settlement was controlled by attorneys in White Harbour, rather than by her husband.  Ten thousand acres of prime pasture and woodland, along with four villages, a couple of coal mines, and thirty thousand dragons' worth of government stock, made her one of the wealthiest women in the North, in her own right.

Catelyn interrupted her train of thought with a coughing fit. Oh Gods! Mama had begun to develop a bad cough the previous winter, and she had feared it was the consumption. Eventually, her mother recovered, and yet again, she advised her, "move to Dorne. The desert air is dry." Some wealthy people, who had developed consumption, had done exactly that, prolonging their lives in consequence.

"You're right my dear, but I must be here for Jon, and the rest. Bran and Rickon are coming, and .... Mellors, with a party of volunteers."

"Those two hate him, Mama."

"It is difficult, I know. " A reckless thought struck her.

"Then wed him. There are septs in Tumbleton. Take him with you to Dorne."

"He is a servant, Sansa. Of course, I can't wed him.  It would cause the most almighty scandal.  And, you know what Rickon is like.  He might even issue a challenge to the young man."

"Gentlemen fight gentlemen, Mother.  Rickon would disgrace himself by doing such a thing.   Besides, he'd be a fool.  Everyone knows that Mellors is a crack shot.  Don't worry, I'll speak to my brothers when they arrive.  You've borne five children to House Stark.  Who would care who you wed, if you moved to Dorne?"  Catelyn remained silent for a while.

"Out of the mouths of babes and infants..." she finally remarked.  "You know, you sound just like Arya."

"I am not like Arya!  You know what she actually told me?  That the North needs a Revolution, just like the one that they had in the Crownlands, and that Daenerys Targaryen is the most enlightened ruler in the Seven Kingdoms."  Her mother shuddered at that.

"The Gods know where she gets such ideas from.  Sometimes, I think she only says such things to annoy. The Lord of the Seven Hells has raised up the Targaryens to inflict horrors on this world." Sansa wouldn't go that far, but she'd been praying for a final victory over the woman.  She was kin, so she could not wish for her death, but she hoped she'd be exiled a very long way away, a place she could never return from.

And, "her son is not to blame for who his mother is."

"He will be raised as a Tyrell."  

She rose.  "Well, Mama, I promised Desmera I would go riding with her."  She'd grown quite fond of the Princess, who like her, was an enthusiastic adulteress.  No doubt, she'd be making her way back into Jon's bed at some point.

"I shall of course, be organising a ball for the officers", replied Catelyn. "I shall expect you to partner Jon." Of course. It would be most improper for her cousin to partner Desmera openly, or her, Gendry. She left the parlour, and sought out her friend.

"Where to?" she asked Desmera as they made their way to the stables. The other looked amused. "Well, it has to be either Tumbleton, or Linden. Each of us has a young man we wish to be reacquainted with. Let's toss a coin for it." Desmere withdrew a gold dragon from her purse. "Heads or tails?"

"Tails", replied Sansa. Desmera tossed the coin, and it came up heads.

"Jon it is then." It would be good to see him again, but still, she hungered for the young prince.

_______________________________________________________________

Hundreds of miles to the South, a romance of a different kind reached its culmination.

“This is so wrong, Luthor.  I have always kept myself pure, for my lord husband", said Margaery. "Mother, she told me, how to . . . to please him.”

“To, what?” Luthor asked, smiling as he slowly pulled the strap of her chemise down her shoulder. “To lay on your back, very still, with your legs spread?”

He bent his head to kiss her exposed nipple. It felt . . . good?

“Yes, cousin. A woman must not move, lest she invite damnation.”

“Oh Margaery. It’s quite the opposite. I'll show you the path to the heavens. Your mother knows much more than that."  Luthor rose from the edge of the settee where he’d been sitting with her. “She should not have poured out her guilt on you.”

“Mama? Whatever do you mean?”

“She enjoyed the young men of Highgarden,” Luthor said, pushing the other strap off her shoulder, letting the chemise fall to the floor. He took her hand and led her to the bed. “The guards, huntsmen, even the gardeners. Why, on one occasion her husband, your father, slept in her bed while her regular lover at the time, the guard captain Jon Fossoway, had guard duty outside her door. Yet she contrived to sneak a third party through the dumbwaiter, who had her against the wall of the antechamber between them.”

“I can’t believe that,” replied the Rose of Highgarden.

“No, no,” Luthor said, “I assure you, it’s true.”

“How do you know?” He kissed her right breast, running his tongue around the areola and sending a jolt of pleasure through Margaery's body to her woman’s place. 

“The third party,” Luthor said, smiling widely, and bending to tend to her left breast, “was myself.”

Not knowing what else to do, she laughed, while Luthor moved lower. Soon he was doing the most amazing things with his lips and tongue, things that sent pleasure racing through all parts of her body. No wonder Mama had cautioned against such behaviour. The selfish old trout had wanted it all for herself

Chapter Text

”Daenerys, please!” shrieked the woman, as they led her into the vault.  She said nothing, for what was there left to say?  Betrayal was the one crime she would never forgive, and Doreah was guilty of multiple betrayals.  Her friends, family members, had died because of her.

Here, far below the cellars and dungeons of Dragonstone, no one can hear you scream.

She had loved this woman, Gods! how she had loved her.  And, she thought Doreah had loved her, in turn. It went far beyond sex, delightful though that had been. In bed, they’d talked of sharing their lives, of growing old together.  Viserys, always so wise, so tolerant, had been pleased for her, too, happy that his sister had found love, however twisted that love might seem to some.

“Give me another chance, won’t you, Dany?” Doreah screamed, as her wrists were fastened to manacles, riveted to the dank wall. Here, her lover would live out whatever short span was afforded her. And here, she would die.

They filed out of the vault.  In the entrance, she turned towards the weeping handmaiden.

”Requiescat in pace”, she said in High Valyrian.

Then she closed the iron door behind her, turning the key in the lock.

A part of her had died that day. The part that had yearned to forgive the other woman, and to take her back into her life. Perhaps that part had returned to life, for there was a side of her that wanted very much to take Myrcella into her life.  But she has a dark soul.  She had escorted the Infanta, Arianne Martell, on to the ship that would take her back to Sunspear.  The woman had been, if not affable, at least slightly grateful, to discover that Daenerys had been telling the truth about repatriating her.  She'd reminded her not to trust the Princess, before remarking,

"Myrcella Baratheon, has one chief fault: she overestimates her ability; she's a skilful driver who enjoys guiding her chariot between rocks and precipices, and whose sole justification is that she remains unscathed." Dany had smiled at that. She had no doubt it was true. She couldn't help but ask;

"And what do you think of me, your Highness?"

"In different circumstances, I might worship you. Your orders are charming; your manner of giving them still more delightful; you will make tyranny itself adored. If you survive the coming war."

"I hope we meet again, in happier circumstances."

Daenerys rose from her desk. She was due to meet the ambassador of the Reach, Count Fossoway. Protocol dictated that she advance to the Silver Chamber, the outermost of the State Rooms in the Red Keep, to receive him. She had a fair idea, why he had requested a meeting. Her mind hummed with statistics, records, accounts, constantly turning over what she could bring to the coming fight. She seated herself on the Silver Throne, and an usher brought the ambassador into the room. The Count was a portly man, red-faced, and wearing an old-fashioned wig.

He bowed to her, and she rose, remarking, "You are always welcome, my Lord."

"Your Majesty, thank you. I regret that my news will be unwelcome. I am instructed by my government to deliver an ultimatum. You are to release all your prisoners, restore King Renly to power, and surrender yourself, and Princess Myrcella Baratheon to my government."

"And, what does your government plan for the pair of us? Something highly disagreeable, I imagine."

"Your majesty is mother to a royal prince of House Tyrell. You will be confined to a fortress, but kept in conditions befitting your rank. In time, your son will be permitted to visit you, under supervision."

"And, Princess Myrcella?"

"That will be for her uncle, King Renly, to determine. I would anticipate, she will stand trial for treason." None of this was unexpected.

"You must be well aware, such terms are unacceptable. I wish only to live in peace with your government, and to have my son restored to me. But, I shall fight if I have to."

"I understand that, your Majesty. In that case, I regret to inform you that a state of war exists between our two countries."

"Then of course, I shall grant you safe conduct to the frontier, My Lord."

"I shall make arrangements to depart, with my staff, your Majesty." He bowed, and departed from the room.

A state of war exists between our two countries.  No doubt, other ambassadors would be saying the same thing, in coming days.  She had forty thousand men on the frontier with the Reach.  She could bring another forty thousand, within the month.  Her spies had reported that the enemy were sluggish in mobilising their armies.  Perhaps fifty thousand guarded the frontier of the Reach, and an army of similar size would be marching from the Vale.  She could defeat each one in detail, and offer generous terms from a position of strength.

My sword is shorter than my enemies', but I shall unsheathe it at thrice the speed.

She summoned Myrcella Baratheon to her private chambers, and reported the conversation.  She listened to her solemnly.  

"This is not a game we're playing, Myrcella.  Were I to surrender, I suspect I would "contract a chill", or "commit suicide."  You must assume the worst.  I cannot speak for your brother, but I doubt if your uncle will be in any mood for mercy, should you fall into his hands."

"I am aware of the risks, Daenerys.  I've wagered my life, already."

"Why, Myrcella?  You could have lived a life of comfort and pleasure, under your uncle's rule."

"The same reason I gave you, years ago in Highgarden.  Why should I be denied power, simply because of my sex? I will gamble my life to get it, if I have to." Or perhaps Arianne is right.  For you, it's the thrill of the chariot race that race that matters above all.  And if you won, would you know what to do with your power?  

"Then you shall accompany me."  She looked surprised.

"Lady Missandei will act as Regent, in my absence.  You wish me to appoint you my successor?  Then you must learn about war.  You must see what a battlefield looks like, after victory.  Men screaming, eyeless, with their guts hanging out. "  For the first time, she saw unease in the other's face.  "You have the eye for human weakness, Myrcella, but do you have the stomach?  We'll find out, soon enough, won't we?"

Chapter Text

“I got just three rules, f’you girls”, said Gilly, loud and clear.

“One, you fight hard, an’ you fight well. Two, you don’t get drunk, ‘less I say you can.” There was laughter in response.. “Three, you don’t steal, ‘cept from the enemy, or in case you’re starving. Steal from your own folk? I’ll make you wish you weren’t never born!”

She and Ygritte had been rated as Lance Sergeants, still ranked as corporals, but with a sergeant’s pay and responsibilities. They were in charge of a half platoon of twenty five women, most of them veterans, but including eight new recruits. She was explaining all this, for the benefit of the latter, but it did no harm to remind the veterans, too.

“See this”, she raised her Baker rifle. “It ain’t no musket, it’s a rifle. Let me tell you why that matters. I could stand a hunnerd yards, in front of a platoon of men armed with muskets, an’ if they fired a volley, like as not, not one of ‘em will hit me. But Sergeant Ygritte, she could put a rifle bullet in me at that distance. Watch."

Ygritte stepped forward, knelt, and aimed carefully at a man-sized target, a hundred paces off, across the square. She fired, and the bullet struck it, just to the left of centre.

"A rifle is deadly accurate. Some of you'll know that, 'cos you'll have hunted with a rifle. An' I daresay, you’ve done a fair bit o' poaching too." There was more laughter at that. "So what does that mean? What it means is this. You ain't going to be standing in line with the infantry, firing in the general direction of the enemy, an' hoping one ball in ten hits someone. No. You're getting to kill some rich wankers who think you're a piece of day-old dogshit." They grinned at that.

” Your job is to kill enemy officers on horseback. The good thing is, they’ll make it nice an' easy for you. You’ll see those posh buggers, riding in front of their men, in full dress uniform, with all their medals and ribbons on display, and that makes them prime targets. The next group you’ll be shooting at are the gallopers, who bear orders and messages from the enemy commanders. Kill enough o’ them, and the enemy’ll be fighting blind.”

”There’s a third group you’ll be killing”, and here, her mood turned grim. “Our own folk, traitors, who’ve took service with the Northmen. Like us, they’re skirmishers. You’ll show ‘em no mercy, for they’ll give you none. I’ll personally shoot any woman who shows mercy.” The hatred between the different factions of free folk ran very deep.

”You’re Wild Geese, part o’ the best regiment in the army. Remember Hardhome, remember Whitetree, an’ avenge our own folk.” She got a cheer in response.

The rest of the afternoon, they practised shooting at targets. Far as she could tell, the soldiers’ marksmanship ranged from good to outstanding. A rifle was far more accurate, and over a longer distance, than a musket could ever be, but the drawback was, it took longer to reload. That meant, every shot had to be made to tell.

”You’re good at this”, remarked Ygritte, as they shared a bottle of sour white wine in the NCO’s mess, that evening. The wine, honestly, tasted like horse piss. Tormund tended a small vineyard, on their farm, and they were used to far better than this rotgut.

”You’re a better shot than I’ll ever be.”

”But, you’re good at making people follow you.” She supposed it was true. She took most of the decisions about how to run their farm, and the business had prospered, even in wartime. She hoped their younger siblings, Toregg and Dalla could manage it in their absence. People listened to her, too, when the villagers met, from time to time, to discuss planting, harvesting, and any disputes they had.

"What do you think of them?" meaning their soldiers.

"I think they'll do." Ygritte nodded. They were silent for a bit, before Ygritte asked her.

"D'you think we can win?" Gilly thought about that.

"No question, we're up against it. But, we've got the Empress, and the other side ain't. Without her, I'd say, no we can't. With her, we've got a chance. An' the way I look at it, we ain't got no choice but to win. If Renly an' his supporters comes back to power, they'll be mad for revenge. An' if we fall into the hands of our own kind, fighting for the Northmen? Well, I don't need to tell you what they'd do, 'fore they killed us, but one thing I'll tell the girls is - always keep one bullet left for yourself. " Ygritte nodded at that.

"You're a bit gloomy tonight, aren't you?" It was the company commander, Brienne Tarth, a baron's daughter. They both rose to salute her.

"At ease, ladies."

"Any news, Ma'am?"

"As it happens, yes. Colonel Connington's told me that the Reach, Westerlands, and Vale have all declared war. We can assume that the North and Riverlands will follow suit. We'll be setting out for the frontier, a week from now. We'll be working with Grey Worm's skirmishers, looking out for the enemy, and screening the rest of the army."

"But, we'll attack, won't we, Ma'am?" asked Ygritte.

"Well, I'm certainly not privy to that kind of discussion, but the Empress always likes to take the initiative. We'll be heading up to Redgrass Field. You know it was the site of a great battle, hundreds of years ago? I had ancestors who fought and died there. On both sides." Ancestors? Gilly hadn't a clue who hers were, but the nobles kept records going back centuries. She and Ygritte could read a bit, but practical things, like records of sales and purchases, an' orders. "I'll tell the others." Brienne rose, and left them. Captain Tarth was decent enough, as officers went, Gilly supposed, not that she'd accept a commission, even if it were offered. Some soldiers did make the jump, to becoming officers, but far as she could tell, a sergeant had far more authority among the lower ranks than any junior officer did. Not to mention, officers were expected to live like minor nobility at least, and that was a cost she didn't want to bear. The Faith had seven commandments, but her own folk had an eighth;

"Thou shalt never get into debt."  She might just borrow money to get something for the farm, but the idea of borrowing to buy fancy clothes, fine wines, a dress sword, and to gamble, that was something that filled her with dread, and that was expected of the officer class.  The wage the army paid them didn't come close to covering all that expense. She finished her glass.

"Well Ygritte, we'll be up before Dawn, tomorrow.  I'm off to bed."

Chapter Text

Appendix 1:  Dramatis Personae

The Kingdom of the North

House Stark

Robb, Duke of Winterfell, married to Lady Wylla, daughter of Lord Wyman Manderly. One son, two daughters.

Catelyn, Dowager Duchess, Robb's mother, and widow to Ned.  

Olyvar Mellors, head groundsman, and her paramour.

Jon, Marquess of Moat Cailin, Field Marshal.  Officially, the son of the Honourable James Cerwyn and Lady Lyanna Stark.  In reality, the son of Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar of Dragonstone.  Raised as a Stark, following the death of his parents at sea.  The North's foremost general, and Commander in Chief of the Allied Army.  He and his wife have a son and daughter, but now lead separate lives.

Walda, Marchioness of Moat Cailin, and wife to Jon. Granddaughter to Walder Frey, Margrave of The Crossing.  

Sansa, Countess of Last Hearth.  Married to Jon Umber, the Earl of Last Hearth.  Her love life is complicated. They have a son.

Lady Arya.  Unmarried, and possessing Radical opinions.  Will only marry for love.

Lord Bran, a spare

Lord Rickon, another spare

House Manderly,

Lord Wyman, Earl of White Harbour.Foreign Secretary of the Northern Kingdom.

The Northern Army

Lieutenant-General Viscount Roose Bolton, commander of a Division of Heavy Infantry

Major-General The Honourable Robett "Black Bob" Glover, commander of a Division of Light Infantry

Brigadier-General Lord Cerwyn, commander of the Heavy Brigade

Brigadier-General Beric Ryswell, Second Son of King Rickard, commander of the Light Brigade

The Kingdom of the Reach

House Tyrell

King Mace, King of the Reach

Queen Alerie, His Queen

Prince Willas,  heir to the throne

Prince Garlan, Duke of Brightwater former husband of Daenerys Targaryen. Formerly Prince Consort of the Crownlands and Duke of Rainwood.

Prince Aegon, son to Prince Garlan and Daenerys Targaryen

Princess Margaery., famed for her piety and beauty. Married to Sir Horas Redwyne, heir to the Duchy of the Arbour..

Princess Desmera, Niece to King Mace. Married to Count Daven Lannister. Her list of paramours is extensive.

Prince, Sir Loras, rumoured to be the lover of King Renly Baratheon, knight, and Colonel of Lord Rowan's Hussars.

Viscount Luthor, Cousin to King Mace.  Unmarried. A man of scandalous repute.  Formerly commanded a battalion, with distinction, but was dismissed the service for seducing the wife of his Colonel, whom he wounded in the subsequent duel.

General, Count Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill

Commander of an Infantry Division, Prince Gendry's commanding officer

Lord Samwell Tarly

Younger son of Randyll Tarly, Count of Horn Hill, and gimp to Princess Myrcella and her ladies.

Honourable Rudolph "Rudi" Fossoway 

Lieutenant in Lord Rowan's Hussars, and briefly, the lover of Sansa Stark

The Kingdom of the Crownlands and Stormlands

House Baratheon

King Renly, King, brother to King Robert.  Not a ladies' man.

Prince Gendry, natural son to King Robert, and legitimised heir to the throne.  Colonel in the Reach army, and definitely a ladies' man.

King Robert, Deceased.  Executed by the revolutionaries

Queen Cersei, nee Lannister, Deceased.  Daughter to Prince Tywin.  Executed by the revolutionaries

Prince Joffrey, Deceased, their son.  Executed by the revolutionaries, died screaming and pissing himself.

Prince Tommen, Deceased.  Died in prison of natural causes.

Princess Myrcella, Princess Royal.  Barred by Salic law from inheriting the throne.  Married to Yohn Royce, Count of Runestone, who slipped on icy steps and broke his neck, resulting in a substantial inheritance.  A merry widow.

Lady Joy Hill, Natural daughter to the late Prince Gerion Lannister, and Lady in Waiting to Princess Myrcella.

House Targaryen

Prince Rhaegar, Deceased.  Prince of Dragonstone, latterly calling himself Citizen Rhaegar Equality.  Voted in favour of the execution of the Royal Family. Subsequently executed by the revolutionaries.

Infanta Elia of Dorne, Deceased, sister to King Doran, and wife to Prince Rhaegar.  Mother to Aegon and Rhaenys.  All three were imprisoned during the Terror, and murdered by the commanders of their guards, Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch. Following the overthrow of the Committee of Public Safety, rumour tells that Viserys and Daenerys had Lorch and Clegane brought to Dragonstone, and privately tortured them to death.

Prince, later General, Viserys.  First Director of the Republic.  Killed in battle.

Princess Daenerys.  First Director of the Republic, in succession to her brother, later Empress.  Exiled to Driftmark, following her abdication, six months prior to the start of the tale.  Mother to Prince Aegon Tyrell.

Lady Missandei, freedwoman of Naath. Her best friend, and Mistress of Laws.  Accompanied her into exile.  

Grey Worm, freedman of Naath, Marshal, and commander of the Unsullied, her Imperial Guard.  Accompanied her into exile.

Rilona Rhee, Mayor of Duskendale.  A friend.

The Targayens and Baratheons have much the same relation as the Houses of Orleans and Bourbon. They have heavily intermarried over the centuries, forming an extended royal family.

Marshal Barristan Selmy, Duke of Bitterbridge, Commander in Chief under King Renly. Assassinated in a mutiny.

Marshal Daario Naharis.  Former paramour of Daenerys.  Led the mutiny against Marshal Selmy.

General Bar Emmon, one of Selmy’s corps commanders. Assassinated in a mutiny.

Baron Merryweather, Master of Laws. Assassinated in a mutiny.

Lady Taena, his wife.  A merry widow, and Lady in Waiting to Princess Myrcella.  A survivor of the Terror.

Lady Falyse Stokeworth.  A Lady in Waiting to Princess Myrcella.

Brigadier Etienne Massey.  Commander of Duskendale, and loyalist to the Empress.

Lord Janos Slynt.  Notoriously corrupt commander of the Gold Cloaks, the gendarmerie of Kings Landing.

Lord Petyr Baelish, Marquis of Rosby, Principal Secretary of State to King Renly. "Shit in a silk stocking."

Lord Varys, Minister of the Interior.

Ygritte, one of the "wild geese", who fled South, to avoid Northern rule.  Corporal of light infantry, and market gardener.

Gilly, her cousin. Likewise, a corporal of light infantry, and market gardener.

Tormund "Giantsbane", their elderly uncle.

The Kingdom of the Vale

Yohn Royce, Count of Runestone.  Slipped and broke his neck, a year after marrying Princess Myrcella.

Archduke Harrold Hardyng.  Commander in chief of the Vale's army.

The Kingdom of the Westerlands

King Kevan Lannister, King of the Westerlands.  Widely believed to have murdered his own father, Tytos, in order to become King.

Prince Tywin, First Minister, and his brother.  Father to Queen Cersei.  Rules the Westerlands with an iron fist. Rumoured to have drowned his enemies' women and children in a gold mine.

Prince Gerion, their brother, disappeared at sea, father of Joy Hill.

The Kingdom of Dorne

King Doran, King of Dorne

Prince Quentyn, his heir

The Infanta Arianne, a woman who is no better than she should be. Viscount Luthor fathered her youngest son Nymeros, after raising her skirts at a masked ball. Married to Sir Daemon Sand.

Prince Oberyn. Brother to King Doran, and Captain-General of Dorne.

Appendix 2, Timeline

1760 Birth of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen

1772 Birth of Prince Viserys Targaryen

1779 Birth of Princess Daenerys Targaryen.  Rhaegar comes to Winterfell, and has an affair with Lady Lyanna Stark, leaving her pregnant.

1780 Birth of Hon. Jon Cerwyn, in reality, the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna.

1785 Birth of Princess Myrcella Baratheon

1787 Birth of Prince Gendry Baratheon, natural son of King Robert.  He is acknowledged as a member of the royal family, and given the courtesy title of Prince, but is not in the line of succession.

1790 Viserys becomes an officer cadet. Receives a commission as sub-lieutenant two years later.

1796  Revolution begins in the Kingdom of the Crownlands and Stormlands, against the absolutist Baratheon monarchy.  Following riots and revolts, a constitution is granted, establishing limited male franchise, abolishing feudal privileges, and establishing religious tolerance.  Viserys promoted to Captain.  

1797  Revolt against slavery begins on Naath.  The government sends out an army to aid the slave owners re-establish control.  Increasingly, radicals come to control the Revolution, among them Prince Rhaegar of Dragonstone, now calling himself Citizen Rhaegar Equality.  Jon Cerwyn commissioned as Second Lieutenant in the Northern Army.

1798  Overthrow of the monarchy, and a Republic proclaimed.  Prince Renly, Princess Myrcella, and Prince Gendry flee the country. Monarchist revolt in the Stormlands.  The radicals establish The Committee of Public Safety, and exercise a reign of terror against opponents. The Terror, in 1798/99, claims 30,000 victims.  Viserys promoted to Major. The former King, Queen, and Crown Prince, are placed on trial, and sentenced to execution by the guillotine.  Rhaegar Equality votes in favour of the death penalty.  The First Coalition, of the North, Dorne, Reach, and Westerlands declares war on the Crownlands.  The Faith is disestablished, and replaced by the Cult of the Supreme Being. 

1799, Viserys promoted to Colonel, and distinguishes himself in the War.  The Coalition forces are driven out of the country, and parts of the Reach and Dorne are occupied.  But within months, the entire Targaryen family have been arrested.  Rhaegar Equality is guillotined.  His wife and children are murdered in prison.  Eventually, Viserys is released, along with Daenerys, now Citizen and Citizeness.  Viserys is promoted to Brigadier, and second in command to General Velaryon.  Viserys and his sister organise a coup d'etat, with other disaffected officers, overthrowing the Committee of Public Safety, and executing its members.  The murderers of Rhaegar's family vanish, and are never seen again.  The Directorate is established, with Viserys as Third Director.  Daenerys serves as his Quartermaster.  Uneasy truce established on Naath, with the island devastated after three years of fighting.

1800 The Cult of the Supreme Being is abolished.  Viserys, now General, launches an invasion of the Riverlands, defeating the coalition forces, and annexing territory to the Republic.  In the wake of victory, Viserys carries out a bloodless coup, and becomes First Director.  Daenerys is appointed as Secretary to the Directorate, and Deputy Minister for War.  Jon, now a captain, fights for the first time, at Harrenhall, a coalition defeat. The royal family in exile settle in Highgarden. Royalists now recognise Renly as King. Renly legitimises Gendry, appointing him as his heir.  A truce is reached with the other powers.

1802-4 War Against the Second Coalition.  The Reach attempts to regain lost territories, in alliance with the Vale, and Riverlands.  The War ends with the Crownlands victory at High Heart. Viserys is killed at the point of victory. The Riverlands becomes a vassal state.

1804-5 Daenerys inherits most of her brother’s supporters, and becomes First Director.  Definitively abolishes slavery in the Crownlands’ overseas territories.

1805-6 Daenerys fights a fresh war, with the Third Coalition, of the North, Vale, Westerlands, and Reach.  Defeats them, and annexes territory in the Reach, and reduces the Vale to a vassal.  Jon is made a Colonel, and fights with distinction.  The North refuses to make peace, and continues the war at sea.

1807 Daenerys proclaimed Empress.  Weds Prince Garlan Tyrell, and forms an alliance with the Reach. Invites the Baratheons to return, but the offer is rejected.  They are expelled from Highgarden, and move to the Westerlands.

1807-10 Years of mostly peace on land, and reform in the Crownlands.  But Daenerys imposes a complete embargo on trade with the North, across the Crownlands, Stormlands, Reach, Vale, and Riverlands.  The Iron Islands, Daenerys’ ally, join the blockade.

1809  The Iron Islands are defeated at sea, by the North.  Jon, now Brigadier, commands a small army which captures Pyke, and the Iron Islands’ fleet is surrendered to the North.  Jon is knighted.

Birth of Prince Aegon. The Faith is restored as the established religion of the Crownlands.

1810.  Dorne refuses to join the embargo.  Daenerys invades, and captures Sunspear. The Martells flee to desert oases. Prince Quentyn, and the Infanta Arianne are sent to the Westerlands. Daenerys appoints a puppet government.  Six months later, Dorne revolts, led by Prince Oberyn. Patriot government established at Starfall.

1811 Daenerys leads a fresh army into Dorne. She wins further victories, but the North supplies vast munitions to the Dornish.  An expeditionary force is sent to Dorne, commanded by Jon, now a Major General.

1812 The Westerlands declare war on Daenerys, and The Vale revolts.  The Reach refuses to honour its alliance, unless she returns all their ceded territories. She refuses, and Prince Garlan returns home. Daenerys is forced to withdraw soldiers from Dorne to face the threat to the North. She leaves the Dornish campaign in the command of Marshal Selmy. Jon wins battles at Lemonwood, and Saltshore, and retakes Sunspear. Gilly and Ygritte join up. Daenerys defeats the Western army, but cannot retake the Vale.

1813 The Reach joins the Fourth coalition, against Daenerys. The Riverlands revolt. The Baratheons are invited back to Highgarden, and Gendry is appointed a Colonel in the Reach army. Daenerys invades the Riverlands, winning victories at Lord Harroway’s Town and Harrenhall.  But she suffers a major defeat at the God’s Eye.  As she retreats, the Reach invades the Crownlands. Dorne is liberated, save for isolated fortresses. Jon is promoted to General, and made a Viscount. He invades the Stormlands, with a Northern/Dornish army, winning a victory at Summerhall.

1814 Jon wins a further battle at Weeping Town, but is driven back from Storms End, with heavy losses. Daenerys wins tactical victories in the Crowlands, but is heavily outnumbered, and forced to retreat. Faced with riots against conscription, she abdicates in April, and is exiled to Driftmark. The Congress of Oldtown begins in August.  Jon is promoted to Field Marshal, and Marquess.

Renly returns to Kings Landing, with Myrcella, and is proclaimed King. His government rapidly becomes unpopular, due to the actions of the Baratheons’ hardline supporters, the ultras. Daenerys revolts in October, and returns to power.