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Chapter Text

Varys during the Sack of King's Landing.

She must die.  The girl too, but the boy will live.

His steps are always quiet, imperceptible, drowned in the surroundings, yet Varys now felt the thunderous sound of every step.  The burden of responsibility walked with him, not giving him the peace and clarity he normally felt.  Red walls, why red walls.  He knew, red hides the unwanted, red hides the beast, red hides the death, the mirror of the powerful who trample on the innocents of this world.  The golden lion, draped in a red cloak, opened its jaws and stared at the dying three-headed black dragon with a hungry gaze.  The dragon, who lost his red cloak, his right to be a beast, a right to live.

Reluctantly, he looked at the city, tall towers of smoke spiraling towards the sky.  A magnificent sight, the flames of the burning houses danced merrily on the floors of the smoke towers.  The wails of thousands of victims brought Varys back to reality, this is not a beauty, this is death and he could see the ruthlessness of Tywin Lannister painted on the horizon.  Once, Varys respected the man, his skills as a leader and administrator, Tywin was a king who was not a king.  No crisis was greater than him, no challenge swayed him, alone in his power to restrain Aerys.  Also Aerys' biggest mistake, if only the king said yes to the proposed marriage.

The rebellion would be doomed even before Jon Arryn thought Robert should be a king of anything.  Before the Lion of Casterly Rock, Moon Gate would not be an insurmountable obstacle. Instead of here, siege engines would now be targeting Winterfell, and the Arryns would be seeking mercy from their sky dungeon.  But it wasn't meant to be, like many things that aren't meant to be.

It wasn't meant to be... and he returned to the cursed tournament again, more cursed than the haunted castle where it was held.  Varys never hesitated, but the hesitation then was greater than Harrenhal himself.  Should he have let the heir to the throne carry out his plan? And remove Aerys from the throne. The prince scared him more than Aerys.  Aerys Targaryen's madness was familiar to him, the same scourge that afflicted his predecessors.  An evil that he, or the sharp mind of the King's Hand, could conceal, but, prince.  His visits to the ratched mage, the summoning of sorcerers, playing with forces that have no place in this world.  He remembered a voice from the flames, a voice that would interrupt his every dream.  The sorcerer called out and the voice answered, in an evil and corrupt tongue.

He entered his chamber, a small shadow stood quietly in the corner.  An uncertain, barely audible voice called out to him, "Varys, is that you?" 

Varys looked at the short boy, unbathed and dressed in rags.  Standing by the candle, he revealed himself and offered the boy a smile. 

He spoke to the boy in a warm voice, full of tenderness, "My child, have you brought what I asked for?".

The boy's face showed apprehension, "there were so many, I... could hardly choose".  Varys nodded and laughed softly, taking the baby from the boy's arms.  All babies look alike. 

"The mother got a gold coin?" Varys asked the boy.  The boy just nodded. 

"Good, my child, you may go.  Tell others to take cover and stay away from the men in the red cloaks".

The maids looked at him in confusion as he replaced the babies.  The prince has a lighter hair, he noticed.  A detail, though only for the sharper eye.  Down the narrow corridor, he crawled carefully, surrounded by the complete darkness and accompanied by a dull breathing of a small boy.  The stench of the drain directed him to turn left, after which he straightened up and continued to walk normally in the dark, listening to the sound of the sea.  Alarmed by the presence of an unknown stranger, the rats scurried across the floor, disturbing the pleasant sound of the sea with irritating whining.  A glittering passageway revealed the exit, and Varys found himself on a sandy beach, with the huge silhouette of the Red Keep overhead.  The impact of powerful waves isolated the beach from the events in the city.  Here, the King's Landing is still the old one, as it was yesterday, peaceful and unchanged.

The Lannister plunder of the city was, regardless, in progress. He sat on a stone, in the shade, and on a pleasant sea breeze awaited the sailors. When everything was over, he would join the maester Pycelle and wait for the arrival of Robert or the King Robert, he thought. He stood at the breaking point of history, soon the last 270 years would be absent and foreign, a memory which rather dwells in oblivion. 

A sailor, with a heavy Pentoshi accent, called from a distance. The large boat, kept on the waves. Dressed in dirty, torn clothes, with a stained face, Varys was unrecognizable. "Where is the galley?", he asked in a disguised voice.

The sailor, with teeth ruined by the scurvy, calmly replied, "far from the shore. Safer, you know, because of the lions and other parts of the animal kingdom". He laughed at his own joke. Measuredly, Varys returned a smile, leaving the impression that he was amused.

"And the milk?", he then asked the sailor. With little interest, the sailor said, "We have a goat on board, it will do." He handed the boy to the sailor, as if it were any unimportant cargo. The importance of the cargo, even he could not determine, and Varys knew the world up and down.

....

She died.  A girl too.  Varys, like an invisible statue, stood in the middle of Princess Elia's room.  Bloody carpets, bloody beds, feathers from pillows everywhere, broken porcelain.  And the Red Walls, he thought.  Always the red walls He was deceived, the red walls did not hide anything.  But the red cloaks did.

He stood in the chambers of a woman who died, protecting a child that was not hers.  The Dornish princess was smart, Varys believed she knew, her son was somewhere else.  And yet, she died saving the boy.  Lions have no mercy.  Would the stag have had more mercy, if he had come first.  Regardless, Varys knelt before the stag and asked for mercy, for himself.  Offered his skills.

In King Robert's eyes he saw that he would survive. Robert is too blind to see the threat. To them, Varys was a eunuch who amused the king with a gossip, no different from a court jester. Robert’s new good father-in-law did not hide his disappointment, that many were spared. The heads, on stakes, were supposed to decorate the walls of the Red Keep. Tywin, would left no room for petty threats. The old Hand of the King once valued Varys’s services more than Aerys himself, but now, now Varys was someone who knew too much. Varys could read it on the Lion’s face, others did not, others saw measured silence, enthroned in a slightly frowning look.

Ned Stark also looked at Varys with a disapproval. The young lord of Winterfell felt uncomfortable anywhere where truth was elusive, where it was equally important what was in the shadow and what was visible. Where the unknown presses on the known with its weight.

Fortunately, the aged Jon Arryn, the brain of the rebellion, was wise enough to recognize the value of Varys, now that the loyalty of many meant little, and a word and oath were worth less than a piece of bread. Now the most expensive thing was what Varys offered, the knowledge; the knowledge of what was happening behind the scenes, in the chambers of great lords, friends and enemies. Varys stood among them, as he stood in the bloody chamber of Princess Elia, as only he knew how… silently, motionless and above all unnoticed. 

Chapter Text

At the old summer palace, he hugged her again. Frowning, sitting by leaning against an apple tree, she refused to look at him. The same silence would always fall between them, separating them, as a great wall separates Pentos from the dangers outside.

"Where are you going," she broke the silence, curved lines, due to her frown, adorned her unusually large nose.

Happy that she finally addressed him, he quickly replied, "Disputed Lands. Same as always. Some Lysene pirate has declared himself king of the north coast. He's disrupting trade. Myr wants us to get rid of him.”

She fell silent again. She did not share his enthusiasm for war and politics. He kissed her hand, then said cautiously, "Eira I know how you feel. But fighting down there will prepare me for crossing of the Narrow Sea."

He continued to kiss her body, carefully and gently, and she soon reciprocated. They made love, under the canopy of the tree, as one. He was happy again. She was with him, in his arms, her scent caressed his nostrils, and her warm touch revived every sensation in his body. She clung to his back with her powerful arms, while he firmly held her legs with his right arm, feeling the muscles dance under her soft skin.

Eira was with him, but suddenly he was not alone. The ground under his feet was unstable, and strange voices echoed everywhere, "Grab the rope", followed by "watch the sails". Command followed command. As in every dream, Aegon would eventually realize that he was dreaming and at the same moment he opened his eyes.
....

The rays of the rising sun pierced into the cabin, tinted purple by the Bravosi windows of the ship. Every trace of his body hated the reality now, her image as clear as it was in the dream, now slowly faded, disappearing into nothingness.

"A heavy dream," Jon spoke to him in a mundane voice, sitting in the corner of the cabin, at a small table, studying a large number of maps. The cabin was filled with maps of Westeros.



With a slight smile, Aegon replied to him, somewhat unconvincingly, "yes, I relived an old campaign." He could successfully hide his true face from everyone, except Jon. The Griffin always broke his facade.

Now for a moment, he stopped looking at the maps and measured Aegon with a long look. "I don't remember taking Eira into the battle." At that remark, Aegon frowned and turned his gaze away. He retorted sarcastically to Jon, "for someone who led the royal army, you have a strange need to constantly look at maps. Don't we know them by heart."

Jon was not deterred, he again directed his attention to the maps and continued to speak, "some are newer, with more marked roads and settlements. Illyrio paid dearly for the novices to steal them from the Citadel." Aegon was not too interested in intrigue and plots, Illyrio and Varys were better at that. The Master of Whispers, however, whom he had never seen, and only met through letters and instructions... as much as was possible to discover a man in that manner.



"I'm the last one to give advice, but I think you should talk to Haldon or the septa" Jon continued in a quiet tone, marking something on one of the maps.

Pouring himself a glass of Dornish wine, in an attempt to clear his mind, Aegon wanted to be patient and say nothing. When it came to Eira, he mostly didn't want to say anything. However, with a slightly irritating voice, he replied, "I know what they would tell me. Trust in the Mother's mercy, thebFather's steadfastness or forget the past, look to the future", he tilted the glass of wine and looked at the empty glass, "Haldon would probably pour more wine. Or he would say to change the sort. Gold Arbor is best for escape". He sat down again, stretched his left leg and leaned back on the couch and looked thoughtfully at Jon. "No, today is time for training, a lot, a lot of training. If they are not already awake, wake up Duck and Thunderex, and tell them to join me on the deck."

....

The dull thuds of blunt swords echoed with the creaking of the slippery deck. Aegon skillfully dodged the attack of two opponents, focusing more on Thunderex, a migthy Summer Islander, whose attacks were more powerful and precise, better planned. Ser Rolly, although clumsier and without a too ornate style, was still a dangerous adversary. The sailors, busy with hard work, would pause for a moment and neglect their duties, to be able to follow the dance of swords. The ship lost its calmness, due to clumsy handling. The captain and officers were furious and cursed the sailors, driving them back to their duties.



With the sound of sparring, he would return again six years in the past and the happiest year of his life. He remembered everything, the pirate king marching in chains through the streets of Myr, followed by detachments of the Golden Company. A colorful crowd screamed excitedly, throwing flowers at the sellswords. The smell of triumph was felt on every corner, and the sound of victory echoed through the wide paved streets.

"It doesn't get any better than this," he heard Haldon as the halfmeaster led two whores, to an unknown place. Duck, then still just an ordinary squire, had just as much fun. Jon and Aegon seemed to be alone in their desire not to seek female company. Squeezed in that great turmoil, he wanted only to return to Pentos, to return to Eira.

Soon Aegon parted from the Golden Company and boarded the first ship for Pentos. The calm summer sea made the journey short and uneventful. In a trance, he relived that day, the moment when everything stopped being important. For the first time in his life, he thought that he did not want the Iron Throne, a new life became visible to him.

Brown hair and purple eyes. He looked at his own eyes. When Eira greeted him, she was the old one, unburdened, the same girl he had tried to win over since he knew himself. Delusion, he would think now, but then he looked at a new world. Their daughter was sleeping in his arms, while Eira gently leaned on his shoulder. A world of their own. Alienated from wars, noble houses, titles and sellsword companies.

He wanted to escape, from Illyrio, from Jon, from obligations, to escape from himself and what he was, to escape from the blood that flowed through his veins. Their happiness was only theirs, but soon they were followed by odd looks and whispers. Unspoken dissatisfaction. A former orphan cannot be a queen.

She is entertainment, a comfort, an ease that the young king can take to bed. Delusion, he thought again, delusion in which he was chained. A lesson he had to learn.

Jon was silent then, but Aegon knew he thought the same. Mace Tyrell has a daughter, an ideal alliance, and more men than any other lord in the realm. Balon Greyjoy has a daughter, a bit older, but ships, yes ships. In the end, Arianne, and Dornish spears. His uncle Doran had promised unconditional support, but for people like Illyrio it was incomprehensible that a men would give anything for free. Jon was typically distrustful of anyone. Marriage would solve the doubts. Now it seems that only Aegon was delusioned, persistent and innocent. Jon would say, "Toyne and Strickland will not fight alone for your throne, they expect Westeros to rise."

Strange, how many problems one death can solve. His guardians sighed in relief, but almost at the same moment they continued forward, as if nothing had ever happened. Aegon didn't. He stood under the canopy of an apple tree, next to a small green hill, hiding a lonely grave while he watched in the distance a girl with brown hair and purple eyes. Aegon wondered now, how was Elia, in Pentos. The old Aegon would want to take her with him, but no, now he doesn't need weakness.



A sudden blow to the chest brought him back to reality, he lay on the floor and tried to catch his breath. "Kid, are you okay," Duck looked at him confusedly, and a little scared. He leaned on his training sword and quickly got up. "Yes, I have to let you hit me sometimes," Aegon smiled at Ser Rolly. This game is the only place where he is willing to do that.

Chapter Text

The moon hung high in the night sky as the ships sailed through dark waters of the Bay of Crabs, guided by a faint light of the distant shore. Evening stormy wind was hitting the ships. Sailors were walking on all sides, like ants performing tasks, trying to calm the ship and prevent a collision with another ship or with rocky cliffs. Prevailing darkness enveloped everything, taking away the moonlight.



Finally at home, Aegon thought, looking at the vague patterns of the coast. This Land was his, and yet, he felt nothing special, no new and overwhelming excitement. Before him, again, could be the shores of Disputed Lands, where he had landed several times. He wondered, did his namesake and predecessor Aegon feel the same, when he landed on the other side of the peninsula, at the mouth of Blackwater into the sea. But Aegon, First of his name had dragons. This Aegon doesn't, he taught.

Wind lifted the hood from his cloak. "It's time," Jon said behind him, "The boat is ready."

Hundreds of boats set off from the ships. Duck squirmed and sleepily grumbled, combing his short brown beard, "One thing to tell you, friend. In Reach it's not, o brother, so fucking cold." He paused to better grab the oars, then finished, "Gods, nor gloomy. Where did the moon disappear." The knight was right, the moon had disappeared under the clouds and the already dark night had become even darker.

Their boat slid smoothly down the sandy shore. Aegon stood frozen, as if his legs had been cut off. He couldn't move. Why now? He shouldn't have cared, Westeros was just a new task, and yet, a burden loomed over him. Others didn't notice his ordeal. Except Jon, Jon notices everything. The old griffin gently put his hand on Aegon's shoulder and Aegon instinctively jumped out of the boat.

Nothing spectacular happened, no holy providence, the Warrior did not appear in the sky to light their way. Only the exiled prince stood on the shore, the shore of the land that belonged to him. Belonged was a word Aegon did not know. Most of his gold he earned with a sword in his hands. A roof over his head, luxury and comfort, different kinds of lessons, he paid Illyrio with blood that flowed through his veins or with a future crown. The fat man was always cheerful, by his words the greatest Targaryen loyalist, but Aegon saw through the curtains of other people's desires.

The shore was filled with people, officers were shouting commands, hurrying to form companies and cohorts as soon as possible. Sailors were bringing boates back to the water. Ten thousand men had to disembark. Larger ships were carrying wagons with supplies. The men of the Golden Company were quickly unloading the heavy cargo and, as always showing, they had a reputation for a reason. Both the cargo and the people were arriving on the shore, all in good order. Homeless Harry was as good at logistics as he was bad on the battlefield. By dawn, all the troops would be on the shore, except for the cavalry. Otreyes and his two cohorts of cavalry would wait for the morning. Horses do not swim well in the dark, especially if they all have to go to the same point.



Boots of thousands of soldiers marched through the fishing village. The Targaryen red three-headed dragon on a black field adorned the spears. Harry was unsure about that, "Golden banners are tradition," he complained to Illyrio. Magister did not answer him, instead he opened the chest with gold and opened the curtains that hid the maids, in scanty costumes. If Toyne were alive, he would never have allow changing the banners. Yet again, if Toyne were alive, Aegon would be more confident in the success of the campaign. Luckily, Jon took over Harry's deputy position, which Harry didn't object to too much, except for false indignation that it should have been Balaq, commander of archers. As if Balaq was interested in the position at all.

"As soon as we find firmer ground, we will make a camp," Harry said musically, as he proudly watched the men in golden armor march. Jon looked at him grimly, Aegon thought that every moment with Harry was irritating to Jon. Three unknown figures approached the hill where Aegon stood with Jon and Harry. Thunderex led two fishermen. They looked depressed and scared, their eyes directed to the ground. "This one on the left said he was the chieftain of the village."

With a half-shaky voice, an old man with a rare beard and yellow teeth asked Jon, "Are you men of Lord Stannis?" Of the three of them, Jon looked most like a leader, Aegon thought.

Frowning, Jon snapped at him, "Well did you see the banners?" He pointed his hand at a snake, an unsteady wavy column of soldiers.

The other fisherman seemed equally irritated by his leader's answer. "These are dragons," said the other man, with thin eyebrows and a green coat, looking at Aegon, looking at his short silvery hair and purple eyes.



"Dragons" exclaimed the chieftain, gaping at the marching soldiers. The old man probably wondered if he was dreaming.

Fisherman in the green coat continued, paying no attention to the astonished old man, now looking at Jon again, "I fought at the Trident, under Lord Brune, when I came home, the stags took my boat."

Jon Connington's straight eyes looked at the fisherman. "Many lost a lot then," Jon said calmly, "no one is alone in that."

Harry Strickland was not too interested in the past. "No one is allowed to leave the village.", he said, "The roads west are forbidden. If you want to sell or give something, you can come to me." The emphasis was on giving. Harry always emphasized giving. The former paymaster's storage's were filled with gifts from tribal leaders and small graph chiefs. Changing ways of the captains of the Golden Company seemed impossible, but it was necessary. It will be impossible task to win the support of westerosy lords, if Harry, Ser Tristan Rivers and Balaq demand tribute at every corner.

"Why did you think we were Stannis's men," Jon asked the elder, but directing question to the fisherman in the green coat.

"...because his ships patrol around the coast. Not only sails, with stags, but also pirates from Lys, We don't even go over Gullet anymore.", said Fishermen.

The latest reports from Varys say that Staninis has barricaded himself on Dragonstone. As Master of ships, he sailed with most of the royal fleet from King's Landing. King Robert was not touched by that at all. Varys always emphasized how much the usurper neglects his duties, not coming to the Small Council meetings. Convinced that Stannis found out the truth that led the former Hand of the King to the grave, both of them, Varys believes that Stannis went to get away, beliving he was next to die.

If the fishermen's claims are true, Aegon knew, it only means that Stannis also wants the throne. More kings, easier the way ahead of him. With a disciplined and skilled army like Golden company and with Dornish spears, he could destroy any enemy individually.

And with Dotrakhi he than remembered, the dowry that Daenerys was supposed to bring. In the decorated gardens of the magister's villa, Jon was furious at Iliryo for that decision. "Forty thousand horsemen savages are no different from forty thousand beasts released on the seven kingdoms", he said angrily. And he was right, khal Drogo would behave like any khal. Dothraki are not allies, they do not follow previously agreed deals.

They would conquer the kingdom for Aegon and then devastate the kingdom before his eyes. Jon argued that it was better to try to marry Daenerys to a son of the great house. Marriages and blood, Aegon thought, so different from greed and gold of the Nine free cities. Daenerys could not be saved. The great Khal had already taken her away. Asking for return of the gift was unthinkable.

Aegon had never met his uncle and aunt, Jon later told him, that Aegon was as dead to them as he was to the rest of the world.

He looked east, where the sun was rising over 300 Braavosi and Pentoshi ships.

Today he will rise too.



Chapter Text

The old man kept his gaze on Aegon, "...and that face, hmm, I almost forgot it. The old screecher only haunts me in my sleep." Remark amused Duckfield, "yay, a spitting image of a Targaryen." Amused by the irony and stupidity of the knight, Brune laughed heartily, rocking in his chair.

The old man didn't mean that, Jon thought, knowing that Brune saw in the boy's face the same crowned game of fate. Mopatis sang to Toyne about Rhaegar, reborn, but that was far from the truth. The boy did not inherit Rhaegar's beauty, grace, and refined movement. Instead, sharp and rectangular features of the face, in which were framed foreboding eyes, skipped a generation. Aegon looked more like Aerys than Viserys did. Always carefully observing the boy, Jon waited for evil signs to surface, but they did not. Even the death of the girl did not disturb him; quite the opposite, it brought him strength, which Toyne vainly tried to instill in the boy.

Irritated, Jon replied to the old man in a harsh voice, "join us. Gather the others, too, your wild cousin Brune, Crabbs, Boggs, and the rest. They will listen to you."

Coughing, Brune changed his humorous expression to a serious one and shot Jon a fierce look, "I don't doubt they will listen, but why? Three, four kings want our support. The blonde bitch ordered us to send men to King's Landing."

Impatiently, Rolly Duckfield intervened, "Don't you guys here love Targaryens, heartily?"

"Silence," Jon hushed the knight. The tude fool does not know where his place is.

"Love," Brune mocked the knight. "Love does not feed the stomach. We did not love that bitch Visenya because she was beautiful. No, because she kept coins in our pockets, driving away those bastards Celtigars."

Aegon stepped forward, looking around the room, looking at Brune's sons and grandchildren, "maybe one of your sons would be more considerate," he calmly said to the lord.

That brought Brune back in a good mood, "a true Targaryen, threatening a man under his own roof," he laughed, "what stands behind you, boy?"

"Ten thousand men from the Golden Company, Dorne, and..." and he paused. Smart boy, Jon thought.

Instead of the boy, he uttered the next "...and forty thousand Dothraki warriors led by Prince Viserys." The words disturbed the old man; he leaned back in his chair and sarcastically uttered, "better that your Sellswords slaughter my whole castle now. At least you won't torture us. I'm old enough and heard enough to know what those savages do in the cities of Essos. And Prince Viserys, he was on his way to becoming like his father. I saw him only once, he was no bigger than a boot and twat spat on me then."

The sounds of the waves became louder, and for a moment Jon had nothing to say. Fools, Varys, and Mopatis are idiots; savages will convince no one. Westeros will unite against them sooner than stand behind Aegon.

"I'm too old to think about gold and new land, but I want the old world back. There are days, I forget that we are one Kingdom. Robert didn't care what happened here; he barely cared about anywhere else. Only about Reach when the fruit ripened or to Tywin's coffers when he needed money. Even the madmen Aerys was more present. And it all ended in a war, as I expected. Every fool now thinks, if he hits hard enough with his sword, or looks good on a white horse, that will make him a king," he paused briefly to catch his breath, all the weight of the years pressed on his frail body, "listen boy, if you want the throne, leave the bloody savages where they are. Don't mention them to anyone else... You have my men, and I'll call the rest of the bandits to join you. Crabb men are with you."

Jon sighed with relief. He would barely gather three or four thousand, but he thought again, a modest start but a good one.

Chapter Text

Wild land hides wild people. Hundreds of Crabb men hurriedly occupied the field near the wood, on the road to Maidenpool, turning the ground they walked on into a muddy mess. First autumn light rains began to collapse the old summer.

"What's an old geezer like you doing here. If you're in it for the coin, you should be with Lannisters," the younger man, dressed in even more modest armor than Barristan's, asked Barristan with a wide grin.

Summer children, thought Ser Barristan. This one was not old enough to try his luck against crazy Ironborne. If he was, another man would now be standing before Barristan. Barristan saw such faces here, whose owners were reluctantly present, some who had experienced maybe two wars.

"Old men also wage war... and make war", uninterestedly, with a slight amused smile, replied Ser Barristan. The previous commander of the Kingsguard, whome here no one would recognize, was dressed in modest breches and padded shirt over which he put pieces of armor he managed to collect. All that under the guise of a washed-out and worn-out cloak with a hood. He let his beard grow, because he was still a wanted man and did not want to attract attention.

Secretly and carefully he made his way through the muddy terrain to get as close as possible to the young King. Among the rare Targaryen banners, golden banners of the Golden Company dominated. His first real enemies, the day he earned his white cloak, the day he cut down many skilled men from this sellsword company and decided fate of the usurper Maelys himself. He killed one, and served another for twenty years, thought Barristan.

Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he had crossed paths with Robert on Trident. It wasn't the first time that prince Rhaegar robbed Ser Barristan of a victory and the realm regretted for it. The world is changing, Ser Barristan thought wistfully, looking at the red comet, which had already lost the admiration of many people. Sometimes he wondered if he was dreaming, after Trident everything seemed strange, and above all boring. Monotony is a slow poison that kills. Warrior Robert had a less interesting reign than Aerys, who was afraid of his own shadow. If Grayjoy hadn't risen in revolt, nothing would have happened at all.

Maybe Ser Gerold will wake him from his sleep soon, and he will have to take over night duty. Did he really want that, he wondered.

He came close to the King, ten feet away and for a moment Ser Barristan lost his breath. That face. He stared motionlessly at the figure in front of him. A waterfall of memories almost carried away the old knight.

Irritating sound of seagulls was then replaced by the clanging of swords and the sighs of men. War had come again to the Stepstones and his young face watched the crown prince. Tywin Lannister, Hoster Tully, Brynden Tully and Lord Steffon, Robert's late father, stood like shadows beside the young prince.

Morale was low, Commander and Hand of the King ser Ormund was among the first to die, soon followed by second in command, ser Jason Lannister on Bloodstone. Despite everything, he remembered his excitement, he had a good armor, whose shine set him apart from the others. He rode a powerful black horse. Barristan's skill at tournaments paid off and he was ready for war.

The crown prince did not impress ser Barristan, like most Targaryens hadn't, except for Rhaegar. Fair-haired, handsome and timid but ordinary, it seemed He didn't want to be in the spotlight. Instead, he found support in Tywin, the young Lannister expressed himself in such a way that it seemed the prince spoke through him. Timid Aerys always liked that, he felt important, orders and discipline in the camp were, in his eyes, his merit. He was the last to realize that it was not so, and in the end he tore tongues to protect his image.

Aerys loved Barristan, because like the young King, Barristan  did not talk much, and like many others, he obediently kept silent while old Aerys did his evil.

The fateful day, when Lord Stark was swallowed by a green beast, Barristan was off duty, but he knew. No one told him, nor did he hear rumors, but only that outcome made sense. The time was such. It seemed that Aerys' reign was coming to an end, and Rhaegar's rise was sensible, but this time the feeling deceived ser Barristan.

Rhaegar. From a distance, the boy King did look like Rhaegar, in black armor, with a red cloak. And a three-headed dragon, Barristan thought. True, but the dragon on the boy's chest was not adorned with rubies. The armor was less decorated, almost rough in its practicality.

He looked at the gathered men with controlled interest, but also mild disappointment, Barristan noticed. Men and boys in front of him were not as skilled or imposing as the Golden Company. Flanked by a few guards, he walked among the men, with a royal stride, a raised head and a sharp gaze. Barristan calmly followed, trying to keep close.

"You sir," the king shouted measuredly and startled Ser Barristan, it was not possible that he was noticed, no one knew him here.

"Yes, you," the king repeated in a softer voice tinged with a smile, "it seems that your bag is wriggling," he pointed his hand at the man. The others shrank and left the boy with the bag alone. Dressed in modest chainmail and helmet, with a candle of House Cave sewn on his vest.

"I, mmmm .... this ... what," the boy muttered, shackled by complete confusion.

"The bag, sir," quietly, so that only those nearby could hear him, but with the fire of authority, the king said. "Open the bag." The boy stared at the king in astonishment, tightly pressing the bag, after which the bag spoke with a quack.  Whether to run or stay. Take responsibility, Ser Barristan meant well to the boy. Moments of denial changed the boy, melted the color from his forehead and wrapped him in sweat. He broke down, Barristan saw, after which the boy opened the bag with trembling hands from which a duck jumped out.

"Ser Rolly, you are not the only duck here," the king said with a moderate smile, which elicited a laugh from the others. Barristan did not understand the joke, nor did he need to, he knew what was next. Theft in a war camp is severely punished. Knight replied to the king with a fierce laugh, "I am at least prettier."

The joke amused the king, but only for a moment, and soom his facial expression regained the old mixture of amusement and seriousness. "Where did you get this duck," he asked the boy, who was holding the duck in his hands, after catching it in an attempt of escape. Suspected thief was silent. "It seems to me that we have similar ones in stock. Thunderex, what is the penalty for theft," the king said with an equally amused voice.

"Cutting off the hand," the Summer Islander answered shortly, stroking the cover of his sword, almost twice as big as his compatriot Prince Jalabhar Xho.

"Reason? I suppose it didn't fall from the sky. The comet is not that generous." He turned to the boy again.

"Seeepp... it was separated from its mother and siblings," the boy said uncertainly, and Ser Rolly added jokingly, "on my plate I hope."

"And you, sir, were so kind to return it. May the mother bless you, case resolved," the king said but continued with a threatening tone, pointing his hand, "the supplies are there. Go there. It would be better for everyone if there were no more family reunions, because the next time, I'm afraid, the affair will not end so happily." He looked away from the stunned boy and went on. Stopping for a moment, he turned back again and addressed Ser Rolly firmly, "Ser Duckfield.... and check their weapons. Notice anything that is bad and replace it".

The boy with the duck and a rusty spear looked confused as no one paid attention to him anymore.

Chapter Text

Outlines of the port city were visible from afar. The town surrounded by pink walls, Maidenpool, belonged to the cities that would, in Westeros, overshadow all but the four largest and truest cities. Northern road led through a fishing village, one of many, that stretched along the coast near Maidenpool.

Soldiers of the Golden Company marched with discipline and in parallel to twelve galleys, which sailed along the coast of the Bay of Crabs. Jon's eye caught the largest galley, Turquoise Sword, which led the line of ships. The village was deserted, like many along the way, smallfolk fled before the army. However, the strict discipline that Jon enforced guaranteed a clean campaign as much as possible.

Three and a half thousand Crabb men he had put under the command of Ser Tristan Rivers. The bastard reluctantly accepted the task, frowning at Jon in the face, "What am I supposed to do with this rabble? I'm used to slaughtering such, not ordering them. Half of them are more wild than untrained elephants." He cursed at the new recruits, scolded but also did what Jon knew he would do. Make a fighting men out of crabs. Serjants Chain and Mudd trained those less skilled, but made modest progress.

Vanguard, under the command of Laswell Peak, positioned itself on the field in front of the walls, out of range of arrows. The red salmon fluttered on the walls, where numerous figures stood ready.

"True, the lord is preparing for defense, but not of the city," giggled Lysono Maar in Jon's tent, the night before they left for the march. "Only his castle."

William Mooton was soft and weak, everything opposite of his brother Myles. For a while, Jon was jealous of Myles, but Jon was jealous of anyone who would distract Rhaegar's attention. Myles's death is on your soul, Jon reproached himself. The bells rang loudly. He still has a headache from the damned bells. "How many men did he send to Tully's?", Jon asked spymaster.

Cross-legged, the spymaster played with strands of his blonde hair, while shadows of flames danced on his powdered face. "Non, it seems that our lord is mortally afraid of Lannister. As I said, he is fortifying the city and is fortifying his castle three times more," Lysono replied in a soft feminine voice. A voice that tore Jon's ears. The company was more than capable of taking the city. Maidenpool will be a perfect base of operations and a safer defensive position in case of Lannister attack.

Bells are tolling. Captain Otreys's cavalry has severed the approach to the city from the west. The infantry stands in formation before the walls, gazes crossing over the flat green field. The golden hue has turned to green, looming over which is the pink wall. In his thoughts, Jon searched another city, with Myles Mooton by his side. Myles, one of the six.

Commanders stood beside the King - Homeless Harry, Marq Mandrake with a tarnished face, Laswell Peake, eternal exile, and Ser Tristan Rivers, always wearing a furious expression. Peake was the first to speak, "The gates won't be hard to break." He turned to Mandrake, "You head to the docks, my men will move towards the castle." Mandrake only remained silent, pondering the imported goods he could plunder.

Dread seized Jon as he walked the streets of another city, searching for a traitor. Myles found him first and paid for it, becoming one of the six struck by the usurper's hammer. Now, he only stood silently, gazing at the pink walls. The golden company's catapults stood at the rear behind the infantry ranks, while Balaq's archers impatiently awaited the start of the attack, between the artillery and infantry. A gentle autumn breeze swayed the banners, and the bells pounded in Jon Connington's mind. Once again, he clashed swords with the Darling of the Vale and triumphed. A hollow victory, meaningless, for the usurper survived, and Jon's army was vanquished. When the madman drove him into exile, Jon felt partly relieved, not having to look Rhaegar in the eyes and reveal the magnitude of his defeat. The royal army was destroyed... due to his own vanity. Through victory, he could have secured Rhaegar's throne, through victory... his prince would still be alive. Jon looked at the boy; he would not fail Rhaegar again. Never again.

The gates swung open with a sudden, resounding creak, and three figures emerged from the city, bearing a flag of purest white, a symbol of peace. Negotiations, the last thing Jon had expected, especially after the fool Mooton ignored their earlier pleas. Approaching Aegon and the other lieutenants was a young man, dressed in sumptuous cotton, embellished skillfully with a red salmon on his chest, flanked by two guards from House Mooton.

"I am Myles Mooton, the bearer of warm greetings from my father, Lord William Mooton," the young man spoke. Myles's death is on your soul. "My father, Lord of Maidenpool, extends greetings to Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name, and solemnly reaffirms House Mooton's vow to the royal House Targaryen, the true rulers of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros." The boy dismounted, humbling himself in submission, flanked by the guards. Jon distrusted William Mooton, just as he distrusted any coward. Strickland chuckled with his irritating giggle, "Marvelous news, Your Grace," he addressed Aegon, "no need for us to wage a battle." Toyne must be rolling in his grave; this fool would blunt the edge of the Golden Company. Thankfully, most current members were veterans from Toyne's time. Had Jon waited longer, crossing the Narrow Sea would have been impossible. Nevertheless, Jon breathed a sigh of relief, every avoided battle meant more soldiers to confront the Lannisters.

"Fock it, I ein't seen action in ten months," John Mudd exclaimed, irritated by the unfolding events.

"Indeed, Harry," Aegon replied shortly, dismissing the comment, his gaze fixed pensively on the comet that tore through the northeastern sky above Maidenpool. A cursed comet, Jon mused.

Aegon ordered the lieutenants to set up camp beyond the city walls, which elicited disapproval. Only Mandrake's cohort and Laswell's three cohorts were allowed within. Aegon paid little heed to the discontent, "The number of those allowed inside can be reduced further," he threatened, his tone devoid of anger. Soon, almost all the officers from the Golden Company found shelter under the roof of the portly William Mooton. The coward looked even worse than Jon recalled, his flushed face and overly perspiring forehead betraying his nervousness. He was always on edge.

"I couldn't believe it when I heard... but it's really true that a Targaryen leads this army," William deceitfully addressed Aegon. You lie like a dog, Jon thought. The hall they sat in was adorned with colorful tapestries depicting ships on the open sea and Pool; everything in Maidenpool revolved around that damn pool. William Mooton's castle was grander than his actual power and wealth. If Mooton were smart, he wouldn't waste coin on such frivolities, Jon mused. The lavish feast he had prepared forgot the realm was at war.

Nevertheless, Aegon was more courteous than Jon; the boy put on his regal face, the mask he wore in front of Strickland and the others. "I appreciate your loyalty, Lord Mooton. The history between our two houses is long, and our bonds strong. You've chosen wisely," Aegon said, and Jon knew the last part of the sentence was as much a threat as it was courteousy. His threats are silent but present, making him more subtle than old Toyne was.

Ser Tristan Rivers, slumped in his chair, his beard stained with marinated quail, which he held in his hands, didn't have patience for manners. "Mooton, what about the Lannisters? The Women says they're still sitting on their arses in Harrenhal," he pointed to Lysono Maar, to which the spymaster chuckled as usual, unoffended.

Anxious at the question, Mooton fidgeted, trying to hide his cowardice. "Outriders have been raiding and pillaging villages in the west for weeks. Sellswords from Essos have come to our walls several times. They didn't look like Lannisters, but they carried their banners. Our arrows drove them off," Mooton tried to sound confident. It didn't justifie why he hadn't face them in open combat, Jon knew.

"And how many men can you provide?" Laswell asked Lord Mooton.

"Men?" Mooton asked, confused, but then gathered himself, "I have two thousand swords, perhaps a bit more. Your Grace, a third of them is needed to defend the city," Mooton pleaded, directing his words to Aegon.

"Of course. We don't want to leave such a gem of a city undefended. Its alleys almost remind me of my native Lys," Lysono Marr sweetly said, emphasizing almost every syllable.

"A reasonable number," Aegon said without hesitation. "Maidenpool will be crucial for supply shipments. My galleys are ready to defend the city."

The words delighted Mooton, and it seemed like the redness was leaving his face. His sons, who sat beside him, were also unable to hide their happiness. They want us to defend the city.

"Furthermore," Aegon continued in a weary voice, "the ships with elephants have not yet arrived, and we expect my uncle Oberyn to join us later," he added, addressing more his lieutenants rather than Mooton.

....

Weeks later, Jon carefully observed as hundreds of ravens departed from the maester's tower, carrying the same message to every corner of Westeros.

"Bend the knee."

Chapter Text

Sansa Stark was terrified. She witnessed the brutal murder of her father, Lord Eddard Stark, by the order of the King Joffrey Baratheon, her betrothed. She had been beaten, humiliated, and threatened by Joffrey and his mother, Queen Cersei Lannister, ever since. She had no friends in King's Landing, no allies, no hope. She prayed to the old gods and the new for someone to save her from this nightmare. Yet, her prayers were newer answered.

She knelt in front of the Warrior statue, in Great Sept of Baelor, Joffrey said she had to, because he will go to war soon, as her beloved, to end her brother's life and his uncles'. Sansa knew he was lying, yet deep down, she wished Joffrey would leave and return in pieces. Since Lord Tyrion arrived in King's Landing, her treatment had improved slightly, but the drunken dwarf couldn't be everywhere. Today he wasn't here. Her knees hurt, and she knew they would leave bloody marks, but she dared not defy the spiteful king. He wouldn't hesitate to harm her even in the house of gods. Ser Borros Blunt stood ready by the king, prepared to strike her. Cersei also pretended piety with her false smile, lighting candles, on the dais, beneath the Mother's statue.

The city's stench, carried by the breeze, struck Sansa's face as she stepped outside, onto the steps above the statue of Baelor the Blessed. She walked above Joffrey and the Hound, but something was amiss. She felt numerous eyes staring at the royal procession. Many angry and hungry eyes, and they blamed Joffrey and his court for their woes. They attacked the royal party with stones, dung, and curses. Sansa tried to stay close to Joffrey and his Kingsguard, but the crowd was too dense and chaotic. She lost sight of them and found herself surrounded by angry faces.



"Help me!" she cried out, but no one heard her. Hands grabbed at her dress, her hair, her body. She screamed as she felt a knife cut through her cloak, and was about to be dragged down and torn apart by the mob when she heard a voice.

"Stay calm, my lady. I'm here to help you." The voice belonged to a boy, no older than ten, with dirty blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a brown tunic and breeches, and had a dagger in his hand. He cut through the crowd with swift movements, slashing at anyone who tried to harm Sansa. He reached her side and took her hand.

"Who are you?" Sansa asked, bewildered.

"Just a little bird," the boy said. "My master sent me to find you and take you out of the city."

"Your master? But who?" Sansa said, She did not trust him, but she had no choice but to follow the boy.

"A friend," the boy said. "He knows you're in danger here. He has a horse waiting for you at the Old Gate . Come on, we have to hurry."



The boy led Sansa through the narrow streets of King's Landing, avoiding the main roads where the riot was still raging. He knew every shortcut and alleyway, every hidden passage and secret door. He was agile and quick, and Sansa struggled to keep up with him.

"Where are you taking me?" Sansa asked as they ran.

"To Maidenpool," the boy said. "There's a lord there who owes my master a favor. He'll protect you until Master can arrange for your safe passage to Winterfell."

"Winterfell?" Sansa said, tears filling her eyes. "Will I see my family again?"

"I hope so, my lady," the boy said. "But we have to get there first."

They reached the docks and saw a small cart with a blue cover waiting for them. The boy waved at the merchant, who nodded back.

"That's our ride," the boy said. "Come on."

Sansa nodded and entered the cart.
She was exhausted, scared, and confused. She did not know who this master is and what he wanted from her, or what would happen to her in Maidenpool. She did not know if she would ever see her family again, or if they were even alive. She did not know who to trust, or who to fear.

She only knew one thing.

She was free.

....

The seagulls are calling. Once again, she finds herelf in King's Landing, running through the streets, chased by thousands of grimy faces. Every path is closed, nowhere to escape, and suddenly laughter, his laughter. On the dark horizon above, Joffrey obscures the view, covering the sky, nothing exists except him. His terrible laughter turns into rage until, with a slimy grin, he yells, "You think you can escape me, you little bitch!" His voice echoes through the city as his face melts into different masses, and "me, me, me..." resonates throughout the town. She was caught, surrounded by dark faces, their red eyes burning, mouths agape. Joffrey screams even louder now, "Ser Ilyn, bring me her head."

Sansa shrieks, but the dark city transforms into a dimly lit room bathed in morning sunlight. The air is salty but pure, she notices, cleaner than it was in the Red Keep. And the seagull sounds are real. She looks bewildered at the moderately sized and modestly furnished room, yet neat and adorned walls with reddish tapestries depicting motifs of the sea and a pool... Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool.

Her scream attracted the maids, who entered with breakfast and began cleaning the room as if Sansa wasn't there. Then, a woman entered, with long curly blond hair and a clean, powdered face adorned with purple eyes. But this is not a woman, Sansa thought, as the man looked at her, dressed in a golden chainmail more fit for a parade than a battle. It resembled an overly ornate armor Joffrey used to wear, pretending to be a great warrior. The blond man noticed Sansa's bewildered gaze but didn't take offense; instead, he offered her a smile.

"I shed tears when I first heard the tale of Florian the Fool and Jonquil. A wonderful story, almost foreign to the excessive virtue of your Westeros. Male and female forms exist for us to admire," he said in a melodious yet somewhat feminine voice, glancing at the tapestries depicting scenes from Sansa's favorite song. "Even the terrible storytelling abilities of Ser Florian Flowers couldn't spoil the impression. Lady Sansa, I hope you slept well," he continued with a smile.

"Where am I?" Sansa asked, realizing she hardly knew anything about what happened after entering the horse carriage. The journey had been spent in darkness and slumber.

"In Maidenpool, a home for romantic souls like yours. As promised," said the unknown man, settling into a comfortable chair. Anticipating Sansa's question, he introduced himself. "My apologies, my Lady. So many things, one tends to forget basic courtesies. My name is Lysono Maar, a member of the famous and gallant group of heroes, the Golden Company."

Golden Company, Sansa thought, recalling her father's words—they never break a word. The mention of her father weighed heavily on her heart; integrity was what he valued. "And Ser Dontos? He promised..." Sansa nearly whispered.

Lysono's face grew more serious, yet he maintained his smile and cheerfulness. "I'm afraid Ser Hollard was working for another interest, paid with coins. An interest that doesn't bode well for you."

Can't trust anyone, she thought, in that city, everyone is fickle. Sansa's heart sank even further. She just wanted to go home, to her mother and brothers. Unconsciously, tears streamed down her face. "Winterfell, when will I see Winterfell?" she cried.

"My lady, please, if you cry, I'll have to as well," Lysono put on a mournful expression, "my king desires nothing more than for you to return home, to your family." He offered Sansa a silk handkerchief with a golden elephant embroidered in one corner.

As Lysono stood up and walked towards the door, he said one last thing, "Today, you will have lunch in Lord Mooton's grand hall. I have prepared a gown for you; you will look magnificent, my dear," he left, chuckling cheerfully, leaving behind a faint scent of powder.

....

The hall of Maidenpool's grand castle were adorned with flickering crystals and banners bearing the three-headed dragon sigil. It felt like she was in a strange dream, peculiar things were happening, and Sansa couldn't comprehend any of it. Like a stranger, she sat at the lord's table, where they had placed her, and even the beautiful gown couldn't ease her discomfort. The room buzzed with conversation, a tapestry of voices discussing the latest news and rumors from across the Seven Kingdoms.

On the other benches, a multitude of men in golden armor and cloaks impatiently awaited the feast's beginning. They all wore small golden skulls hanging as pendants in the shape of a chain. Their faces were unpleasant, marred by numerous scars.

Suddenly, a voice boomed, "All hail King Aegon, the sixth of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." Sansa didn't know who that was; she had never seen a Targaryen in her life, but she had heard stories of some escaping across the Narrow Sea. Everyone stood up, and Sansa did the same, anxiously looking towards the door.

She was stunned. Those eyes, the face, and the hair. He looked magnificent, wearing a black doublet with peculiar intricate details and a red three-headed dragon on his chest. His short hair shimmered, reflecting the sparkling brilliance of the crystals, while his deep purple eyes were like small jewels glowing on his porcelain-pale face. And looked somewhat like Lysono, but different at the same time; his beauty appeared more natural, and fitting. Sansa had to compose herself, lowering her gaze to avoid drawing attention. Looking at her own fingers, she scolded herself. Once, she used to admire Joffrey's appearance, like this, but that monster discarded the disguise of a prince. Yet, this king was even more beautiful than Joffrey ever was. Walking beside him was a plump lord with an overly red face, and another man of similar age to her father, wearing a simpler doublet with red griffins, his fiery red hair overshadowing the garment's crimson hue.

The King sat down across from her, donning the aura of royalty, and raised his hand to signal the beginning of the feast.

"Lady Stark, I am delighted to have you here with us," he whispered to Sansa, his voice framed in a mosaic of refinement and simplicity.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, unsure of what else to say. The men from the Golden Company quickly devoured their food, oblivious to any manners. The tables soon became wet, messy chaos. With no appetite, Sansa gazed at the food more than she ate.

Being so near the King noticed her displeasure, "If you wish, the servants can prepare a dining table in your quarters. I'm afraid courtesies don't play a role in the company of ruffian villains," he amusingly said to Sansa in a hushed voice, "...but I believe you'll get used to it," he continued even more quietly.

However, Sansa wanted to know only one thing, and she gathered her strength since morning to ask. She knew she might not get another chance soon. "They told me I will be able to go home soon. Is that true?" she inquired of the prince, gathering every trace of confidence.

After her question, he gazed thoughtfully at Sansa for a moment that felt like eternity. "Well, that is the intention, but..." Every word that comes after "but" means nothing, her father used to say, "...but I'll be honest with you. Lady Sansa, you are here for the same reason the Lannisters held you captive," he said.

"That you can use me as leverage to my family," Sansa interrupted the king, a storm of emotions blazing within her, wanting to cry, to be in her room so she could bury her face in a pillow.

A hint of pity appeared on the king's face, but he continued speaking as if the hint didn't exist, "...I know what they did to you. I promise you that no harm will come to you. Your brother Robb has declared himself a king, and he will have to bend the knee," he said in a deeper, more regal voice. A voice that wasn't his, just as the lord's face wasn't her father's. Sansa knew Robb was now a king; she received beating when the news arrived at King's Landing.

"I don't want to leave you in a bad mood, Lady Sansa," the king smiled at her, "in your room, there is ink and paper. You can write to your family in Riverrun. We will forward their response. I instructed Maester Keln to prepare one of the ravens for Riverrun, so you can have more correspondence."

Her heart wanted to explode. For the rest of the feast, she paid little attention to what they were saying. They mentioned Renly and the Lannisters, but it didn't matter. She wanted to be in her room as soon as possible. Lysono told her to write that the Lannisters don't have Arya. Sansa would do it anyway.

Chapter Text

"To the noble lords of the Seven Kingdoms,

I am Aegon of House Targaryen, the sixth of my name, the rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. I bear the blood of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, the true heir to King Aerys II Targaryen and the rightful ruler of Westeros.

At Maidenpool, I stand with a mighty army, a force bolstered by the support of Dorne and my uncle, Prince Doran Martell and the Golden Company. Our alliance grows stronger, and I extend my hand to you, beseeching you to join our righteous cause.

I come not seeking vengeance, but justice. I offer amnesty for past transgressions and the restoration of your lost lands and titles. In return, I ask for your fealty and unwavering loyalty. Together, we can cast aside the Baratheons and Lannisters, whose treachery stole the lives of my mother and sister, and usurped the throne that is rightfully mine.

Choose wisely, for the consequences of defiance are dire. Should you stand against me, your lands, your titles, your wealth, and your very lives will be forfeit. I will visit you with fire and blood, as my ancestors before me."

With the letter complete, Aegon rolled the parchment and sealed it with wax, bearing his signet ring. He handed it to the Maester, who bowed before accepting the task.

"Dispatch copies of this letter to every castle and town in Westeros," Aegon commanded, his voice carrying the authority of a king. "Utilize every raven at our disposal."

"As you command, sire," Maester Keln responded, leaving the solar accompanied by a contingent of guards.

Aegon's eyes shifted to his council, gauging their reactions and seeking their insights.

The gray sky had vanished, concealed under the canopies, and the hooves of horses and zorses clattered on the muddy road, and Lucion regretted setting out, at least he expected there wouldn't be mud in the woods. Admittedly, he didn't have a choice. A rare virtue among Lannisters, not being able to choose, buy, or do what he wanted. Simply put, as he always had to explain to people, he wasn't one of those Lannisters. In fact, he had hardly ever been in a room with Tywin and his children. When the dwarf last time came to Casterly Rock, he infuriated Lucion, calling him Lannett. Bloody Lannetts, not all of them even have blond hair, unlike them, Lucion's hair was blond, like Ser Jaime's, even though his eyes weren't quite as emerald. But that damned dwarf even had different colors in each eye, looking like a freak.

Ever since his cousin Ser Kevan told him he had to go on reconnaissance, he had been nervous, as his group was attached to those odd Brave Companions. Savages didn't hesitate to mutilate servants at Harrenhal, right in front of Tywin Lannister, so foolish, they didn't even know whom to fear. If it were up to Lucion, he would have put them all to the sword after other mercenaries abandoned ser Forley Prester and deserted to the Starks after the defeat at Riverrun.

Unpredictable and uncouth, they served no purpose except sowing fear, and under their plundering, nothing was left to be taken as supplies. Already the first day, he even quarreled with a Goat. The fool wanted to take the forest path and get closer to Maidenpool

"The northern road leads through the forest, a narrow path; it wouldn't be difficult to fall into a trap," Lucion tried to convince Vargo Hoat, but the goat wouldn't listen. When he set out, Ser Kevan told him to take command, but he had only ten guards with him. Vargo had all of his men, over a hundred, it was clear he wouldn't yield the leadership position.

"Ith will be an thonor to sethve unther Lannither," he said to Ser Kevan, and soon, within a few hours of ride from Harrenhal, he revealed his lie. Lucion wanted to take Kingsroad, then head towards Antlers; he could visit Buckwells there and question their loyalty, check if they had sent men to defend King's Landing, as requested by Queen Cersei. Also, verify if the Buckwells had daughters. The way would be safer, and after Antlers, they could ride far enough east to claim they fulfilled the task when they returned to Harrenhal.

But, "...I don'th cathre," the goat kept repeating. In the end, it occurred to Lucion that Hoat was afraid just like him. Since the first reports arrived that some army had landed on Crackclaw Peninsula and was heading towards Maidenpool, outriders and scouts began to disappear. No one knew what was happening, but some fishermen at Saltpans claimed that it was the Golden Company. Goat got terribly scared, begging Ser Kevan to return him towards the Trident in a foraging effort, but he failed.

"Tywin wants to know what this is about as soon as possible. Ser Amory and his men left yesterday. Soon, Ser Gregor will also go in a fortnite. This has priority," Ser Kevan told the two of them.

Vargo squirmed, "...my men athe no good at ranthing, thath not outh spethalthy," he pleaded in an incomprehensible language.

Regardless, they were on a muddy road, in the middle of the forest and just as Lucian had predicted, the undergrowth had taken over the space between the trees. The Goat did not even want to be at the head of the column, instead, he and Lucion rode a little further back. Birds flew over their heads, their constant chirping filling the air.

"You are from Essos. You must have seen the Golden Company before," he tried to break the monotony, but Hoat snorted unhappily, rubbing his nose discontentedly, uninterested in the discussion

"You, Lannithers athe good, you havhe youth armoth and strong athmy, but still is athe westerothy athmy. those gold mothefuthers athe somethting elthe", he said nervously, while restlessly holding his horse's reins, constantly looking around.

He wanted to go back as much as Lucien did. A strange whistle-squeak disturbed Hoat further, a long sound from one side of the forest, answered by another sound from the other side, but it all sounded unnatural and too even, birds don't make noises like that. For a brief moment, the sounds stopped, after which a long sound was heard again, but it lasted twice as long and there was no reply from the other side.

"What," Lucien Lannister angrily glared at the bewildered Hoat. A powerful blow followed by intense pain hit Lucien in the helmet and an arrow fell into the mud next to his horse. Another arrow hit his chest but was stopped by his armor; a third one went under his armpit where it pierce through his chainmail.

"Runth," Hoat shrieked incomprehensibly. His men were falling on all sides while hundreds of arrows screamed tearing through the forest air. Yarek who was in Lucion's squad lay trapped under his horse choking in mud. On the other side Joen was bleeding where an arrow had pierced his visor. A heavy thud knocked Lucien to the ground; his horse lay still on top of him.

"Damth you Balthaq, I'm glath that I fucketh youth bithch" Hoat yelled at someone, moment before an arrow went through his skull. On the ground Lucion lay and wept helplessly; several arrows stuck out of his armor.

Men came out of the bushes covered in green cloaks under which flashes of gold shone through a slit. The smell of blood and stale mud slapped Lucien's face, while the cries of men and the snorting of wounded horses echoed in the sky. A dark-skinned man came up to Lucien wearing a strange feathered cloak and carrying a large bow made of some kind of bone. He looked at Lucien whose armor clanged from his shaking. "No witnesses," he said in a deep strange accent and Lucien's fear which burned all his insides exploded. He didn't know what to do; he had to run away go home... and then everything went black.

....

Small men can cast a rather large shadow.

The fire in the fireplace crackled, its glow mingling with a few braziers, skillfully arranged around Tyrion's chamber. Three shadows were, now, on the wall.

"A true shame, what befell his majesty's betrothed and young Tyrik. If they are in the hands of the mob, I shudder to think of the torment they endure," Varys said, sitting almost still in a small armchair in the corner. The spider always preferred a marginal, distant and discreet spot; deliberately, of course, Tyrion knew.

"Your efforts have been fruitless. Disappointing," Tyrion said to Varys and Bronn, not expecting a reply. Sansa and Tyrik were missing for almost a month. The world was in chaos, a vague and incoherent chaos that consumed the world Tyrion knew day by day. Honest and simple answers were scarce these days. How many pieces can a kingdom be shattered into, he wondered, as he recalled Shae's hand on his Cock; his asset that now obstructed his work, when they used to be such good friends. He and his Cock.

The knife in Bronn's hands went up and down, up and down... The sellsword was not too bothered by the overall situation, even though he was in charge of security in the city. Leaning back in his chair, he played with his knife, paying little attention to him and Varys. "I reckon the kids are dead. At least they're sweeter to eat than the fucking septon. Mind you, on an empty stomach everything goes down well," he said without any care.

Tyrion struggled not to laugh, and as always to defeat his laughter, he found his father's face in his thoughts. Tywin scolded Tyrion in a disappointed voice, "You lost a hostage, you killed my son. My only son." He had no doubt that the real Tywin would say the same as the Tywin in his mind, but Tyrion had not completely ruined the situation in this case. When it was clear that Sansa would not be found, he took a young red-haired girl whore from Littlefinger's brothel. From a distance and under a cloak she looked like Sansa; enough for the maids in the castle to think she was still here. If the secret left King's Landing, his brother could lose his head and as much as Tyrion loved or wanted to see his father disappointed sometimes, he could not gamble with Jaime's life.

With so many worries, he needed some entertainment, but he couldn't get to Shae tonight; everything was too complicated; no matter how much his Cock begged him to go. The dilemma further discouraged him and he had to direct his anger at someone.
"Well Bronn, peace in the city is your task."

Bronn was not unsettled, "When you gave me the gold cloak," he said with a grin, because he never wore the gold cloak, as a proper Commander of the City Watch should, "you said; Thieves are my concern; not hungry mouths. It's not my fault that the golden boy can't find bread for the city."

"What's happening on the shore of the the Bay of Crabs," Tyrion ignored sellsword, and asked Varys. Strange rumors were coming from all sides; a raven arrived from Duskendale claiming that all the lords of Crackclaw Point had taken up arms. Ryker claimed that Lord Staunton was to blame for that, but Tyrion didn't want to get involved in the disputes of neighboring lords. The story would be harmless if Varys hadn't relayed rumors that the Golden Company had landed on the peninsula. Tyrion hadn't heard anything from his father about hiring the Golden Company; he certainly had the coin to buy them, but he wasn't the only one; maybe Renly paid with the coin of his fat father-in-law.

"That's why I'm here," Varys replied, hiding his hands, as usual. "It seems we have a sixth king, a boy who claims to be a Targaryen, Rhaegar's son. Dorne has rebelled against the crown and supports the new usurper," he said the last part with a lament.

"Now that everyone and their mother wants to be a king, it's no wonder they've brought the Targaryens into the mix," Tyrion said, not at all surprised that someone had tried to exploit the old dynasty. There were many in the kingdom who had not gotten over the fall of the dragons.

"Yes. My little birds in Dorne have it the hardest, but they have uncovered the conspiracy. Prince Doran has gained the support of the Golden Company and seeks to put his nephew on the throne; or at least a boy he claims is his nephew."

"The Lannisters are suitably fucked, the Golden Company, which is surely better than those cunts your father bought... and the Dornishmen, fucking madmen, they fight for a trifle, they die for a trifle, they don't forget and they kill you when you least expect it," Bronn added, stabbing the wooden table with his knife, destroying the carved horns on it.

"Lord Commander is right; the Dornishmen's skills in combat are unmatched," Varys said. All in all, the news was worrisome, Tyrion was surrounded on three sides, though he could expect his father to deal with the Golden Company; they were right under his nose.

"Well, they didn't help Rhaegar at the Trident; did they! Tell me, what's the deal with the boy?" he asked Varys.

"I don't know," Varys said expressionlessly, "in the free cities of Essos, there are many boys and girls with silver hair and purple eyes. They are colonies of old Valyria after all; and the dragonlords didn't just sit in those cities," he laughed wickedly, "It's not unheard of that Prince Doran took a pretty boy from Lys and decided to make him a king."

The answer did not satisfy Tyrion, for he had heard that Lord of Sunspear, Prince Doran was too wise to get involved in such affairs so easily.
"But why?" he asked Varys irritably.

He saw on the Spider's face that he would not get an answer, "And why was your great father here, so many years ago, outside the walls with a mighty army?" To take advantage of the opportunity that opened up with Rhaegar's defeat, Tyrion answered himself, if the opposite had been the case, he would have attacked Riverrun; or set a trap for the defeated rebel army. "What did the great lion offer Robert then?" A beautiful daughter, a song that half the kingdom heard, three grandchildren with golden hair, Lannisters on every corner of the Red Keep. "Blood is an alloy," Varys continued without a question, this time, "only the best know how to forge it, so that it loses certain qualities and gains other. The followers of Aegon the Elder were called greens because of House Hightower; our lovely monarch Joffrey, besides the Stag on his banner has a lion and it is certain that it will remain so through his sons." A king does not have to be true, Doran's puppet is no less a king than Joffrey, whom Robert did not make. The Martells have long harbored hatred for the Lannisters, because of the death of Princess Elia and her children. Did the boy grow back his head that Ser Gregor Clegane smashed, Tyrion wondered, knowing that the sword of doom was over his family. Unpaid debts from the past. A Lannister always pays his debts, but these are other people's debts; more painful and fierce.

....

Lucien did not return, like many others, Kevan thought, as he walked briskly up the wide stairs of Harrenhal's north tower, and especially long ones; The stairs revealed all burden of his years, and the simplest movements made him tired, and he was needed by his older brother, now more than ever.

The war to save Tyrion; and the honor of their house; turned into a war for survival, survival of his family on the throne. Enemies surrounded them on all sides, northwest Grayjoy was again king on his islands and soon could begin rieving the coast; Young Stark destroyed their army in the north, and Renly lurked from the south, with the largest force in the realm. And a new threat east of them... If only Joffrey had not taken Ned Stark's head.

Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, sat at the head of the table, his eyes of displeasure shaped the atmosphere in the war room, and spilled over to those present, whose faces bore uncertainty and fear. Kevan's brother held in his hand a letter delivered by raven. Its contents fueled his annoyance, his grip on the parchment tightening as he scowled.

"Another king," he muttered derisively. "A sixth one".

"War of the Six Kings," said Ser Adam Marbrand with a smirk, "doesn't sound as good as five". Now was not the time for jokes, Kevan thought, especially not in front of his brother.

In the whirlwind of so many threats, this one seemed the most unbelievable; Rhaegar's son alive, he remembered the bodies, his eyes had seen the scene before the red cloak covered the ugly part and left a positive impression of the political implications. King Robert would have no rivals. Rhaegar had his own personal camp of followers before the war, those who loved him or at least preferred him to his father; if the boy had survived or gone into the hands of such, it would guarantee a prolonged war and more suffering put on the Realm. His brother was the only one who understood the weight of situation and who was ready to do what had to be done.

Kevan, a shrewd and discerning voice among Tywins council, now had to voice skepticism. "A convenient claim," he remarked dryly. "The boy is a pretender, a puppet controlled by some foreign power. He presents no proof of his lineage."

Tywin, his frustration simmering beneath his composed facade, responded with a curt nod. "And yet, he possesses the loyalty of the Golden Company and the support of Dorne," he countered. "He may prove more dangerous than the Stark boy or Renly."
It was hard not to love Tywin; no matter how difficult their position seemed, confidence adorned Tywin's face, suppressing the faint outlines of dissatisfaction and anger. He was a man who knew how to command respect and loyalty, even from his enemies, and had a vision for the future of their house and the realm, and would not let anyone stand in his way. Kevan was proud to be his brother.

Gregor Clegane, a silent presence in the room, stood tall and intimidating. His mere presence added weight to the discussion, as Tywin contemplated the threat before them.

"Send out spies to Maidenpool," Tywin commanded, his tone betraying a hint of urgency. "I want detailed reports on this Aegon Targaryen. We need to know the extent of his alliances and the nature of his support. Furthermore, contact Varys and demand a full account of collusion between Dorne and this pretender. Boy may as well be prince Dorans ploy against us. We must be fully informed."

Turning his attention to his bannermen, his eyes on Ser Gregor, Tywin issued additional orders. "Dispatch more outriders to secure our eastern flank, I don't care how many die. If these sellswords attempt any audacious moves, I want our defenses fortified. We cannot afford to be caught off guard."

Standing faithfully at his brother's side, Kevan interjected with a measured tone. "Should this Aegon prove a threat, what shall be our course of action, my lord?"

Tywin's eyes narrowed as he contemplated the question. "We will crush him," he replied with conviction. "We will show him the true might of House Lannister. No pretender, no matter how well-supported, shall stand in the face of our power."

....

The ancestral home of his mother bore no resemblance to Winterfell; it was smaller and caressed by gentler, warm winds; surrounded by a mighty river, whose murmur was a daily occurrence in the castle. Silence was foreign to his mother, he thought, as he watched the fishing boats skillfully maneuver the currents of the Trident in the distance. He wished his mother was with him at this moment, so he could hear her advice on the letter that had arrived, but she was on her way to Bitterbridge, where she would negotiate with Renly on his behalf.

Joined by his uncle Edmure Tully, and Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, Robb held in his hands a missive that had arrived by raven. His council gathered around him as he prepared to share its contents.

He read aloud the letter, his voice laced with a mix of skepticism and annoyance. As he tossed the parchment onto the table, his frustration echoed through the hall.

"Another king," his uncle declared, his tone tinged with exasperation. "As if we don't have enough of those already."
Robb understood the feeling, but also the inner fear, what if this was a trap of Lannisters. If they had seen through his plan to go west, and trie to sow discord among his bannermen; most of the Rivverlords had already left, to reclaim their lost castles and to harvest the last great crop, before the autumn rains destroyed everything in their path. However, Robb had heard rumors that Maidenpool was occupied by the Golden Company; but they could easily be hired and paid by gold of Casterly Rock.

His brow furrowed with curiosity, Robb sought answers. "Who is this Aegon Targaryen?" he inquired. "I thought he perished long ago."

Edmure Tully, shaking his head in disbelief, confirmed his lack of knowledge. "As did I," he admitted. "He claims to be the son of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen, the heir to Mad King Aerys."

The man Robb trusted the most, his mother's uncle Brynden, was silent and looked at the others; his silence had a thunderous echo; some people spoke more with their faces than others with words. "Uncle Brynden," Robb whispered softly.

In a voice marked by skepticism, Brynden Tully expressed his doubts. "Claims are made by many, but few possess the means to substantiate them. This could be a trick or a falsehood." he retorted.

Lannisters are the worst enemies a man can have; they use poisonos lies, and doubts as their weapons. Others fight with swords, but the Lannisters with schemes. They make a man doubt, distrust others, and ultimately believe that victory is impossible. Robb will not give up. Turning to his loyal bannermen, he sought their opinions, hoping to glean insight from those he trusted.

The first man to Robb, was first to replym; Greatjon Umber boomed with laughter, his amusement resounding through the hall. "A fool's errand, I say!" he roared. "Attempting to seize the Iron Throne with a motley crew of sellswords? The Lannisters or Baratheons will roast him before he can blink."

Galbart Glover, his demeanor somber, provided a contrasting view, "He poses a threat. If he had secured Maidenpool and garnered the support of Dorne. With ships and gold from Essos, his alliances may be more extensive than we realize. We should not underestimated him."

Even if Robb defeats the Lannisters, the others will not let him keep the crown. Torhen Stark laid down his crown to save his people from the dragon's flame. How much war can this land endure?

Rickard Karstark, his voice cold and scornful, voiced his disdain, sneered "A madmen, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, who kidnapped and dishonored your aunt, Lyanna. Grandson of the Mad King, who murdered your grandfather and uncle. The madness surely runs in his blood."

Robb knew all that, but old sorrows were distant, driven away by new evils. A voice told him, go west. He saw his father's face clearly again. Go west. Think of Arya and Sansa. He had to save his sisters from the claws of the Lannisters. Go west and leave the golden companies and the golden lies to Tywin.

Absorbing the insights of his loyal bannermen, he nodded thoughtfully. "Our plans will not change. We have to go west", he declared resolutely. "But this Aegon's presence may serve our cause. His actions will divert the forces of the Lannisters and Baratheons, affording us the respite we so desperately need."

....

Cracking of ice grew louder and louder; a three-eyed raven flew through the forest clad in white; the world was more white and cold here than in Wolfswood. She was not afraid, she was used to this forest, and only followed the raven; her foot did not sink into the hard snow; tracks in the snow were hidden by a beautiful transparent mist; which allowed her to see a little, but quite enough.

"Girl should go", the raven croaked, and its "go, go, go" echoed in the silent forest. She did not answer, but continued on, following the sound of cracking ice, which shaped into a milky white figure, which despite the whiteness, stood out from the snowy surroundings. The girl lost her breath; there was a stranger in this forest, until then it was only her and the raven. No one else, never before.

She stared at the white and blurry figure for a small eternity, after which the figure took a few steps forward; and it was as if the moonlight pierced the black crowns of the trees and bathed the figure. She is beautiful, she thought, looking into the deep blue eyes, milky white skin, under which light played, like in the heart of a diamond. The beautiful white hair melted into the crown of ice, whose long spikes curved into the air. The Lady of Ice was dressed in a transparent blue dress, which changed shape like water, and gracefully blended with her slender hourglass shaped body. She held an ice spear in her hand.

"You see me", the enchanting voice of the Lady spoke, like nothing the girl had ever heard. It sounded like the freshness of morning, like the windy winter night and the cracking of ice. She just nodded, admiringly looking at the lady in front of her. The Lady continued, "listen to your father, Wolfmaid", walking around her; there were no traces on the ground, "and go on your way".

"I don't want to go" she answered, as tears began to well up in her eyes, "I don't want to marry". The ice spear, with a great hiss, shattered and the lady now held a winter rose in her hand. She put it in the girl's hands, as her small tears froze on her face, "go and find the answer".

A loud caw of a raven was heard from the unknown depths of the mist. The cracking of ice spread in all directions, and the dress and face of the icy lady shone less. The Lady no longer paid attention to her, but with a serene expression on her face she gave a sharp look to the mist. "You shouldn't be here", with a completely new voice; deep and foreign; she shouted at the mist. "This is not your domain". The caw of the raven turned into a voice, "girl should listen to her brother".

"Lyana, Lyana", she heard another voice, familiar and close. "Lyana, get up" the voice repeated. She opened her eyes. The rays of the spring sun caressed her face; she lay next to the huge root of a weirwood. "You know father doesn't like you sleeping here", Ned said quietly, betraying a strange fear only known to him. As if at that moment he was more afraid of her than of his father. "I didn't mean to fall asleep, but some of us enjoy spring", she replied with her playful mischievous voice, "and freedom she added". It was visible on his face that he got the message.

He looked nervously at her, "marriage to Robert is not my idea".

"It's not, but your silence is. Besides, you're as much a stranger to me as Robert is, why should I trust you", she said. A hurt expression was visible on his face. She knew that Ned's departure to Vale was not his decision. But he did not stand up for her when her father told her he had arranged a marriage, "with young Lord Baratheon", Rickard said it as a Lord, as if he was not talking to his daughter, but to another lord, at dinner, emphasizing the monumentality of the alliance. Lyana will not marry for politics or importance, but for Robert, who can't keep his Cock in his pants.

"Will you go south?", Ned asked her. She saw blue eyes and a milky-white smile. "Brandon would tie me up and take me by force anyway", she said. I'll find the answer, she thought; an answer for the escape.

Chapter Text

Dragons

In the midst of the pouring rain, thundering hooves echoed across the open field as three centuries of the  Golden Company charged towards the Ser Gregor Clegane's men. The once-solid ground had turned into a quagmire, on a muddy crossroad that threatened to ensnare and hinder the mounted warriors.

Mephos witnessed as the cavalry of Serjeant Temerin charged head on into the ranks of the Mountain's men. As the clash began, the air filled with the metallic symphony of swords clashing and cries of men. Men on horseback fought with relentless fury, blades flashing as they faced the barrage of raindrops.

Swords bit into flesh, and the ground churned as horses struggled through the muck. But even as they engaged, the second century struck from the flank, a whirlwind of steel and speed that destabilized the Lannister ranks.

The third century, where Mephos was riding, remained concealed from view until it surged forward unexpectedly, bursting forth from the rear with a resounding roar. They were encircled, Mephos realized. He would be part of the force delivering the monster to King Aegon, securing everlasting glory. Caught between three unyielding centuries, Ser Gregor's men faltered, ensnared in a deadly pincer movement. Chaos ensued as men fought for their lives, the cacophony of battle overwhelming all other sounds.

In that carnage, he was just an ordinary soldier of the Golden Company but I fight valiantly. Mephos felt his heart pounding, the rain and sweat mingling on his brow as he parried blows and thrust his sword. The world around him was a blur of movement and color, the battle becoming an instinctive dance of survival.

Suddenly, as if emerging from a nightmare, Clegane himself charged towards Mephos. He had heard the rumors about the Mountain, but the beast before him now was clad in armor and moved with an unbelievable swiftness, mounted on the largest horse Mephos had ever seen. His breath caught in his throat as he confronted the Mountain, a hulking figure of death and devastation. With a desperate cry, he swung his sword, but the immense strength of the Giant easily deflected the blow.

In an instant, Clegane's massive blade descended, cutting through armor and flesh. Mephos's world flared white-hot with pain, then darkness consumed him. His last sight was of the battlefield, still full of turmoil, and then he saw retreating figure of Gregor Clegane.

"The monster has escaped," he uttered, taking his last breath.
....

Direwolf

Sansa had initially been wary of Aegon's intentions. The scars left by Joffrey's torment ran deep, leaving her guarded and hesitant to trust. Yet, now, she is a hostage of the new king. Aegon also appeared distant, as if estranged from the present moment. Sometimes, she would think that the young king was not fully present, not quite grasping what was happening around him. Yet, he would swiftly disprove her assumptions, engaging with his guests in a manner that made them feel like the most important people in the world. His responses were insightful and eloquent, leaving a lasting impression, even if the interaction was brief.

The way Aegon spoke carried a peculiar accent that seemed both familiar and foreign to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. It accentuated his enigmatic persona, like a man who did not wholly belong anywhere. Sansa had never met a Targaryen before, and she couldn't help but wonder if this was the embodiment of the Targaryens she had heard of in countless stories over the years.

Initially, Sansa felt like the young king didn't pay her much heed. He would acknowledge her presence with a polite nod as he passed by, as if there was no need for further acknowledgment. However, with time, he started to address her as "my lady" with a subtle half-smile, barely detectable.

In Maidenpool, Sansa found herself with much more freedom than she had in King's Landing. Accompanied by guards and handmaidens, she could venture beyond the castle walls, exploring the town and visiting the pool or craft shops. The newfound freedom was refreshing after the confinement she had endured.

Lord Mooton's daughter generously gifted her several new dresses, adding a touch of elegance and color to her days in Maidenpool, amidst the busy camp and the looming uncertainties.

She felt the war fading from her mind, as she sat in the verdant park, beside the castle, watching the boats glide into the harbor. Strong Thunderex stood beside her, her guardian, always as silent as a statue. The dark days of strife did not dim the vibrant trade, vessels laden with goods sailed from Essos, and Sansa would often receive a gift of silk or spice from faraway lands she had never seen.

"Your Westeros has a certain allure. Wild and untamed, yet alluring," a voice startled her from behind. It was Lysono Maar, the spymaster, who smiled at her with a hint of mischief. "Lady Sansa, how do you fare this day?".

Many joys had graced Sansa's life in recent moons, but she was still sorrowful for she had not heard from her mother and brother. Dark thoughts haunted her; what if the raven had fallen; she knew that arrows felled the winged messengers, for in war, knowledge was more precious than gold, as her father had taught Robb. Or mayhaps the letter was never sent, and she was fooled once more by the schemes of her keepers, entombed in false hopes, swayed by her own yearnings. She searched Lysono's face for a sign of deceit, but she knew she lacked the skill to read men; she thought of Littlefinger then, he surely had it.

"I am well, my Lord," she said to Lysono with courtesy; today she had no mood for his witty words; though the effeminate Lyseni was the nearest thing to a friend she had here; she almost laughed at that notion and wondered how Jayne Poole would envy him for that.

“I am no lord, I fear,” Lysono Maar tried to say, but he was interrupted by a strange commotion that filled the courtyard of the castle.

Lysono and Sansa climbed the stairs to the top of the wall where the courtyard was visible. Captain of the cavalry Otreyes, on his big black horse, was waiting in front of the entrance gate; his golden armor and orange cloak were smeared with mud, his sword was hidden in a sheath of wolf skin, with an open wolf's jaw at the beginning. He held a red banner in his hand; Sansa could barely see his face under the lifted visor. Of all the officers of the Golden Company, Otreyes was the rarest at Lord Mooton's court, he seldom graced the feasts with his presence.

"I have, the Mountain, on the run", said Otreyes in a loud and somewhat hasty voice, tossing a banner on the courtyard ground; whose face Sansa recognized. Lannisters.

Otreyes’s eyes met the fiery crimson hair of Lord Connington, next to whom Aegon stood before Sansa's eyes, his shadow blended with the shadow of the weirwood crown. The king's beautiful white face was now adorned with anger, the skin around his purple eyes was powerfully wrinkled and colored in red, with frowning eyebrows, like gloomy clouds, whose thunder will roar powerfully across the horizont.

"So what are you doing here, then? Why didn’t you pursue him?", Aegon snapped at Otreyes with an angry voice, but Sansa shivered; she had never seen him angry, but now he looked like a beast that wanted to devour Captain Otreyes.

"I came to give my report, because the beast escaped beyond our lines; boundaries that you set for us", equally powerfully shouted Captain Otreyes, as if he was not addressing the King, but an ordinary soldier. "I had only three centuries at my disposal and I cut down two thirds of his men. He is returning with his tail tucked where he came from. If you hadn’t scattered my centuries all over this godsforsaken land, maybe I would have followed him.”

The news of his cavalry’s success did not soothe Aegon’s mood, “How dare you! You knew that Clegane was a priority, and you let him slip through your fingers".

The anger of their exchange seemed more powerful than the howling of the sea wind; Otreyes just snorted and turned his back and left the courtyard.

Aegon caught sight of Sansa on the battlements, and for a moment, she could discern a hint of shame on his face. He didn't want me to see him like this.

"Ah those two, always grabbing each other's necks, and they used to be inseparable like two fingers of the same hand", Lysono Maar said with feigned sadness and aroused Sansa's curiosity. The spymaster sat on the pedestal next to the battlement intended for archers.

"What happened between them?" she asked him in a gentle voice, and Lysono smiled because he wanted her to ask the question. You caught your fish, Lysono.

"The same thing that sows discord between every two men. A woman.", Lysono giggled happily, as if he had been waiting all his life to tell this story. "Mind you, our great King and gallant captain Otreyes did not fight over the same woman, but they loved her equally." Sadness covered Lysono's face and Sansa always found it hard to see how sincere the expressions on his face were. "You see, beautiful lady Sansa. Our King loved the sister of captain Otreyes... Oh what a love it was, they were almost inseparable. The girl even knew the secret of his identity, so strict that one could lose one's head for it."

A wave of jealousy swept Sansa's heart, at that moment she felt a strange mixture of sadness, fear and anger at herself. Her mind scolded her. When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong.

"...Mertyn and his sister are from your roots, north of that fantastic wall, which everyone talks about", Lysono continued, not noticing Sansa's sorrow. Wildlings are not northerners, they do not belong to Westeros; the spymaster crossed the line if he thinks he can compare a wildling with a noble high lady of Westeros. "As a boy, he was captured along with his mother by pirates whose intention was to sell them into slavery. A cruel fate if you ask me. But it was not meant for Mertyn; Braavosi galleys intercepted the ship, not far from Pentos, freeing all the unfortunate souls. The boy and mother ended up in a foreign environment, a city that could not be more different from the wilderness they came from. The poor woman's health was impaired by the heavy sea voyage, and she died in childbirth, bringing little Eira into the world."

"The children's luck turned for the better, as the young widow Otreyes felt compassion for the orphans and welcomed them into her home. Her husband, a merchant whose ship was swept away by the waves... along with him", Lysono said with a wicked grin, "...had left the fair lady with so much wealth that she never had to lift a finger again. Lady Otreyes favored the company of women, if you catch my drift Lady Sansa", Lysono winked, but Sansa was puzzled, for it seemed natural that a lady should keep company with ladies; all noble ladies had lady companions and queens had ladies in waiting. She shuddered at the thought of herself in that role, if she were to wed Joffrey.

"She had no desire to remarry, but she longed for children, so she adopted the two children and made them her own. Young Mertyn became a skilled rider, an excellent warrior with a sword and even better with a spear, through her money. In his desire to prove himself he joined the Golden Company. Eira caught the eye of our Targaryen at Lady Otreyes' ball; she spurned the king at first, but he persisted and at last she agreed to spend a day with him, if he could catch her a flying squirrel, a furry beast of swift speed and sharp claws. Children's game."

Despite her jealousy, Sansa listened intently to the story, thinking of all the lover tales she knew.

"...and he succeeded, Lovers in stories always succeed," Sansa cut off Lysonos words. "But that doesn't explain why Captain Otreyes doesn't like Aegon."

"You are wrong, Lady Sansa, if you think this is a romantic story with a happy ending," as if seeing through her soul and discovering what Sansa is, Lysono looked directly into her eyes. "Yes, the boys fought together, learned from each other; nothing builds friendship like war, because only when the ice cracks under your feet do you know who your friend is. The three of them were; Aegon, Mertyn and a boy named Agrilla, probably as smart as all the Golden Company together,"... but he's not here, did he also get angry with Aegon, why does Aegon lose friends so easily.

Thunderx, who loomed like a silent shadow beside Sansa, did not give the impression that he was listening to the story, or that he was interested: he said shortly, "the boy knew how to set up the camp defense like no one. With his mind he would double our number."

"...true, good Thunderex, but even the sharpest mind cannot shield a man from a spear in the face. The boy was doomed, and faul destiny, as it was Aegon who ordered the assault that claimed his life. That death was the first fissure in the stone, Lysono said.

...and the girl's death sealed the rift" Sansa felt a pang of sorrow, but also a deep relief; she had never rejoiced at someone's demise before, she chided herself, but the odd sensation of gratification lingered. She posed a question to Lysono, hoping to conceal her state, "How did she die?"

"The quarter in Pentos where the girl dwelled was ravaged by the shaking sickness. A cruel twist of fate, the death toll was meager but she didn't escape it. Aegon endeavored to rescue her, following the healer's advice he ventured into the marshes near Velvet Hills, to fetch sunroot. A realm where only fools tread, teeming with horned lizard beasts and flesh-eating plants. The king was assaulted by one of those verdant horrors, and now he sports a faint scar from the thorn. He prevailed once more, but when he reached her she was no more. They say he paid three hundred gold coins to lift her veil, to gaze upon her for the last time", Lysono wept, and Sansa sobbed, she wished she could stop but tears flooded her eyes. Thunderex, her loyal shadow and protector, knelt down and offered her a handkerchief.

"And then the bitter part, Mertyn held Aegon responsible for the death, his sister and her daughter should have remained at Lady Otreyes' house, where they would be more secure, or so the cavalry captain believed."

Her daughter. The detail seized Sansa's notice. Aegon was barely two years senior to Robb, though his face bore more marks of age than Robb's. "Did they have a child?", Sansa inquired of Lysono eagerly and for the first time in her life she felt that she could understand her mother. Aegon is not yours and never will be.

"Ooo yes. The little one is five years old, you should have seen her. She has Aegon's eyes, but the rest of her is a mirror of her mother. Halfmaester Haldon mentioned something about that, but it slipped my mind", Lysono pondered as he attempted to unravel lost words. "The blood of the First Men runs stronger than the blood of the dragons. That's it."

Duncan, the Prince of Dragonflies, who loved Jenny of Oldstones, and gave future crown for her, had raven hair, or nearly so, Sansa could not recall. His sire was also Aegon but she knew not which by number, who wed for love to... Think... to... Think, Sansa... to Betha Blackwood. "The Blackwoods are an old family, one of the few in the south who worship the old gods", her father's voice echoed within her mind.

....

Blackwoods traced their lineage to the first men, the ancient ancestors of the North. The thought lingered in her mind as she drifted into sleep, and she dreamed of Arya on horseback, racing through Winter town with a pursuer on her heels. Her escapade drew different reactions from the townsfolk; some smiled at her daring, others frowned at her recklessness. Arya reached the gate of Winterfell in a swift gallop, and Sansa caught a glimpse of her home's silhouette. Winterfell seemed more radiant and lively than ever, as if its walls were made of joy. Arya's passage through the gate did not take Sansa to the courtyard of Winterfell but to the Godswood where she saw Theon, surrounded by people who looked like him. The sharp barking woke her from her sleep, the sun had not risen yet.

Is Theon in Winterfell, she thought it unlikely that her father's ward would not go with Robb to war, they were friends after all. She did not pay much attention to the dream, because although she saw Arya on horseback, she was never as good rider as in her dream. Sansa missed her sister. Tossing and turning on the feather pillow and bedding, she watched shadows of the lonely candle play on the ceiling tapestries of her room. The nights were no longer warm and pleasant, she noticed, autumn was showing its presence more strongly every day and soon she would have to have a brazier. As a Northern lady, the cold should not have bother Sansa, but the sun-drenched days of late summer were still dear to her. She had almost forgotten the North and its people, sometimes it seemed to her that she would never return, but the return was not the intention, she was suppose to marry the prince and live a perfect life as a lady at the royal court. "The blood of the first men runs stronger", the words of halfmaester Haldon came to her mind, does that mean that Sansa would never stop being a stranger among people who mostly are not the First men.

She had wandered to the rose garden, restless from the lack of sleep. In the castle, Sansa had the privilege of walking freely without guards. She found a bench and savored the crisp air of the dawn. Her eyes drifted to Aegon's tower, but it was still dark. Perhaps he was with his men in the camp beyond the walls. Footsteps were heard on the second floor and when she looked up, septa Lemore was descending the open corridor, radiating confidence in her white robe, carring lovely face bright with cheer.

"Seven blessings, Sansa Stark. You are up early to enjoy the gifts of the new day." she said with a playful smile" adding mischievously "his majesty is in his tower". Sansa felt her cheeks warm up.

"Good morning, septa. And maester Haldon, is he here?" she asked politely.

"Halfmaester. Haldon has not completed the forging of his chain at the Citadel. We refer to him as a halfmaester, since without a fully forged chain, he cannot hold the title of a maester. And indeed, he is present here. I am on my way to him; if you wish, you are welcome to accompany me." Septa didn't pause for Sansa's response; instead, she hastened her steps towards Haldon, quickly putting some distance between them. Lemore was the most unconventional septa Sansa had ever encountered; the steadfastness and sternness displayed by Septa Mordane seemed foreign to her. She even dressed with more freedom, revealing more than customary.

"Beware the Wolfmaid, a mighty warrior!" Ser Franklyn Flowers bellowed again, prompting laughter from many—Myles Mooton and his elder brother Harrys, one of the Peake brothers, Haldon, and the septa on the balcony. Even the usually dour Ser Tristan Rivers cracked a smile. Although she knew Ser Franklyn was perpetually cheerful and jovial, Sansa didn't want to be made fun of.

Amidst the golden tunics and doublets, Balaq stood out with his feathered cloak, its myriad feathers glistening in vivid hues. The Maidenpool nobility had grown accustomed to foreigners, and during the festive evening, they appeared to belong to the same world.

Sansa Stark watched as Aegon Targaryen walked towards her, his silver hair shining in the torchlight. He smiled warmly, his violet eyes sparkling with a hint of light mischief, then bowed slightly, extending his hand to her.

"My lady, may I have the dance?" he asked, his voice low and inviting.

Sansa felt a surge of emotion, a mix of nervousness and excitement. She had been waiting for this moment, the culmination of weeks of subtle and hidden glances. Slowly she placed her hand in his, feeling the warmth of his touch.

"Of course, your grace," she replied, her voice soft and sweet.

Together, they walked to the center of the clearing, where a group of musicians played a lively tune. His arm was wrapped around her waist, pulling her close to him. She rested her hand on his shoulder, feeling the strength of his muscles. Their eyes met, and she felt a jolt of electricity run through her.

They moved in sync, their steps matching the rhythm of the music; and swayed and spun, their bodies in perfect harmony. Sansa felt a rush of exhilaration, a sense of freedom and joy. My own tale for a song. She forgot about the war that raged outside the camp, the enemies that lurked in the shadows, the uncertainty that clouded their future. All that mattered was this moment, this dance, this man.

She looked up at him, admiring his handsome features. His face was strong and noble, his jawline sharp and defined, lips were full and tempting, curved into a gentle smile, with eyes deep and expressive, revealing a depth that she rarely saw in others

After what seemed like an eternity, Sansa and Aegon eased their pace, gliding through the dance with elegant and poised steps, under the gaze of countless eyes.

"Maester Keln told me that no answer came from Riverrun," Aegon said in a gentle voice, without a trace of pity. He meant me no harm, not even with his words.

"No," she answered, "Could something have befallen the raven?"

"I doubt it. The skies are clear and free of trouble, and Haldon says that ravens seldom perish in flight, unless they face enemy arrows. And there are none here."

"Perhaps Riverrun was besieged," Sansa ventured, masking her unease.

"Unlikely, the new host Lannisters were mustering at Casterly Rock is lost thanks to your brother, from the west they pose no danger to Riverrun. Most of the lions are still before us." Sansa swelled with pride for Robb, her brother had never known defeat, but her thoughts drifted more and more to Aegon, whose heart thumped strongly against hers; his arms made her feel secure, and mere presence kindled a curious warmth around them. She wished that Robb and Aegon would never cross swords... but it was inevitable if Robb refuses to relinquish his crown.

Aegon spun her around, with a strong but gentle movement, she felt the muscles in his arms move. She didn't know why but she just wanted to hold him that way. "You know, you are not the only one lost here, Lady Sansa," their circular dance revealed the others in the hall. "The Golden Company is a place of lost souls, without a home and a family. Lord Laswell, he raised his finger towards Laswell Peake "...he has three castles on his shield, none of them belong to him, and two were taken from his family because of the rebellion. The others are Rivers's, Hills, Flowers... bastards joined in feigning that there is a home they can reclaim or return to. For many, that lie is a cage, from which they cannot flee" Sansa listened carefully to Aegon. Is Winterfell my prison?

"Do you long for home, your grace?" she asked him softly.

"Aegon, please, call me Aegon" he said, and Sansa echoed his name.

Aegon gazed at her face with a pensive expression, and his mind wandered briefly to another time. "My home was a person", he whispered, and Sansa knew he meant Eira. "No skilled masons or hammer blows can mend the loss of my home".

"But you have a daughter", Sansa blurted out, and regretted it as soon as the words left her lips. Aegon said nothing, and his presence seemed to fade, and the uncertainty was drowned by the clamor of a thousand voices that surrounded them.

The uncomfortable silence was broken by Lysono Maar, who captured Aegon's attention. The spymaster had just arrived at the ball, and Sansa felt that this was an occasion suited to his tastes. Slowly and gently Aegnlon lowered his hands and untied their small ring

"Sire, significant news from the south. Pretender Renly is dead. The majority of stormlords have joined Stannis, along with some Fossoways and Florents," Lysono urgently conveyed. Sansa recalled the lavishly dressed brother of Robert Baratheon.

"As expected from the Fossoways, they have no honor whatsoever. To me, it makes no difference whether I kill them under Renly's banners or Stannis's," Franklyn Flowers interjected, prompting light laughter from the others.

"Tyrells?" Aegon inquired.

"It's certain they've declined to join Stannis," Lysono responded.

"We have a meeting in an hour," Aegon announced to all, yet to none individually, "until then, the revelry and dance may continue."

He turned again and smiled to her, "I hope Lysono did not bore you with his tales from my past", he said, and bowing slightly. "Forgive me, Lady Sansa, I must go, as I have lingered too long, many duties await me". He took her hand, slowly and gracefully, and kissed her knuckles. The warmth of his kiss seared her soul, the passion that stirred her spirit, and she felt as if he could see the scars that marred her heart, the pain that haunted her dreams.

Chapter Text

"Fire! Fire!" the voices shouted, their united cry creating a mighty echo that reverberated off the ancient walls of Harenhall in the hour of owl. Tywin rose from his seat, abandoning the pile of papers scattered on the desk, and strode towards the balcony of the northern tower. There, he gazed down at the south wing of the castle, where the stores of his army's supplies were housed, now engulfed in flames. A brilliant, ominous green glow emanated from every window, its radiance piercing through the thick smoke that billowed from the same source...

....

Two armies near each other, Lannisters at Harrenhal and the Targaryens at Maidenpool, yet no one dared to make the first move. A silent game was played, with scouts who tried to catch every movement of the enemy, and spies eagerly anticipating any shift in the adversary's camp. They lingered there like elusive shadows beneath the sheltering canopy of the forest trees.

For three long months, uncertainty hung in the air like an untamed beast, gnawing at the hearts of the soldiers. An army that merely stood still was as unhappy as the one retreating from the battlefield; the tension was palpable, and something had to give.

The spider knew that the waiting was over; the dragon would soon make its move on the board, seizing the trebuchets, catapults, and heavy cavalry from the hands of the golden lion. Step by step, over the years he built his web, touching every wall, every tree, every alley, understanding that a spider's web is resilient, enduring fierce winds and arid days. The key is to remain unseen, for only a men can dismantle the woven spiral.

Dark corridors beneath King's Landing lay forgotten, trodden only by rats. A feeble candle's glow illuminated the spider's path; he moved like a shadow within shadows. After deftly counted steps, he paused, his hand finding the wall, meeting the rough touch of rusted stairs.

Shogovhar awaited him in a cramped room, just enough space for two chairs and two men. "You're late," he smiled, revealing rotting teeth and a missing eye; his face and clothes were dirty, looking worse under the dim candlelight than Spider's.

"And you're early," spider retorted, displaying his own ruined smile. The stench of King's Landing was present; they were close enough to the surface.

"Are the boys ready?" Spider inquired.

"Four boys and a girl. The circumstances of the task didn't exactly attract candidates," Shogovhar replied, "although they're all willing to die."

Spider removed a small box from his back and handed it to Shogovhar, saying, "Tell them not to open it, shake it, or place it near fire. When they get there, all they need to do is throw the contents on the ground, and the rest will take care of itself."

"And the other box. They're sacrificing themselves for their families," Shogovhar prepared to leave.

That spider knew; gold coins were never the issue, but trust and willingness were. Shogovhar was among the few who could find such desperate souls, those willing to endure the worst and capable enough to carry out the desired task.

The other box is in the wall, he pointed out a crack, it was hardly visible in the dim light.

....

Dragons

"We have struck at Tywin Lannister's soft underbelly: his vulnerable supply lines," Lysono declared, with voice devoid of most of his false female traits. "Harrenhal has become a stronghold for his men, heavily stocked with provisions to sustain them. However, they have been living off the land, pillaging and consuming the resources of the smallfolk. So, out spies ignited fires within the heart of Harrenhal, destroying his stockpiles, his lifeline is cut off and he has to retreat back to the Westerlands."

"But he tried that at the Red Fork," Franklyn Flowers said, confusion evident on his face, and he wasn't the only one. All eyes turned to Aegon, for none of those present knew the plans, including Jon. Leaving Jon in the dark meant leaving everyone else in the dark. Loneliness was in Jon's eyes, but was Aegon's best friend. The plan wasn't his, but he had committed to it as soon as he heard it from Varys.

Aegon leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the map. His finger traced the Gold Road, which stretched like a golden serpent through the heart of Westeros.

"The Gold Road," Aegon mused, with voice filled with anticipation, "He will use Goldroad to return home. That is the place for our trap".

"You are quite right Harry, quite right," Aegon said in a low and soothing voice, "but we won't stay here either. We will position the camp along the Blackwater, far enough from King's Landing that he knows we don't plan to threaten the capital, but close enough to the river crossing near Redwood Sept to block Gold road passage across the river. That will give him the impetus to go to the west."

"Yes," Balaq, commander of archers, said disinterestedly, his voice carrying a Summer Islander accent, "we must look stupid."

"Indeed", smiled Lysono Maar, with sarcastic eye expression.

....

Lions

The failure of forcing the Red Fork quickly fell into the shadow of the green beast, that swallowed their supplies. They had to return to the Westerlands, Kevan knew. First, because their reputation demanded it, they could not allow the wolf to rage in the hills of the west, the honor of House Lannister was at stake. And now they simply had to, otherwise they risked losing everything.

"With Mace Tyrell's daughter", he asked without seeking an answer.

"Yes. It is certain that the Lannisters are trying to fill the void left by the demise of the younger Baratheon. It is only appropriate that we do the same. The power of Highgarden is the key to victory... or defeat", Aegon said, convincing himself more than Jon. A man's ambition cannot be underestimated, if Mace Tyrell was not ambitious he would not have raised banners for a Baratheon without any legitimacy, true or false.

The thought of marriage took him to a tent, whose golden cloth glowed brighter than any other in his purple gaze, and concealed a maiden with hair as red as autumn leaves. You are a king, not a boy, he reminded himself, the time for fantasies is gone.

"A Wolfsmaid will be heartbroken," Jon said with a faraway voice, searching for his own glow on the horizon, "I thought you had a fondness for her".

And he had... sometimes he would dream of chestnut hair, surrounded by joyful laughter, and many little steps that echoed in the great hall of black walls, where many grotesque dark eyes looked at Aegon, but he was not afraid. The place felt familiar and happy, as if he belonged and had to be there. But a powerful roar would bring him back to the heart of the comet, to his old dream, a thunderous storm that shattered ships with dragon banners, red mountains under such a scorching sun that the air itself began to flicker and the city, the city he had to return to. Aegon was afraid of Sansa Stark, he touched the small scar under his left ear, hidden under the strands of his hair; a scar that hurt more than the scars of swords and arrows, that adorned his chest and arms. I could not walk the same path again.

"She has a fair face, wide enough hips and is pleasant company. Good enough qualities for a queen, except that her brother has proclaimed himself king and wants to take half of my kingdom. It would be irresponsible to think of marrying her," he uttered the words, but as King Aegon. He firmly decided not to repeat the mistakes of his father, to alienate himself from his duties and chase dreams. Whether he loved her or not, his father's place was with his mother, with the kingdom, instead he led himself, her, Rhaenys and thousands of others to death, surrendering himself to passion with the Stark girl. The breaking of the Targaryen dynasty was on him. In the days in Maidenpool, Aegon almost succumbed, but when he put on his armor, saw the ruined villages and the wretched fleeing from evil to evil, he broke.

"You have a luxury that your father did not have, no force compels you to anything, the shadow of Aerys does not cry above your head. If Mace agrees, he will not only give you his daughter, but also the greed of his house. They will occupy your kingdom as the Lannisters occupied Robert's," Jon said, uttering the name of Robert Baratheon with disgust. Jon Connington's heart had always been with Rhaegar, which Aegon could not understand, what nature drives a man to remain loyal after so much personal suffering. Too much was lost, to listen to the heart, and too much hangs in the balance.

"A kingdom I do not have," Aegon whispered, "enemies and usurpers, to bend to me, are not lacking. But I need more men." At Aegon's words, Jon fell silent, and neither Aegon had anything to say. Sometimes it seemed to him that Jon was trapped in a romantic past, where brave Rhaegar, surrounded by the best of the best, leads to victory. But that Dream was shattered under the weight of Robert's hammer.

They had come full circle in the camp, riding along the clear paths between the tents, towards the heart of the camp where the huge tents of the officers stood. Sansa and Septa Lemore were standing in front of the tent they shared, wrapped in blankets for the cold night. It was as if the beauty of the moonlight had poured over the face of the girl with reddish hair, and became a light of its own. For a moment, Aegon gave in to the urge to look at her.

"Your grace," she uttered.

"While we are on campaign, Lady Sansa, please stay within confines of your tent," he answered coldly and saw the pain on her face, she noticed his newly determined aloofness. Septa Lemore subtly put her hand on the girl's back and reproached Aegon with her eyes, as she had not done for a long time, and brought him back to the old days of learning lessons about religion, which was then foreign to him, as well as the kingdom he had to conquer.

In front of Aegon's tent, a lonely Westerosi man stood among the uniforms of the Golden Company, he had short gray hair and a half-long beard, dressed in a modest chainmail with some armor, which protected his chest.

Darkness seized Jon Connington's face, as he stared wide-eyed at the old man. No one said anything.

"Who are you, sir?" Aegon had no patience for this silence. The old man knelt on one knee, drew his sword and presented it to Aegon, "Your faithful servant, sire."

"...and a man who broke his oath," Jon Connington said in a plain voice but filled with anger, "Your grace, before you is Ser Barristan Selmy, a member of the  Kingsguard of your grandfather Aerys and a man who served Robert Baratheon as commander of the  Kingsguard." Silence fell again, as Aegon carefully measured Ser Barristan, and just, in himself, laughed at fate.

"Ser Barristan, why do you not serve Joffrey," he softly asked the knight. "Because he refused my service," Ser Barristan answered honestly, such honesty was the last thing he should have said to any King.

"And now you want to serve me," Aegon asked him with a slight smile, "even though you would be on the other side if Joffrey had not rejected you and put a white cloak on his dog." Ser Barristan was surprised by Aegon's words. "I cannot give you a cloak, for a broken vow remains a broken vow, but I accept your service." With a bowed head and modesty, the knight accepted his words.

"Your grace, this man abandoned your family, it does not suit you to give him any reward. Whent, Hightower, Dayne, your great-uncle Lewyn kept the whiteness of their cloaks, their honor, their vows and carried them to the grave. Many of us were sent to the wall, or across the narrow sea...", Jon seemed to lose his words, even a bewildered Jon Connington looked more sober than an ordinary man.

Aegon looked at Jon with the warmth of the days when they were just father and son. "Jon," he said softly and Jon Connington calmed down.
"Every man deserves a second chance and you will get yours tonight, Ser Barristan. From now on you will be the guardian of Lady Sansa Stark". Every man except Tywin Lannister and his dogs.

Ser Barristan raised his eyes and answered firmly "It will be my honor. Her father was an honorable man, he stood up for the life of your aunt Daenerys. Robert wanted to send assassins to kill her, before she can gave birth." Gave birth. Varys did not inform him that Daenerys was pregnant, and a year had passed since Robert's death. The spider and the merchant play their game.

"You may go. Join Thunderex," he said simply and Ser Barristan rose, bowed and went in the direction of Sansa's tent. She will be safer. Aegon looked at the sky from which the comet had long disappeared, but his dreams did not stop. At least by that he was one and equal with his dragon father. But not with the real one.

....

The lighthouse sent out beams of light, that would reveal the city lost in the morning fog. Elenoar was standing on the balcony of the highest tower of Maidenpool's castle and listened to the sounds of the great bell, as the large silhouettes left the fog-bound sea and revealed their sails. The great red sun pierced by a gold spear.

Chapter Text

Instead, he heard a horn blow in the distance. A loud and clear horn, a Dornish horn, a call for retreat...

....

Lions

Kevan had never been so frightened as in that moment, they were attacked suddenly, their lines were briefly broken and his brother's life was almost lost. Tywin's order and organization, as always, saved the day, the attack of the Dornish savages was successfully repelled. The stench enveloped the air on the muddy field, the corpses of horses and men marked the line of contact between the two armies, the red cloaks of the Lannisters and the lively colors of the Dornish warriors. Lannister men at arms were shortening the sufferings of the Dornishmen who did not have the luck to escape.

His brother turned to his commanders, who looked lost, many of them stared at the motionless body of Ser Gregor Clegane on the ground. Was the knight dead, Kevan did not know? However, there was no worry on Tywin Lannister's face, "Ser Forley and Ser Lyonel", Tywin turned to the Frey son of their sister Gemma, "take six thousand riders and follow the Dornish, do not let them escape or unite with the Targaryen pretender".

Forley Prester swallowed his words for a moment, but recovered, "My Lord, but they could have gone in several directions, take the road to Stony Sept, or Harrenhal or even east from where they presumably came?".

The impatient and green Ser Lyonel Frey did not share Ser Forley's justified doubt, "Ser Forley, they are not rabbits in holes but an army, we will find them on one road, just as they found us".

"Enough", said Tywin, "I do not tolerate excuses, go". The two knights left with bowed heads, but Kevan understood Ser Forley, if his host wandered too far from the main body, they would be of no use.

"The boy will either attack us or bar our way. This assault has cleared all doubts”, Tywin continued, his voice calm and confident. “But it has also given us a great advantage, for we will now face only one army, and we will outnumber them greatly”. Kevan had not expected to have to fight before reaching the Westerlands, but perhaps this was for the best. They would break one enemy, and then deal with the other.

He spurred his white horse towards Ser Gregor, who lay motionless on the ground, surrounded by several maesters and healers. Maester Talophil bowed to Tywin, then rasped, "Ser Gregor, he has but a scratch. We need to inspect him closely, before we know what ails him". Tywin was not pleased with the answer, Ser Gregor was one of his most potent weapons.

"If I may", a healer spoke to Tywin, in a low voice, clad in the robe of a maester, but without a chain and in color of black. Tywin gave him a nod. "It's manticore venom. Ser Gregor is poisoned, the venom is greatly watered down, so I reckon the aim was not to slay, but to cripple the victim. If you permit me... there are ways to preserve Ser Gregor".

Talophil looked with scorn at the words of the black healer, "This man is no expert",

"...but he discerned that Clegane is poisoned, without knowing that the assailant was Oberyn Martell, a perilous man, adept in arms and poison.", Tywin cut off the maester and eyed the black healer, "Do what you must. Name?"

"Qyburn" said the man, "but the treatment will be most grievous and painful for Ser Gregor".

"He is a large man, he will bear it", Tywin had no regard for Ser Gregor's feelings.

As he lay on the ground, Ser Gregor was barely a whisper, but hours later, his screams shook the camp. The knight's thunderous voice spat out incomprehensible words, which blended with his mumbling. Ser Gregor Clegane had never been a man of many words, but now he could not hold his tongue. And he was not alone, almost three hundred wounded men were howling in torment and it became evident that the Red Viper had not been the only one to poison his steel, almost all who had bled were dying. They lacked the Mountain's fortitude and their frail bodies gave up sooner and by the next dusk most of them were gone. Lord Sebaston Farman, of Fair Isle, met the Stranger at dawn, while old Tybolt Heatherspoon held on until nightfall. The mark of the foe who loathed them with a fiery passion was felt at every turn.

The corpses of the lords were embalmed and preserved, and left for burial in their domains, while the rest were burned. The following day's march was done in quietude, the pace of the march quickened when they trod on the Goldroad, there was a glimmer of hope that they would ford the Redwood Sept in tranquility, but fate had a trick in store for them. When they arrived at the plateau, where the road spanned over to two hills, in the distance they beheld thousands of blazing fires. The enemy had seized the hills that were the gateway to the Reach and the crossing where both branches of the Goldroad merged into the ford of Blackwater and into one path. Path of salvation.

....

Dragons

The smell of smoke and leather permeated the tent where Ser Jon Connington studied the map, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Just as he was lost in the intricate lines and symbols, the tent flap rustled, and Aegon barged in, with Harry Strickland by his side and a young Dornishmen.

Blood and sweat stained the Dornishman’s face, Jon sensed trouble.
"Your Grace, Lord Connington, I come to you with tidings, three suns ago we met the enemy at Hilyard. Our charge was repelled"

A thousand storms take that damned Oberyn, Jon Connington’s mind fumed, could he hope for a sense and reason from the Dornishmen. “They nicked them, it happens, the rest of the news is not so grim”, Aegon grinned and did not appear to be troubled by the defeat of the Dornishmen.

“Ser Gulian Qorgyle assumed command, we retreated in good order. Yet, the losses are not so trivial”, the Dornishman went on. He was short of breath, a result of a long ride, "though our foot is unharmed for they took no part in the assault”. The madman charged the enemy with only three thousand riders.

“And where is our wretched snake prince now?”, Jon questioned the lad.

The lad glanced anxiously at the others in the tent, a fresh surge of sweat soaked his dusty face. The dust suits the dusky skin and black hair of the Dornishmen, Jon mused. "Prince Oberyn was wounded, he suffered a heavy blow to the head, but the maesters.... the maesters say he will mend in a few suns".

Then Aegon gave Jon a sly wink, “and now the best part”.

"The Lannisters sent their heavy cavalry after us, but we outran them and they took ser Gulian's ploy and are currently chasing our two hundred riders towards Stony Sept. Ser Gulian will bring our forces here, but he apologizes for the delay”, the lad uttered his last words, than stood in silence. Lannisters will be here soon, sooner than Dornish.

Putting his hand on the lad’s shoulder Aegon thanked him, “Doval, thank you, but you must return to deliver the message, that we make our stand here. Rest yourself, take provisions and a fresh mount, and ride back as fast as you can.” The lad nodded firmly, bowed proudly and left the tent.

“We will be outnumbered by nearly two to one”, Harry said gloomily, smoothing the bald spot on his head with his hand.

“I fear so, but we have no choice, if we risked joining with the Dornish, Tywin would easily slip through our fingers. He cannot go around us here.”, Aegon said. Jon held his tongue, he recalled the old words, every battle plan goes awry after the first clash with the enemy.

“It will be a tough fight. The Lannisters are well armored and better trained and armed than any other host in Westeros”, Harry added. In this, Homeless Harry was not mistaken.

"The delay of the Dornish is a small price, for we have stripped Tywin of his heavy horse”, Aegon said, looking at the two hills with a sept marked on the map, the place where the Goldroad branched into two ways towards King’s Landing. Yet Jon wondered, Tywin did what any prudent commander would do, try to stop two enemy hosts from joining.

At Septa Lemore's plea, Aegon went to the Redwood sept to pray, but he returned weary and distant. Jon guessed the reason, but he held his words. For his ill mood, Aegon asked him to explain the plan to the officers. The bulk of their forces would be on the right wing, occupying lesser of two hills, under Ser Tristan Rivers' command. They would comprise of all the Westerosi forces, bolstered by two cohorts of the Golden Company and half of Balaq's archers, who would hold the sept and a few houses scattered around it. The left wing would be led by Ser Franklyn Flowers and they would guard the narrow passage on the left side of the large hill with only one cohort, while Aegon, Jon and Laswell Peake would be in the center with four cohorts. Harry would command the defense of the camp on the other side of the hills, preventing anyone from attacking them from behind, across the ford of the Blackwater. The Lannisters had allies and gold, and Aegon did not want to leave anything to chance. Otreyes and his cavalry would form the reserve. They dug trenches at certain places, but most of the space was left open, because Aegon wanted the Lannisters to engage them in battle, not simply leave. The road led to a small hill, then crossed to a bigger one, but access to the big hill was also possible through an open field except for the left side which was overgrown with forest. Jon was worried about the rain that had been falling all night; if it continued in the coming days, it would cause them a lot of trouble, because mud and elephants were not a good match and they could lose their main asset. First, the defeat of the Dornishmen, and now this; misfortune never comes alone.

....

Direwolf

"Lady Sansa, please stay in the confines of your tent", she heard Aegon's voice echoeing in her mind, and it pierced her heart like a dagger. His silence and cold looks hurt more than Joffrey's beatings. Since leaving Maidenpool, she had seen a different Aegon, who had donned his lordly mask and refused to take it off, even for Sansa. Aegon is not yours and he would never be. In the few weeks of marching, they had barely spoken a word, and later Sansa was forbidden to leave her tent.

Septa Lemore tried to comfort her, "In many ways, Aegon is still the boy I taught the first songs about the seven blessings. But now he tries to kill himself to become a king". Sansa did not want Aegon to kill himself, but she felt that he was doing it. She was once again a hostage, sending harsh messages to Robb, saying, bend the knee, for a sword hangs over your sister's neck. She wept at night, hiding her tears from Septa Lemore, but as after her father's death, her heart had withered and she lost the will to grieve. When the camp was on the move again, she rode far from Aegon, and her veil over her face was woven of sadness. The presence of Ser Barristan eased her woes, for although she did not know the man, she knew that her father had esteemed him greatly, and for Sansa that was enough.

"A terrible fate befell your father. Such a great man to be judged by a boy like Joffrey. The gods sometimes play cruelly with us,”  Ser Barristan said with a gentle voice, Sansa could tell he meant it, for he was one of the few who did. She had no words to reply but a grateful nod, for talking about her father’s doom meant tearing open a wound that stubbornly refused to heal. Ser Barristan was one of those who knew the silent agony, rooted in bitter memories. “I was there when they seized him,” he murmured and that was what Sansa wanted to hear.

“Please, Ser Barristan, go on,” Sansa urged the knight to continue.

Nodding his head, and with a calm gaze and a smooth-fluenth voice, Ser Barristan resumed, “Your father brought the king’s word, after Robert passed away. A parchment with the royal seal, naming him Protector of the Realm, and thus regent. Cersei ripped it apart, and the men your father trusted turned against him. That thief Janos Slynt and… turncloak Littlefinger, held a blade to your father’s neck. The other Starks were slain.” Sansa saw the heads on spikes, the monster made her look, if only she could have pushed him over the edge, into the abyss. Bealish, the smooth-tongued Bealish, friend of her mother. Trust no one Sansa, she thought.

"Thank you kindly, Ser Barristan, you are truly a man of honor, as my father believed. What do you make of King Aegon?” Sansa inquired the knight, knowing that Ser Barristan was not one to sugarcoat his words with sweet lies. A man of his renown had no need to please or flatter anyone.

The knight regarded her pensively, in his eyes she saw that he was weighing the right words, “He has the look of a Targaryen, that none who beheld Aerys and Rhaegar can deny. I spent a long while in his camp and he is a skilled commander. His camp is one that Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Arthur Dayne would not be ashamed of. Of his heart, I cannot judge for I have not seen the man up close. I have served three kings, witnessed five in my days, besides him. Good-hearted men are not always good kings, as those with wickedness and malice do not make poor rulers. King Aegon’s army does not rape, burn homes, or slay, but he turned away thousands of starving folk on the Kingsroad while our camp was there. By that he is more Tywin Lannister than Rhaegar.” She had seen it all, her heart ached watching the children with starved and yellow faces, after that she lost her appetite for days. This realm is hungry.

The mention of Rhaegar also stirred Sansa’s curiosity. Ser Barristan had served then. “Were you there when Rhaegar took my aunt?” Sansa asked bluntly. Her words startled the knight and the sadness on his face became grief, for a moment he did not look at Sansa but at the past.

“No. I was never close to Rhaegar as Ser Arthur, Lord Connington or Myles Mooton were. But I knew enough of the prince to know that he was not one to hurt anyone for passion or vanity. I cannot speak of his reasons, nor of those who followed him. Three of my Kingsguard brothers were sent to fetch the prince back to the capital, after he vanished for nearly a year somewhere in the mountains of Dornish marches. None came back. Your father must have told you of that, for he crossed swords with Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Gerold, the lord commander of the Kingsguard, and bested the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms.” Except that her father never spoke of it, he seldom spoke of Aunt Lyanna and when he did, he said little. The finest knights in the seven kingdoms, why did they not go with Rhaegar to the north, they would surely have helped the prince at the Trident. Mayhaps it would save Rhaegar's life. Ser Arthur Dayne was the greatest knight of all time, even Sansa knew that. Those memories held so much pain, that men of that time found silence to be theire lone friend.

They had marched for a week across the God's Eye river, and after several more days they came to a pair of hills where they pitched their tents. Sansa did not know if they had reached their destination, or if anyone would tell her. On the smaller hill, a sept had been carved out of the land, a plain red-roofed rectangle with a stumpy bell tower. The sept's spacious yard was walled all around, thirteen feet high. From atop the hill, she could see Blackwater on the other side, where soo  the golden pavilions lined the shore, spreading out from the river to hill side. Sansa spent her first days there finishing the needlework she had begun on the Kingsroad. She had embroidered a black handkerchief with a silver three-headed dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen, but she had altered one of the heads to look like a direwolf, the sigil of her own house and gave the dragons one tail a change as well, now it had sharp wolf's tail. She meant to give it to Aegon as a token of her affection, but she feared his reaction. Not knowing was better than being rejected, she thought.

Sansa decided to pray in the sept, but to her surprise Septa Lemore said she was not in the mood for prayer, so Sansa went with Ser Barristan as her escort. When the knight made sure the sept was empty, he stood by the door, while Sansa knelt before the statue of the Mother and lit a candle, half-burnt, and prayed for Aegon's safety in the battle to come, then for Robb and for a swift return home. Footsteps echoed in the empty sept and Sansa saw Aegon at the entrance. His face showed that he wanted to leave and Sansa turned her face to the candle, to hide a tear. The sound of metal and steps continued and Sansa saw in the polished statue of the Mother that Aegon had knelt before the statue of the Warrior. They were facing away from each other. Aegon laid his dark sword on the bedding before the Warrior and whispered something in a foreign tongue, but even his voice in strange words was soothing to her.

She mustered a grain of courage, and spoke to him in a raspy voice, “Your grace, I pray for your success in the battle to come”. Silence followed and Sansa feared that Aegon would ignore her. Please, no more. The floodgates opened and she wept, her sob echoed melodiously on the modest arches of the sept’s ceiling.

"I never thought I would be in this place again”, Aegon whispered softly, but as if he was speaking more to himself than to her, “every tear of yours hurts, I… I don’t know what to do” and for a brief moment she saw a tiny, almost imperceptible, tear, as it slid down his cheek. His tear stopped hers and Sansa with red eyes and a flushed face looked at him. He rose, lifted his head and bowed, “Lady Sansa, please, excuse me”, then quickly left the sept. The quiet bell of his black armor rang in her ears.

Never in her life had Sansa Stark’s heart pounded so fiercely, it felt like it would burst out of her breast. For a small eternity, his face became a mirror, in which she saw herself. That night Sansa was greeted by a blissful dream.

....

“There is something else, Cat,” Edmure said cautiously, “the raven from Ser Cortnay Penrose was not the only one we received. A letter came from Maidenpool as well.”

“Aye, the new Targaryen bids you and Robb to bend the knee to him. Renly had a letter just like it,” Catelyn recalled how Renly had laughed at the letter, but everything made him laugh as he feasted and drank with a hundred thousand men at his back, bought with his goodfather’s wealth. The shadow with Stannis’s face still haunted her eyes.

"We had that one too. It seems my bumbling bannerman William Mooton has turned his cloak and gone over to this false dragon. But, Cat, a fortnight after we had another letter, one that they say was written by Sansa’s own hand. It must be some Lannister ploy. I’ve heard whispers of battles near Maidenpool, but it’s too far to know for certain,” Catelyn paid no heed to the rest of Edmure’s words, her heart only went out to Sansa.

“Show me,” she raised her voice at her brother and almost commanded, caring not for his lordly airs at this moment. The ride to Riverrun had seemed endless, but when they arrived Cat made straight for Maester Vyman. She held a scrap of parchment in her hands and her heart almost stopped, the writing was Sansa’s. Catelyn would know that flourish of some letters and dots shaped like little circles. Sansa had never been sparing with ink, no matter how much Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane chided her. “It is her,” Cat said through tears. More her than in the letter that came by raven to Winterfell, which was more soaked with tears and written with someone else's words.

"But it makes no sense, Cat, why would the Lannisters play with the Kingslayer's life so lightly. It says here that Arya is not in their hands either," Edmure said confusedly. The part about Arya had frightened Catelyn to death, but at this moment she refused to give in to dark thoughts.

"Lord Edmure speaks truly, the lions would not risk Jaime's life with these tricks," said Ser Wendel Manderly. Beside her living father, Cat always felt uneasy hearing Edmure called lord.

"I can confirm that the raven indeed came from Maidenpool," Maester Vyman said quietly.

"I need a drink," Edmure stopped being a lord for a moment and became a boy again.

"Maester, please bring me paper and ink to my father's chamber... and prepare a raven for Maidenpool. The maester bowed and left with the clinking of his chain. Cat was home again, where the mighty sound of Trident was her silence.

Chapter Text

Lions

Kevan could hear the faint whisper of Blackwater, concealed from the Lannister camp by rolling hills and dense forests. The river was there he knew, where the road wound over two hills, there where Kevan had journeyed a hundred times on his way to King's Landing or back to Casterly Rock. His eyes were drawn to the Redwood sept, losing count of how many times he had paused and prayed there, a place of refuge and faith for travellers.

"If we take the sept, their formation will shatter like a stool without legs," Harys Swyft, his goodfather, declared confidently what was plain to see and with that he was chosen to lead the first charge on the sept and the small hill. That the sept was the key to victory was clear enough, the enemy surely knew that as well, for the little hill was swarming with golden and dragon banners, but also many others, people from Crackclaw Point, a place that Kevan never thought he would spare a glance at. "Auuuuuuu", a horn blared and nine thousand Lannisters marched, with rhythm of drums, across the plain on both sides of the road, towards the small hill, towards the sept. The grand banners with a golden lion would never fail to be a splendid sight for Kevan, among them stood a solitary blue rooster of House Swyft, though his goodfather commanded the attack only from the back, the true vanguard were led by Lord Serret and Ser Flement Brax, who might have been Lord Brax, by now. His father had perished near Riverrun, where the water had seized his heavy armor along with him, his brother Robert had fallen in their attempt to ford the Red Fork, while his eldest brother was a captive after Whispering Wood.

The attack had been delayed to midday, for the night rain had drenched the road and the field and they had to wait for soil to dry enough for their horses and men. They drew near to the enemy and a hail of arrows rained down from the direction of the sept, but the high raised Lannister shields held firm and helped them advance without faltering. Twenty yards away, with a swift blast of trumpets, they broke into fast pace towards the enemy, discipline and training guiding the Lannister forces. The two armies clashed and made a bloody banner on the hill with an upper golden and lower red field. Blasphemously most of the enemy archers had taken shelter in the sept and loosed their shafts at Lannisters from there. Soon Lannister crossbows answered back and Kevan saw several figures tumble from the top of the roof. The space to the right of the sept was held by Crabb men and their formation soon buckled under Lanister's onslaught, while on the left, where the road led, the line between red lannister cloaks and golden armor of the Golden Company was as straight as a sword. They were too disciplined to be shaken by our fury. In front of the sept, a ditch had been dug, filled with sharpened stakes and Kevan knew that some unlucky souls from their ranks had surely already impaled themselves.

....

"Come on cunts, bring the ropes, bring ladders", Flement roared, as his column reached the ditch. To the right of the ditch, Lord Myral Serrett’s men were pushed back by golden sellswords, to the left his men had driven off crabbs and made a gap towards the sept, the crabbs did not fight half as well as the sellswords. To take the hill, he had to clear those focking archers from the sept.

Beyond walls of the sept, soldiers screamed in a storm of steel and anger. Helmets were crushed, bones broken, and blood splattered. They had to storm the ditch and rampart. Bloody arrows hissed by their heads, Flement had two buried in his shield while a third grazed his mail. Between the lion ranks, dozen ladders were hurled towards the ditch and and soon they scaled the height of the rampart.

Each ladder bore hooks at the top that bit into the earth of the wall, same as arrows rent the flesh of men on the field. Scores of Lannisters ran over the ladders, pelted with arrows their valour turned to shrieks, for though arrows could not breach their plate and mail, they would topple them off the wobbly ladders into the chasm of the ditch, where theire fall skewer them on jagged stakes. Flement was among the first to charge, he felt the full heft of his steel as he trod on the swaying ladders. The span was long seventeen or eighteen feet, but it dragged on forever. A new arrow struck him in the helm, the blow clanged his head like a bell, but he would not yield to the pricks on the sept walls, who loosed arrows upon them, till they perished. When he came to the end, he used the might of his brawny arms to vault over the rest of the wall of dirth and rolled to the other side. In a blink his mace and shield slipped from his grasp.

The Warrior itself gave his blood strength, to rise, as he saw his father’s corpse drowning and Robert's dead face, captured in the rays of the blazing sun that pierced through the slit of his visor and burned his eyes. The clash of swords surrounded him, as crabb cunts, many of men, plunged into the crescent between the rampart and the wall to push them back. Shield and mace were in his hands again, he moved to the wall to hide from the pesky archers. Flement spotted a green boy holding dragons banner, a young squire or so, with curly brown hair and white face half covered by rusty bucket of helmet. The Boy looked terrified as he saw Flement coming for him, his heart had no pity, for score of peasent boys, like this one, will perish today. Mightily he swung the mace at boy's head, smashing it like a melon. The banner fell to the ground, stained with blood and brains.

Another shadow, holding a spear, slow and clumsy, appeared before him. Flement laughed, swept his weapon horizontally, breaking the unprotected legs, blood gushing from the sticky mess of meat and bones that used to be the men's right leg. "Please don't", Crabb whimpered and begged, Flement silenced him by smashing his crustacean skull. No dragons here, only vermin not worth to wipe his boot against.

Red of blood, red of lion cloaks, crescent was stained of victory, as below the walls of sept all seven gods witnesed Flement's victory. "Ram ahead", Lannister men beyond rampart shouted, as the metal spiked tip of the battering ram emerged over it.

"Take the ropes!", He barked at his men, and seized a rope himself, as they hauled the ram across the gap, amid the flying death of a shower of arrows which rained from the sky, like a plague of hell. Cowards! We’ll end their breath. With sweat and blood, they moved the ram, until it faced the gate. And then a loud deafening bang was heard, as iron and wood collided. The metal head of battering ram smashed through the weak wooden door like a drunken giant stumbling through a tavern's entrance. It kept pounding, each strike echoing like the roars of a lion in heat. The door shatterd into splinters and dust, surrendering almost without a fight.

Among the first to burst into the sept, Flement saw the courtyard full of hostile men, archers lurked from the roof, and on the wall that surrounded the sept wooden platforms were made, on which more archers stood. His men broke through the cheap attempt of shieldwall, and with torches they set fire to the platforms and flaming blaze drove the archers from the walls. Many of the archers met their doom soon enough, for they did not don heavy armor and chain that weighed them down. They fell like wingless birds under the Lannister blades, desperately seeking a way out of the sept that had turned from a sanctuary into a trap. Soon smoke also billowed from the inside of the sept. Even the gods wanted to leave torching menace of the burning sept.

A knight in golden armor, bearing the sigil of three black castles on orange field, stood before him. He charged at the knight, his mace raised high. The fool parried the first strike with his sword, but Flement's might is too great and the force of the impact knocked him off balance. Flement followed with a second strike, aiming for his chest. He tried to dodge, but was too slow. The mace hit him hard, denting his breastplate and sending him flying on his back. A crunch has been heard as knight's ribs broke. Not caring if he was dead or alive, Flement moved on to the next target. The Sept is mine.

....

Dragon

The sept was lost. The ancient edifice was consumed by the burden of flames, and smoke shrouded the small hill in the wind. Balaq could only watch helplessly as his men perished under the fire and the fury of the Lannister swords. He had hoped the sept would hold longer, but Aegon was not too dismayed by the result, the small hill remained his, and the large hill was far from the reach of enemy archers. The inferno of the sept and the hammering of the Lannister steel on their ranks had shaken the hearts of some crabbmen and they fled to the woods.

"Damned cowards", Laswell Peake spat and cursed, eyeing the sept, where his brother Torman commanded.

"Let them run, it's all well if they return to camp afterwards", Aegon said, his crabbmen had not failed him, most of them stood their ground and kept the Lannister beast at bay, and above all bought time. His eyes were always scanning the horizon, Aegon searched for a sign of his uncle's arrival. His left flank was not idle either and Ser Franklyn held the narrow passage through the forest.  That assault was a feint fight, a ploy of the lions to bind as many of his men as they could.

Serjeant Mudd galloped up to Aegon, coming from the little hill, "Sire, Ser Tristan pleads for more men".

"Tell Ser Tristan that the sept is no more, this is no place for prayers anymore", Aegon said coolly, looking at the plateau where Tywin Lannister wished for Aegon to do just that. Send more men to the small hill and weaken the center. No, nothing but endure.

And they held strong, his men kept both hill's. From the dense smoke, the Lannister horsemen burst forth across the open field towards the Golden Company's shieldwall in the center. They smashed into their lines, flung their short spears, and then their steeds balked at the glittering wall of shields, unwilling to go further, they nervously paw in front of the gleaming spears. The riders wheeled back into the smoke. They hoped to lure them out, Aegon realized, but the Golden Company's ranks stayed firm, no man sought glory by breaking rank and chasing a Lannister with his spear to earn a name or a mount. The golden line was as unyielding and solid as the walls of Pentos this day. Five times the Lannisters charged, five times they were repelled. Each time they faced fresh front rows, for the Golden Company deftly shifted their rows every third of an hour. Every man had his share of battle, every man had his respite.

The sun sank low in the west and shone in the direction of the Lannisters. A mighty thunderclap shook the very foundations of the two hills, followed by smaller ones, that echoed in the sky and threatened to bring down the heavenly vault on the two armies. A break in the clouds sent a torrential rain, and soon small streams began to flow down the two hills. The battle was over for today, Aegon knew, the rain and the night were his allies.

As the first day of battle came to an end, weariness settled upon both armies. Aegon surveyed the rank, the gentle patter of raindrops adding a soothing rhythm to the atmosphere. The muddy terrain, a child of the rain, would work in his favor when the battle resumed the next day, but for the elephants, day will have to be won without gentle giant's.

His gaze shifted towards the distant glow of campfires in the Lannister camp. It was a sight that both intrigued and challenged him. In the midst of his thought, She arrived, riding towards him. Sansa Stark, her silhouette reflecting a mixture of uncertainty, hidden words, and a longing for her family. He wished she was not here, for save was never save with enemy so close, though they were beyond the reach of the Lannister gaze. Ser Barristan followed a step behind her, Aegon had no regret naming the old knight Sansa’s protector, the man was faithful and valiant. The knight stayed alone to wait, leaving them in peace.

Holding a handkerchief in her hand, she approached him, her voice carrying the weight of false arrogance and of pain, intertwined, "Your grace, I would be honered if you will wear this handkerchief tomorrow as a token of my respect," she spoke, her words revealing her own inner battles she fought.

Looking towards the Lannister camp, his features carefully guarded, Aegon felt Sansa's gesture and was tempted to say yes. It was not merely a handkerchief; but symbol of her hopes and desires. Ouu, how he wanted to say yes. Eira never gave him anything of such, she didn't have to, for her heart was always with him. He fooled himself into thinking that Eira would be lonely in that. Northwomen, will be his death. With a clear and unwavering tone, he replied, "It is not appropriate for a man to wear the handkerchief of a woman who is not his wife or betrothed into battle". Lies are always honeyed and pleasant, and truths… truths are harsh but healing. The king has to stay the king.

Although he could see the hurt etched on Sansa's face, Aegon knew that as he saw through her own facade, she could see the truth behind his mask. Their connection ran deeper than words. In a low voice, she responded, her demeanor befitting a true lady of high birth, with a touch of northern defiance. "Then promise me something..."

Silence enveloped them, their world reduced to the sound of raindrops and the bustling camp. Aegon turned his gaze fully towards Sansa, and in that moment, she seemed even more radiant to hi, tha ever. "And what would that be, my lady?" he asked, his voice firm yet filled with curiosity.

With determination in her eyes and a slight furrow in her brow, Sansa made her request. "Kill Joffrey for me!"

No words were needed between them. Sansa could read the answer on Aegon's face, a response that satisfied the depth of her plea. In their own universe, amidst the rain and the echoes of the camp, the unspoken carried more weight than any spoken oath.

....

Direwolf

Sansa Stark observed the soldiers from the Golden Company as they joyfully sang a song in some foreign tongue. The melody resonated through the ranks, carrying good spirits.

She listened to the strange verses, finding herself caught in the allure of the song's rhythm. The soldiers' fervor was evident, their loyalty to Aegon present in every note they sang, she felt somehow.

As the song ended, a man cried out, “Beneath the gold the bitter steel”, and the other men echoed him, row after row towards the foe. “All hail Young Griff”, another voice hailed, and the rest joined in with laughter.

“Who is Young Griff?”, Sansa inquired, and Aegon's face was brightened by the question and he answered with a wry smile. “You see him before you. I am or I was at least”, he said, “when I reached fourteen my patron deemed it wise that I learn the soldier’s trade, beyond just the ways of sword, so he sent me to the Golden Company, under Myles Toyne’s wing to make a leader of me. Jon was with me, incognito, in Essos there are those who can alter a man’s face beyond recognition”.

“Why the secrecy though?”, Sansa asked gently.

“Because he was dead”, Aegon went on with a smile, “he staged his own death for my sake, drank himself to the grave, the rumors said. He gave me the name, for he was the Lord of Griffin’s Roost before his exile, so he became Griff, and I was his son Young Griff. Jon had served long before in the Golden Company, so secrecy was paramount, only Toyne knew. Three years I wore their cloak. Harry and the rest found out I was a prince just before we set the sail, years after".

"I am always the one answering questions. Tell me about the north, my lady, about the wall”, he softly said, as the raindrops slid down the thick woolen cloak she wore, but his words brought smile to her face. She lost her words, wondering if she could describe the beauty of the north when she had seen so little of it herself.

The mention of North and the wall brought visions of her distant and fierce land. Sansa's mind wandered to the far-off places only mentioned in the songs, wondering about the wonders unseen and dangers that awaited those who ventured beyond the known world, beyond the wall.

"I did not travel the north, not as much as my brother Robb”, and Jon, she remembered with shame how she treated her half-brother, “…but I remember the summer snows, the eternal freshness in the air, the walls of Winterfell warm even in cold nights, so many great weirwoods, their white barks marked with the red eyes of carved faces, which seem to whisper secrets to me as the wind rustles through their branches, a place where one can find solace amidst the silence and listen to the murmurs of the old gods. The north is the realm of beauty, where nature reigns not the men. As the cold winds sweep across the vast expanse, they carry with them the scent of pine and the crisp freshness of untouched snow. Towering mountains stand as ancient sentinels, their peaks often hidden by mist and clouds."

She had so much to say and more, she had not poured her heart out in so many words for a long time, not bared her soul in such a way for ages and Aegon hung on every word, not losing the brightness from his face, this was the Aegon who vanished when they crossed the gate of Maidenpool. He was again with her.

“I hope to visit the north before winter… with you”, his words brought her peace, lit a flame that his coldness had almost extinguished. They fell silent again. Aegon was the man she wanted to be silent with.

In the midst of the soldiers' enthusiastic chorus, Sansa felt comfort and safety, in the camaraderie that bound them together, she saw belief in dragon prince, a shared purpose and loyalty that was seen in foreign verses they sang.

As the last notes of the song lingered in the air, still dancing in her ears Sansa's heart swelled with a many of emotions, as her eyes shifted at enemy fires across the field. Lions dwell there, the beasts that took so much from her, the pain that united her with Aegon.
Tywin Lannister, the man responsible for the deaths of Aegon's mother and sister, stood on the other side, an adversary filled with ruthlessness and cunning. Sansa's hatred for him burned deep within her, image of Joffrey's golden hair on her mind. She understood the weight that rested upon Aegon's shoulders, the burden of avenging his family's brutal fate. It was a duty she also carried with unwavering resolve, remembering the atrocities committed against those she loved, her Father, septa Mordane, Arya, Jeyne, Jory and so many others.

The memory of Aegon's mother and sister, brutally slain on the orders of the man leading the army on the opposite side of the battlefield, flashed through her mind. Her father had mentioned this crime to her only once, and she recalled stories of the tension it had caused between him and the late King Robert. Her father had pleaded with Robert to bring the murderers of Princess Elia and her daughter Rhaenys to justice, but the king had refused, straining their relationship. Back then, everyone believed that Aegon had perished as well.

The flow of her thoughts was abruptly interrupted by the resounding boom of thunder, illuminating the plains and hills with a sudden flash of light. Her gaze returned to Aegon, who remained composed upon his horse, adorned in magnificent black armor emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Raindrops touched his short silver hair, glistening like jewels. As she observed him, Sansa couldn't help but reflect on the naivety she once held, believing that Joffrey was a true prince, akin to those in the fairy tales she had read and talked with her friends.

But now, as she looked upon the young Targaryen, an unfamiliar sensation stirred within her. A yearning unlike any she had experienced before, awakened between her legs, drawing her towards him with an intensity she could not deny. In that moment, she desired him, yearned for him with a fervor that surpassed all others.

The thunderous storm echoed her inner turmoil, mirroring the tumultuous emotions coursing through her. Sansa found herself caught in a web of so many desires; returnig home and staying with him; Sansa tried to quell the swirling desires that consumed her thoughts.

The rain continued to fall, its rhythmic patter blending with the beating of her heart. Sansa's gaze lingered on Aegon, his noble stature and regal presence captivating her. But she feared that indulging in these fantasies would only lead to further heartache and disappointment.

Sansa Stark's vision blurred as the blow struck her, sending her crashing to the ground. Pain radiated through her face, throbbing with each heartbeat. Disoriented and dazed, she struggled to make sense of the chaos around her. But even in her state of vulnerability, she could sense the raw fury emanating from Aegon.

Sounds of clashing steel and the desperate cries of battle filled the air, a cacophony of violence. Slowly, she managed to lift her head, her eyes focusing on the scene before her. Aegon, wielding his ancestral valyrian sword Blackfire, swiftly dispatched the would-be assassin. The assassin's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, his threat vanquished.

With a mix of relief and urgency, Aegon rushed to Sansa's side, his hands gently cradling her bruised face. In his touch, she could feel his worry and apprehension, a flicker of fear that mirrored her own. Concern etched deep lines on his face as he anxiously inquired about her well-being.

Their eyes met, and in that unguarded moment, she glimpsed the depths of his heart, through purple eyes. Fear mingled with the tenderness that flowed between them, a fear born of the realization that he could have lost her. In that fragile instant, boundaries dissolved, and propriety gave way to an overwhelming surge of emotion.

He pulled her into an embrace, a gesture that defied the constraints of their respective positions. In that warm act, she felt the strength of his arms, the warmth of his presence, and a shared vulnerability that transcended the world they had known. It was a moment that blurred the lines between duty and desire, a fleeting closeness that whispered of possibilities beyond their roles.

Sansa clung to Aegon, her heart pounding in her chest. In that embrace, she found solace and a renewed will to be alongside him, to guard him as he had protected her.

....

Dragon

"How did he pass through our ranks?", his voice a low thunder that echoed louder than the storm raging above them. The sight of her bruised face burned in his eyes, igniting his fury with every passing second.

"Sire, none breached our lines", answered deep voice of Thunderex, "we inspected the corpse of the assailant, he was one of the healers we enlisted on the Kingsroad". Thousands of beggars flocked to their camp, pleading for food, only those with useful skills were accepted, healers, smiths, stablehands...

"I am to blame," Ser Barristan hung his head in shame, "he slipped by me, claiming he bore a message for the King". Aegon would have offered him words of comfort, but it would have been better if the old man had perished rather than let this happen. They all shared the guilt.

"Watch over all those we recruited, and have Keller interrogate them. I demand answers". The Serjeant confessor of the Golden Company was a cruel necessity, but in his hands everyone spilled their secrets, even those buried under their flesh. Thunderex nodded and departed.

....

Lions

Lightning streaked across the sky, heralding a dreadful storm, which, as midnight approached, gradually faded. They had to call off the assault, even though they were close to breaching the lines at the small hill. Kevan sat in the tent, where the war room was set up, Ser Flement Brax, exhausted and with smudges of ash on his face, which he had not bothered to clean, was devouring chicken and muttering.

"Dragon boy has a cunning mind I'll grant him that. He lounges on his arse and bides his time for us to strike because he knows we have no choice", said Ser Addam Marbrand coolly.

"The rain thwarted us from crushing his crabbs, or else our banner would be waving on the crest of the small hill", said Ser Flement between mouthfuls, quenching them with goblets of Arbor gold.

Ser Addam joked then, "Maybe the gods chastised us for torching the sept." Ser Flement scoffed at the remark, but Kevan did care about sept, though he knew his brother did not dread the fury of the gods, the sept on the small hill could have been a horse stable in Tywin's eyes. The rain doused the towering flame, which like a lighthouse, brightened the late day.

"The Golden Company will be a nuisance," Ser Flement dabbed his mouth with a cloth, "cunts shifted ranks before our eyes, we scarcely hindered them. If they dart back and forth like that tomorrow, there will be trouble in breaking them."

Ser Addam nodded and took a swig of wine from a golden cup, "Aye, but if I cleave them in twain tomorrow, they will flee into the river. How fares our friend Clegane?" Marbrand asked Kevan.

"He would be ready by tomorrow. The black maester at least swore so," Kevan replied pensively, recalling Clegane's body on the vast table in the maester's tent filled with smoke that had odd scents, alien and foul. Clegane was bare except for his privates covered by a rag, his skin had blackened to a ghastly hue, streaked by blue veins. If the knight had not fiercely attempted to rip the chains that shackled him to the table, bellowing through the gag that stuffed his mouth, Kevan would have thought him dead.

'The chains are sadly necessary. As Ser Gregor's might returns, his defiance to the treatment grows stronger. It would all be for naught if we ceased the procedure too soon", said the maester in his hushed voice, dipping a needle in a weird sickening and nauseating emerald concoction, then stabbing it into Ser Gregor's chest, adding it to hundreds of other needles. The brute's arms were crammed with long tubes, pumping some fluid into his formidable limbs. Devilish work, no man should endure this witchery.

"Will he be as he was?", he asked the maester without a chain.

"As he was?", the maester answerd with the inquisitive muttering, "I fear not, the poison ate much of what Ser Gregor was, he lost the use of his tongue and his mind is not in its place". Will you unleash this beast against us? In this world Ser Gregor Clegane dreaded only one man, better he was dead than stopped obeying Tywin Lannister's commands.

"The maester grabbed an object shaped like a candle from the table, forged of black stone or metal, Kevan could not discern, for the material was foreign to him. He pressed it on the skin above the heart and Kevan spotted that there was no hair in that area and that the skin was stained differently. The stone can not burn.

"In terms of strength Ser Gregor will be mightier than ever, his nerves are ruined and he will sense neither agony nor weariness anymore. He will be under your brother's absolute command", went on the maester in his soft voice, which did not suit the environment in which Kevan was. Glimpsing the black candle, the knight began to howl even more furiously and for the first time Kevan peered into his horrifying eyes, ruptured capillaries had tinted his eyes, but not in red, but in blue. Not even the Baratheons had such deep piercing blue eyes. He altered his eye color. Kevan gazed at the spectacle, it felt like a nightmare, in which nothing had meaning, and a drowsy body riddled with fear begged for awakening. From this ratched dream one cannot wake up. This man must not continue to serve Tywin.

"I dread that the next part is too harsh for the stomach, so I would suggest that we part ways", said the maester with plain words as if he bid him a pleasent evening. Kevan did not need to heed the warning twice, and swiftly unhooked the flap of the entrance. As he departed, he caught a flash of the candle as it shimmered faintly for a moment, when he spun back, it was dim again. The reek of the aromas in the tent lingered in his nose until dawn.

Chapter Text

Dragons

"Those Lions have thick skin", said Black Balaq, watching the red tide of armored men that swarmed the small hill once again.

"That they do", Aegon replied softly, hiding his frustration with the ground condition. The ground had dried out faster than he had hoped, but nature was an enemy that few men could conquer. The weather today reminded him of the old crone's words from Lys, "the skies are like a ship, they swing from side to side, hot days bring rains and fierce storms bring scorching sun." He felt the truth of that today, as the powerful rain that had washed away the blood of yesterday's battle was gone, replaced by the blazing sun. The fight would soon reach the large hill, he knew, for his men on the lower one were tired and on their last legs. Half of his force was already spent.

"Any news of uncle's host?"

Jon Connington, clad in the griffin armor of House Connington, shook his head. "They say they are coming, but words are wind, and my eyes see only one sun on the horizon." Jon was disappointed, and he was not alone. Many had expected the Dornishmen to arrive already. Aegon was the most patient one, but his patience was running out with the sands of time.

"They will be here, I only hope before the Lannisters break both of our legs," he said, with a faint touch of discontent in his voice. Aegon could defeat the Lannisters by himself, and he will if he had to, but the price would be too high. His war would not end with this battle, and his return to the throne would be hollow, if he lost most of his army today. For every wounded man, two more were needed to carry them, as such victory ment army lost. Stannis Baratheon was somewhere, smiling at the outcome, for a man never loses when his enemies are at war with each other.

"Yes, in the sunset lands I expected to find glory, gold and fair-skinned women to take for a wife, I lack one of such... And now a lion will devour me," said Balaq in his heavy Summer Isles accent, touching the chain of golden skulls around his neck, where his lordly ransom was hidden.

"Essos is for gold and luxury, Westeros for land and titles," Laswell Peake replied absently, with a thin black band around his arm, for he mourned his brother Torman, whose half-burned body, with crushed chest, was found in the sept courtyard. Torman was the first captain to die, and Aegon hoped the last.

Aegon felt a thorn in his brow as he faced the dilemma of dividing the land and granting the titles. Harry craved Harrenhal and his ancestral lands in the Reach, the Lothsons clamored that Harrenhal was theirs by blood, and there was also the Whent family that Aegon did not want to cast aside so lightly and disinherit. The tradition of false names in the sellsword companies had bred false claims. The Golden Company had five hundred knights and each one wanted to rise from a blade to a lord and get a larger share of the spoils, even the Essosi members, who had as much bond to Westeros as the rising sun.

The road from the small hill to the big one was choked with the groans of the wounded who were hauled on squeaking carts to the camp, towards the healer tents. The column was like a wounded animal that crawled on the green grass, leaving behind a trail of blood that turned from scarlet to black, then to foul stench. Aegon had witnessed and smelled death so often, but his nose never grew numb to the harsh odor of mortality.

One cart veered off the road and halted in front of them and Aegon saw his hopes shattered in the mangled body of Ser Tristan Rivers. A huge blue bruise had swollen on the right side of his face and blood dripped from his hidden eye socket, where perhaps there was only an empty void now. Below, a gaping wound on his arm spelled a certain amputation, but the look on the knight's face spelled an imminent end.

"The Red cunt's got me", Ser Tristan chuckled, as if he was not dying, "I hoped, by the end, I would piss on Tywin Lannister's grave, or better yet Hoster Tully's, for fish cunt burned down my brother's village".

With a bloody sword in his hand Marq Mandrake came from the left flank, with Ser Franklyn Flowers, whose face was glistening with sweat under the open visor. "Piss in a bucket, we'll pour it on their graves", Flowers quipped and coaxed a smile from the dying knight.

"Lord Griffin" coughed Rivers, spitting blood, and touching his chain of golden skulls, "take the chain and let Edoryen pay my daughters. My King," he turned to Aegon, "give them a name and marry them to the good men with deep pockets. The land promised to me here is theirs"

"You have the word of a king", Aegon assured him. Marrying his daughters would not be a hard task, for land lured men more than beauty, and in the spoils the captains would get the most. In the coffers of the Golden Company only Homeless Harry had more coin than Ser Tristan. The withered faces took the knight away, accompanied by Mandrake. The last time he will see Ser Tristan, it was clear to him as a full moon in the night sky. The blue swelling on knight's face reminded him of the blue bruise on the pale face of a chestnut northern girl and a thin thread of sorrow for the lost knight boiled into rage. He searched for his uncle on the horizon, where the distant edges were wrapped in a darker shade, but his eyes did not find a satisfying sight. Only the sun, but the real one, the blazing giant in the sky, and Aegon looked at sun as a common man looks at the starry sky. The sun's glare did not scorch the eyes of a dragon. If only I am a dragon. I would burn Tywin Lannister's army with my fiery breath, the red cloaks would burn as the green armors of House Gardener vanished on the Field of Fire. But he was not a dragon, even though he saw shapes of dragons in the wavy rays of the sun. The dragon has three heads, and fire is their song. He closed his eyes, felt the weight of a phantom crown on his head and opened them again. The dragons disappeared, like false dreams that hunted his mind.

....

Lions

Lannister banners waved atop the small hill, heralding the final assault. Lord Serret and the young knight, Ser Flement Brax, whose bravery did not disgrace his house, had fulfilled their part of the bargain. Yet Ser Harys Swift would claim the glory for himself, Addam thought with contempt, for he despised men who led from the rear. Few lords had earned that privilege, and the chinless Swift was not among them.

"Ser Addam, move your cavalry to the right and join Ser Swift's men when they crest the hill," Kevan Lannister commanded, as if his goodfather would actually be there instead of Serret and Brax. "Ser Gregor will charge the infantry straight at their center, and when Lord Falwell emerges from the wooded passage on the right, we will have them nearly surrounded."

Ser Gregor Clegane loomed among them like a statue, his visor down, so motionless that he seemed not to breathe. What did his face look like, Addam wondered, if they feared to show it even in their own camp? From the mountain's helm came a faint rasping, like the wind whispering through the halls of some forsaken ruin. He had lost the power of speech. What kind of commander leads an army without a proper tongue? But then again, for everyone in the Lannister camp, the mere sight of the Mountain was a command. To flee from his ranks in battle was a death sentence, and now he would lead twelfe thousand men across the plain to the great hill, his right flank bolstered by Addam's five thousand horse.

His men where standing in lines avaiting horn to call a charge, but Mountains foot was first to depart. Large knight led from the front, his sword larger then hight of most men.

Mounted on his big brown destrier, Ser Tybolt Crakehall murmured, "I am eager to fight for once. A boar killing a dragon, that's not something a man can hear in a song."

Ser Harwin Plumm laughed with a rough voice, "You! Boar's like you can only bore him to death. But if Lyle was here, Strongboar would have smashed the bastard back to the Lysene whorehouse he came from." Hardstone's comment did not sit well with Tybolt, who reddened and turned his head.

"I fucked a Lysene girl once," boasted Ser Alyn Stackspear, "in Lannisport, from a traveling brothel. She had a tear tattoo and all. Fair as white sails, silver hair and purple eyes, the bitch couldn't understand a dog's bark. Half a night I spent trying to explain what I wanted."

"Foreign food doesn't suit me, I can only stomach western girls. Even these slippery rivergirls ruin my appetite," quipped his older brother Steffon.

They all laughed except Harwin Hardstone, "Fuck that, my lady here", he raised his warhammer, "will put a tear on the face of that silver-haired mummer prince."

Addam chimed in, "I don't doubt it, the man is a coward. He hides on the hill while others fight his battle. I hope to cross swords with him or better yet, with the red griffin. He at least has a name behind him." It was frustrating to fight against this dragon. The day before, he had charged six times at the lines of sellswords and not once did they take the battle. The Boy had not even sent his cavalry when Addam joined the attack on the small hill at the end of the day. Damn rain, they were so close.

"I'd rather have the Griffin too, a better foe, a bigger prize. If I kill him, I become greater than him and Denys Arryn," exclaimed Hardstone excitedly.

"Thum-dum, thum-dum, thum-dum." The drums of war thundered in the sky above the plateau. A thousand souls stood still, waiting for the attack, while the young boys beat the drums.

“Tarantatataaaaaaaaa, tarantatataaaaaaaa.” The trumpets answered the drums and the uniform step of the Mountain’s footmen began. Woe to him who faced this force. Gazing at the sheer power in motion, Ser Addam rode to the command post with his men. At the highest point of the plateau, Lord Tywin, Ser Kevan, Amory Lorch and Lord Lewis Lydden watched the battle.

“This will be their end,” said Lydden, an inconspicuous and insignificant man whose name and titule justified his presence in the camp rather than his deeds.

“Still, it will be a bloody day. The sellswords have shown that they know how to fight”, replied Kevan Lannister, standing like a shadow a step behind his brother Tywin. Addam would give half of the lords and knights here for Jaime Lannister’s presence. War was for men who had a knack for fighting. The individuals here made struggle of life and death boring.

“What is that?” Alyn Stackspear looked confused at something in the opposite direction. He was the only one not looking at the red giant rolling on the plateau.

Tywin Lannister turned his gaze to the knight. He wore a decorated red armor with a multitude of gold elements and wrapped in a magnificent red cloak. His face was as always a blank paper impossible to read.

“What are you seeing lad?”, Ser Kevan asked softly.

“Something is moving, there, under the forest.” Alyn stopped being a joker.

Ser Kevan took a looking glass and looked at the point the boy showed him. Addam saw nothing but dark hills and forests. Stackspear must have had a hawk’s eye.

"Columns," Ser Kevan uttered. "Many men marching towards us. Gods!"

"Is it Ser Forley?", Lydden fidgeted impatiently on his horse.

"It is hard to tell. Here lad! Your eyes are better than mine. Which banners are there?"

Under pressure, Alyn began to sweat, surrounded by looks full of uncertainty. Tywin Lannister’s face betrayed a slight anger. "It’s… it’s red."

"Praise the gods! Ser Forley rides back victorious", Lyden exclaimed. A stone fell from Addam’s heart.

"…but… the columns are mostly of foot", said the boy, and Kevan hastily took a looking glass from his hands.

"No need for that", said Tywin Lannister. "They are Dornish". A silence as heavy as the rocks of Casterly Rock fell, as if all of the battle had fallen silent.

"Ser Addam, dispatch scouts and find out if Ser Forley is near. We need his men. In the meantime we press on the sellswords. The Dornishmen are too far away and to late. The small hill is taken, the dragon pretender is half broken. Ser Gregor will finish the task". He raised his eyebrows and looked at everyone present. "Not a word to anyone. We know and no one else does. As far as our army is concerned Martell’s are in Dorne and frying on that godless sun. Kevan, reinforce the rear defense".

Addam looked thoughtfully at the columns in the distance. It would take them hours to reach their lines. Still, if they do not break through the sellsword lines at the large hill, all seven gods would not be able to help them.

....

Dragon

The Dornish Sun cast its great rays from the northwest, illuminating the columns of soldiers in redish cloaks, the color of desert. They moved slowly like a shadow of salvation, a faint hope in the midst of carnage. The sound of hope was drowned by the powerful steps of the Lannisters who marched towards them, their crimson banners and armor gleaming with might. On Aegon's left wing, thousands of Lannisters swarmed from a small hill, where Aegon's forces had been routed, of seven thousand warriors he had there, only four remained ready for battle.

"Myles, tell Ser Franklyn to retreat to us", Aegon ordered young Mooton, who rode away, to the left flank, without a word.

"It's time", Jon said quietly and Aegon nodded. "Aegon, don't let your emotions get the better of you". Jon looked at the false knight Gregor Clegane, who led the enemy center, a mountain of a man, clad in heavy steel and wielding a massive sword. Ever since he had seen the monster, Aegon's hand had clenched the pommel of Blackfyre, the ancestral blade of his house, the sword of kings.  Valyrian steel, forged with dragonfire and magic, can cut through everything, even mountains.

"I know what I had to do", he thought of his ancestors who had soared on the backs of mighty winged creatures, and how people like the Mountain would cower before their wrath. The feeling of boundless freedom had not left his bloodline, even after the dragons had perished. Aegon the Fourth had unleashed five civil wars with his basterd folly, and had unwittingly given him an army. Aegon the Fifth had consumed his kin in fire with false hopes of rebirth of dragons. His grandfather and father had forfeited the crown by the same flame. Aegon knew, Blood and fire were his essence, death crowned with power.

"Recall Harry's men from the rear. We will make our stand here," Aegon said to Laswell Peake. Franklyn Flowers's cohort abandoned their position on the left flank, near the Forest Path, and rallied to Aegon's banner. The Lannisters seized their retreat and poured out of the forest. Lannisters from the forest, Lannisters from the Small Hill and Lannisters in front of him. They surrounded his forces, now shaped in a golden ellipse, ready to strike from three sides.

Fires of the dragan past are estinguished, bat dragons were not only beasts capable of trembnling the land.

....

Lions

"An hour later, Addam gripped his lance firmly, standing in the center of the Wedge Cavalry Formation. The Lannister forces from the Small Hill were already clashing with the ranks of the Golden Company that held the road on the Large Hill. In half an hour or so, Ser Gregor would unleash his frontal assault.

Addam's task was to break through the enemy lines, in the gap between the Mountain and Swift's attack from the Small Hill. He impatiently awaited the signal to charge, a horn and a trumpet. Victory meant going home and freeing Ashmark from the wolves.

'Auuuuuuuuu', 'Auuuuuuuuu'

Addam's thoughts and desires vanished in the sound of a thunderous rumble. Time slowed down as he saw huge Lannister banners soaring in a sea of red cloaks and armor. He spurred his horse and galloped towards them, began to bypass them and soon overtake them. The glint of thousands of golden armors dazzled his eyes. Every rumble was a heartbeat, every heartbeat a flash of an enemy spear. The heavy collision was followed by screams and Addam stabbed his lance into the helmet of one of the sellswords, who screamed loudly and fell. But a men was quickly replaced by another who thrust his spear towards Addam. Addam dodged it and moved back. Ser Gregor was fifty yards from the enemy lines, leading a might of Lannisters, united with those which had emerged from the Forest Path. They would hit harder than Hardstone's hammer.

Swift's men, who had faltered on left flank, tired of two days of fighting and were retreating before the spears of golden sellswords. They were struggling to keep their formation, Addam's charge saved them for a moment.

Spears hit shields, splinters shattered into pieces, armor bent and pierced, and the world became a cramped space of men killing each other. Addam’s horse had taken an arrow and he found himself on the ground, with a sword in his hand, wading between the bodies of men and horses. He could not die trampled by his own army.

‘Arouuuuu’, ‘Arouuuuu’, ‘Arouuuuu’, many trumpets sounded in the enemy’s rear, but Addam felt them strange and wrong, a sound powerful and raw, almost wild and untamed. The ground began to rumble as fear crept into his men’s skin. Some foul magic was at work. The rumble grew louder until it turned into heavy screams, restless neighing of horses and breaking… the sound of breaking bones, falling flesh and trampling hooves. He tried to see what was happening but hundreds of horses and men blocked his view. From the direction of disorder and commotion came a horse without a rider who had escaped from the carnage  and he took a chance and mounted on lost mount.  The sight sent shivers down his spine. Warelephants! Eight large heavily armored carriage sized beasts with long spikes and blades on their tusks tore through his men like a hot knife through butter. The animals had completely disappeared under the golden armor and spikes. Horses stopped obeying their masters; they retreated at their own will; soldiers pulled back and collided with those who were just arriving. The broken cavalry was easily slaughtered by the sellsword infantry.

"Form ranks!", Addom shouted but in vain; in the ensuing chaos no command helped. The cavalry was not the only one in trouble, two dozen golden beasts, faster than any horse, charged down the hill at Ser Gregor Clegane’s marching forces. Behind the beasts came the enemy cavalry. The speed of the beasts smashed into a powerful impact and the elephants broke through the first few rows in a second. The golden cavalry followed their lead. Utter chaos.

Without Addam’s support, Swift’s men fell apart by themselves and many ran back to the Small Hill.

To save the day, Addam charged at one of the elephants and hurled a short spear. The beast roared as it felt the impact, but the spear barely pierced its thick armor. It was all useless, Addam knew they had to retreat. He looked for his horn and blew it with all his might, hoping his men would hear him. Some did, but most did not. Addam's cavalry was already surrounded by enemies on two sides and their infantry was cutting them down mercilessly. Among the red and gold spots, Addam spotted Purple cloak of Hardstone. Harwyn Plumm clashed his warhammer with Jon Connington’s sword. The Griffin had challenged Hardstone to a duel, and Plumm had accepted foolishly. The Griffin was a better warrior by far, which was clear even to a blind man. With some inhuman force he attacked Hardstone, raw power turned into skillful and fast blows. Plumm barely kept his distance, repelled sword blows so badly that it seemed that every next one would be fatal, Addam’s thought preceded the griffin’s sword, which buried itself through Hardstone’s neck. A step away from the Griffin, a young dragon swung his sword and broke a Lannister’s blade before beheading him swiftly. The boy wieldes a Valyrian steel sword.

Addam had no time to spare as three golden sellswords rushed towards him, he dodged the spear of the first one and stabbed him in the throat with his lance. Then he pulled back and blew his horn again, with the strength of an autumn seastorm, but his horn was answered by horns that Addam had heard twelve days ago, horns of desert. The Dornish cavalry had arrived, emerging below the forest and they struck Ser Gregor’s army’s right wing like a sandstorm. Many Lannisters fled in panic or fell under their spears. The battle was lost.

....

"Kevan’s eyes darkened as he watched the slaughter of their army. Thousands of men were fleeing or dying under the enemy blades. Every line of defense was broken.

"My Lord, we have to go", he looked at his brother. Tywin Lannister’s grim face answered him with silence.

The silence in the air was shattered by the gallop of a scout, who came to them covered in blood.
"Dornish are under Forest", "Dornish are under Forest", the young man shouted frantically before collapsing on the ground. Poison again, Kevan had no doubt. The news became truth when Ser Gregor’s forces were attacked from the right side. While elephants and sellsword cavalry destroyed them from the hill, Dornish cavalry quickly broke through their flank. This is the end.

Ser Addam withdrew from the hill with two hundred riders and reached their position. The knight’s armor was bloody; his face was sweaty and exhausted. "We have to retreat while we still can", he said in a firm tone.

"No", Tywin roared, "the commander does not abandon his army, especially when he has no other. Are you knights or rats who run into a hole? If we leave now, Lannister's will be defeated. Ser Addam, go back to the center and rally Ser Gregor’s men. Lord Lydden, go to the Small Hill and pull back the men of that pathetic Lord Cock".

Lord Lewys Lyden turned red with fear, but obeyed the order. Kevan felt his fingers go numb, he had never felt fear like this in his life, only for his brother’s life and his children’s. Death was now closer to him than a collar on his shirt and it grew stronger with every beat of the Dornish drums. The Martell cavalry had crept upon them like ghosts, but their infantry was still behind them, blocking their way. Even if they gathered ten thousand men, they would have to break through Dornish infantry ranks. Ser Addam was right; they had to leave the army if they wanted to live.

....

Dragons

The mighty trumpets of the elephants mingled with the tolling of the sept bells, in the mind of Jon Connington. He faced Robert Baratheon now, not Denys Arryn, as it had been once. Robert was huge, strong, swift and young, with brawny arms and a crown of antlers. Three purple coins on gold gave way and merged into a black stag. The stag recoiled before him, the initial blows of zeal and foolish bravery fading into fear and doubt, and he thought he saw the stag wish to shed the metal skin that he wore. The moment was brief, as was the clash with Denys Arryn at the fountain in Stoney Sept. His blade sliced through the side of the neck and a spray of blood and flesh flew in an instant. The death of his foe lifted the veil of fantasy and instead of Robert Baratheon's corpse, a knight fell from his horse, under the weight of his hammer, bearing the arms of House Plumm, the face of the man he slew hidden under the visor. When you kill a knight, you kill not a man, but a sigil sewn on his breast.

Another head rolled past Jon Connington and his eyes found Aegon, with Blackfyre stained red in his hand. Victory was near. Lannisters were falling on all sides, crushed under the feet and tusks of the mighty elephants, or under the spears of the Golden Company. The order among the enemy horsemen broke down and now their turmoil was a greater foe to them than the Golden Company. An army that is not in formation is as good as dead. The lions who attacked from the small hill were in an even worse plight, the collapse of the red horsemen completely shattered their spirit and they began to flee back towards the burned Sept. Many yards below, under the ranks of the Golden Company's footmen, the rest of the elephants and Otreyes' horsemen tore through the lines of the great Lannister host under Gregor Clegane, whose assault was meant to be the final nail in the coffin of Aegon's claim to the throne.

"Uncle is here," Aegon declared with a kingly tone, rather than with excitement as the Dornish horsemen charged at the wounded Lion from another flank. "It is time to end this battle. Ser Laswell, take two cohorts and pursue the rabble on the small hill, do not let them flee or join their main force. The rest of us, will advance."

"With pleasure, Your Grace," the Reacher exile answered.

The army descended down the blood-stained hill, with steps hampered by the heaps of dead men and horses. A few elephants lay on the ground, brought down by Lannister spears and bolts, emitting low and deep groans as they succumbed to fatigue and agony. The Golden Company's cohorts passed by their own cavalry, striking at the enemy's left wing.

"Form squares," "Form squares," the Lannister commanders bellowed, trying to bring order on their ranks. Somewhere in the center, a man's voice roared, almost drowning out the trumpets of the elephants. Gregor Clegane climbed atop an elephant with a monstrous strength, the beast was struggling to shake off the heavy intruder. Jon had never seen anything like it in his life, Dornish arrows pierced the knight more than any mortal could endure. The Mountain that Rides was not a man, but a horror that the gods had unleashed upon the realm of men. The elephant shrieked in fierce pain as the brute drove his sword through the golden plates into its neck.

The animal fell slowly, even in death elephants are calm and dignified, but her butcher Clegane did not find peace. Dornish horsemen surrounded him and attacked him with swift and skillful thrusts of their spears like a swarm of wasps. The brute hacked with his massive sword, felling men and horses, with his other hand he snatched and snapped spears. Harder to bring him down than an elephant. No man is above fatigue, so the knight visibly faltered, his movements slower and clumsier. ‘
"You killed her,", cried a Dornishman under a snake-shaped helm, none other than Oberyn Martell and dealt the savage a final blow that knocked him off his feet.

"I hope he lives", Aegon said, his voice quiet rage. Jon could read hatred, even on a face hidden under a black visor.

"I do not doubt it. The Red Viper is not a man of coincidences, his ways with the Mountain are not over", Jon replied, hiding in his chest shame, because he never felt a true sorrow for Elia Martell. Not as he should have, because Dornishwomen, even as a wife for duty, occupied a more beautiful place with Rhaegar than Jon ever could.

"Death will..." Aegon could not finish the sentence before a crossbow bolt struck him just below the neck. He lost his balance and fell from his horse onto his chest. Quicker than a lightning, Jon leaped from his horse and turned Aegon over. Blood as dark as cherry gushed from his armor.

"What are you waiting for? Bring the maester, bring Haldon", Jon said with a catch in his voice. Fear gnawed at him from within; he felt his heart searing under the curse of some foul poison. He gently removed the helm from the boy's head, his pale Targaryen face gasping for air; the spark was vanishing from his bright purple eyes and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Jon never felt more powerless in his life than now; he looked towards the small hill, where a half-ruined and burned sept tower with a fallen bell peeked above the sparse treetops that parted the two hills. You never got gratitude from me for gifts you gave me, nor penance for all troubles I faced in life. Damn you if you rob this land of a king, if you rob me... he thought through the seven gods who were one. At this moment they were none. Next to him he saw the shapes of Haldon and Rolly Duckfield; he was surrounded by victory, but a black shroud fell again on Jon Connington's face. The same one as when he was half-drunk, in a tavern in Pentos, and heard that Rhaegar Targaryen was dead.

Chapter Text

Direwolf

She vomited, a slimy white fluid spilled over the grass, along with bits of her breakfast, salty goat cheese with a slice of olive bread. The acrid smell of death was in her nostrils and mingled with the bitter taste that the vomit left in her mouth. Robb lives this life of death and injury.

"Lady Sansa", Ser Barristan Selmy regarded her with a look of sorrowful eyes. "Maybe it is best to take you back to your pavilion. The air by the river is fresher, every next step will be harder for the eyes and mind, for a restful sleep it is best to shut your eyes. A men cannot unsee field of death".

"No, Ser Barristan", she gave the knight a gentle look, "I have a duty to my father's bannermen". Robb's bannermen, she remembered that her father was no longer of this world, as soon Medger Cerwyn would not be. Jovial and mild, Lord Cerwyn visited Winterfell more than any other northern lord, for his castle was so near. His son Cley was older than her, but younger than Robb, like all the lordlings who were guested in Winterfell, Cley played at manhood and chivalry before her, trying to win her hand in marriage. Annoyed by his vanity, Sansa would spurn his advances, for, after all, her destiny was to wed the son of a great southern lord or even a prince, to give him sturdy sons who would grow into knights. Old dreams sent shivers through her body. If she were back in Winterfell, maybe she would let Cley take her hand, or one of the Karstark sons or even Smalljon Umber. The world would be simpler. She could live out her dreams of life at the southern court in White Harbor, where the Manderlys kept the faith and customs of the south. Better a plump husband than a cruel one.

As they crested the hill, the stench gave way to raw horror, a vast canvas of death and despair. The warriors who had fought with pride and honor now lay still, their corpses scattered across the hill. The air was thick with the foul pungent smell of sweat, blood, and rot, blending with the anguished cries of the wounded and the incessant cawing of crows gorging on the fallen. On the carpet of corpses, three small hills filled with crows dominated. The remains of three elephants, whose meat and tusks were taken by their former masters. The crows were now feasting on the meat and bones remains.

Only a few paces from her mount lay a Lannister soldier, his face ashen and blue, his gaze frozen in the moment of death, with mouth agape and eyes wide, gazing at nothing. He could not have been much older than her. He looked so vacant, like an empty husk, Sansa tried to find a man in his eyes, but there was nothing there. Though the boy had white teeth, she noticed. Thousands more lay inert like this Lion. Some in gold, most in red. War was not a weave of beauty and valor, she once believed, but a harsh, merciless furnace where lives were broken and dreams lay in ashes. She knew that now, mendacious world, false galore at courts, false glory on the field of battle.

Shrieks echoed from the small hill, where a makeshift hospital for injured Lannisters was erected near the ruined sept. Battle lost was as savage as battle won. A crow flew past Sansa and landed on the body of a Golden Company soldier and began to peck furiously through the gap of his helm, ripping off a long strip of flesh. Sansa wanted to puke again, but her belly was empty and she only felt a pain in her stomach that was clenching.

Down the hill, the field was more bustling, as thousands of living plundered the earthly spoils of thousands of dead. Crabb men were belted with Lannister swords, clad in Lannister chainmail and armor, with Lannister shields strapped to their backs. Uninterested in armor, some men carried several pairs of boots tied to their chests, three or four pairs.
One bearded man was carving the cheek of a Lannister and Sansa turned her head and shut her eyes, wishing it would all disappear.

"What is he doing?", she asked in a tense voice.

"He is pulling teeth. Some have gold teeth, but even healthy teeth are precious, they sell well, teeth are costly or they save them for old age. Better to replace lost teeth with real ones, than with wooden ones", the knight answered.

The ratched scene was broken by a man's sobbing, "Please, don't, I knew nothing of the Mountain til autumn". His pleas met no ears, as a man with a Mooton coat of arms sewn on his surcoat fastened a noose around his neck, and two Dornishmen held his arms to keep him steady. "Have mercy, I've a wife and daughter, how'll they survive the winter without me hands", the man begged, turned around on the horse, when the noose was ready, Mooton struck the mare and she moved a few steps forward, leaving the man hanging. Now with free hands, he tried to loosen the noose from his neck, but soon gave up, still it took him a long time to die, his body twisted, Sansa did not know, whether by or without his own will.

Hanged men was not the only one, the shadows of the trees hid others, soon Sansa could count two or three men on every tree, every branch sturdy enough to hold the weight of a corpse was taken.

"Pillagers", ser Baristan murmured, "men who served Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch. The Dornish hang them for vengeance, though most are too young to have served the Mountain in the Rebellion, the Golden Company hangs them because they are fewer mouths to feed, any reason is good enough"

"Do you think they deserve to die?", Sansa gazed at the hanging bodies, weary of the grim reality, weary of dread. The sky was blue, the sun bright, but the day was still dismal.

"I do not question they do. Foragers often kill and rape, in the homes of those from whom they take food and livestock. What you cannot carry, you burn so that the enemy cannot have it. The ways of war are ruthless, but I need not tell you that."

Behind the treetops, now a hanging graveyard, which split two hills, a sea of Lannister soldiers sat on the muddy ground of an open plateau, more than Sansa could count, thousands mayhaps, surrounded by a golden ring of soldiers of the Golden Company. Naked men, the sight brought her back to the moment when Petyr Baelish tried to mock ser Baristan with words. Without armor and helms, most wore red tunics and black breeches, but more than anything on their filthy and sometimes bloody faces they wore worry and uncertainty. They wonder if a tree awaits them. Not far from them a hundred or more carts were laden with their armor and weapons. The column of Lannisters were tossing armor on the carts, among Dornishmen on beautiful sand steeds. The skin of the horses glittered in the sun, their long necks and muscular bodies trotted proudly.

All over the plateau, long shallow graves were dug, by Lannister men, more people would perish before they buried those who now lay still. The Lannister camp was nearly deserted, the large red pavilions bent like roses in the Winterfell's glass garden. The pavilions were now taken by Crabb's and men of the golden company. Some of the tents were a jail for captured nobles, there were many, Sansa knew.

"As battles go, few escaped", said Haldon halfmaester the night after the victory, "there was no orderly retreat, at least not successful one. There are no more Lions beyond the West". The whole night was filled with revelry, Sansa could not sleep even if she wished to, with drunken singing, clapping, cheering and toasting. Septa Lemore had gone somewhere and did not come back, and Sansa could not see Aegon anywhere. Around midnight she left her tent and wanted to go back inside immediately, overpowered by crowds of drunkards. Bendorf Brune and his younger brother Eustan or son, Sansa did forgot what it was, were merrily singing holding a banner with a blue rooster of House Swyft. Eustan boasted that he captured Lord Swyft himself. Not far from them were Mooton men with their own lion banner. It seemed that everyone had captured a banner.

Ser Barristan and Sansa rode up to one of the large pavilions where Stark people dwelled. Like Sansa, they had moved from the captivity of one king to the hands of another. Wylis Manderly and Harrion Karstark waited in front of the tent, encircled by spears of the Golden Company, though there was not the same fearful doubt in the air as with Lannister prisoners.

"Good riddence, my princess", ser Wylis said in a plain voice, "please accept my condolences. Lord Eddard was a great man, honest and true, greater than the fate that befell him". Princess, she did not miss the word, the chains on their wrists did not diminish their loyalty to Robb.

"You are very kind ser Wylis. It is good to see familiar faces. How many of you are there?", Sansa said politely, on the men's faces she saw the North for the first time, her home, for the first time since her father's death.

"Here, about thirty, though Lord Cerwyn is dying, and Flint boy fled in the chaos of the battle. The lord wished to see your face before he joins the old gods", Wylis replied, he had a serene face, his worry cleverly concealed by his large walrus mustache.

Harrion was more candid, fatigue and starvation showed on his face, "there were more of us in the dungeons of Harrenhal, but after the fire, the Lannisters deserted the monstrosity of a castle and headed south. At least two hundred Northmen were left behind, lowborn, likely put to the sword". They died to save me, and thousands of others with Robb.

"I will pray for them", she did not know what else to say. A few faint candles burned inside the tent, the light scarcely enough for a man to know where to go. She sat next to Lord Cerwyn, a friend of her family who smiled at her, wrapped in heavy furs.

"My Lady", the dying Cerwyn did not mind new titles and statuses, Sansa was for him what she was in Winterfell, the daughter of Lord Stark, when they last met at the grand feast in honor of King Robert's arrival. Sansa embraced him gently and his feeble arms held her. The jovial lord she knew was gone and a face of bones and skin smiled at her with joy. The visit was brief, spent in silence.

"Oi, one o' ye lads 'as to venture to Riverrun, bear witness to what ye've seen 'ere, and beseech yer king to bend the knee!" outside said the bearded serjeant Caspor Hill, to the present Northmen.

"None here will ask that of the King", Harrion said fiercely.

The tone did not vex the serjeant, "I've a care less than elephant dung for any o' it, mate. Jest head up north, tell yer pals 'bout how we gave them Lannisters a good beatin' and what me captains be after. Then, scurry on back 'ere, to resume yer captivity".

"Princess Sansa should go", said Donnel Locke.

Hill laughed, "She ain't no princess, and non o' ye are as important as she. I'll send ye, and that's five men for escort. For her, it's ten times that for guardin', and no captain'll have it any way. She's worth like all of ye".

"Harrion, you lost both of your brothers, it is only proper for you to go and see your sire", Wylis said. The young Karstark nodded his head.

"And Lord Cerwyn too", Sansa interjected.

"Nay, axe lord still lives".

"But, give them a cart, a small one, enough for one man, or I will personally tell Lord Connington that you defied me". Sansa did not know if she had the same sway with the griffin lord, as she did with Aegon, but the sellsword did not know that. Cerwyn would die anyway, surely before he reached her mother's home, but it was better that his own buried him.

Reluctantly nodding his head, Caspor Hill agreed, "I don't care, I don't care", he grumbled in his long beard.

The return to Aegon's camp was easier and quicker, as all returns usually were. She tried to sleep, but the eyes of the men dead, men cut down in battle did not leave her alone and she lit a candle, so they would not haunt her in the darkness of the tent.

"You have to sleep", septa Lemore said, when she finally came back to the tent, even in the dim light Sansa saw that her face was weary, tearful and hopeless.

"Where is he?", Sansa asked with more edge than she intended, "Septa?"

"I have no leave to tell you that or anyone for that matter".

"I am not anyone", she nearly wept now, "if he is hurt I need to know"
Septa gazed at her for a long while, struggles of thoughts on her face, every time she wanted to speak, she would got quiet and return to the old balancing of choices. She dropped her gaze to the floor of the tent.

"In the pavilion to the right of Haldon's, with a blue trim at the entrance".

Sansa dressed quicker than ever in her life and swiftly went out. Ser Barristan was sitting by the entrance, on a wooden crate. The knight rarely slept. "The older you are, the harder to sleep is. These days I seldom sleep at all", he said to her once.

"My lady, it's an hour of the wolf. By the customs of gods and men, a person should not be out at this time".

"I do not care for the customs of gods and men. Not tonight."

Her shield and sword trailed her, the winds roared through the rows of tents like wolves. The clamor, drunkenness and festivity of the previous night had vanished, except for the guards no one was outside, the camp was once more the old calm and tidy one.
Ser Rolly Duckfield, Thunderex and five other men guarded the tent.

"Not a step further", Ser Rolly ordered, but without much heed Sansa proceeded to the entrance. The knight moved to bar her way, but Thunderex placed his mighty arm in front of him.

"Only Lady, Andal knight not", the summer islander said.

The air in the tent was almost as frosty as outside, Aegon lay still on the right side, only in breeches. A white linen square was fixed above his collarbone, blood was oozing slowly through the fabric and tinting it in several shades of red. The Targaryens were pale, yet Aegon looked like someone had robbed the color from his body. Sansa gazed in shock at the scene, her heart clenched, and her mouth parched. Even if she wanted to say something, she could not.

Haldon sat in the corner, with a grave look and dark circles under his eyes, he did not seem angry about her presence.

"I do not know", he replied to the question on her face, "I stemmed the bleeding but the fever... a fire rages in him, consuming him from within. If... if... it does not abate in a day or two... he will not live".

She felt muscles tighten on her face, and a salty heat around her eyes.

"I will leave you alone, you can change his cold compresses, on the table is everything you need". After that he left the pavilion. Sansa quickly went to the table and began to soak new cloths in a bowl of water, where large cubes of ice floated. Her hands turned red from the cold water, but she endured. Tears that spilled from her face fell into the water. She wept as she changed the compress on his forehead, he looked like he was sleeping, though she could scarcely hear his breathing. Her breaths made small clouds of cold air, his did not. On his muscular body dozens of scars formed a mosaic. On his face he had only one, under his ear, the same one he got when he tried to save Eira.

Sansa kissed him on the cheek, the fire that burned under his soft skin overpowered the warmth of her kiss. A man's shadow cast over Aegon's bed and Sansa saw Oberyn Martell standing at the entrance.

Sansa gasped in fear.

"I thought wolves howled at the moon, not at the sun", said Prince Oberyn, with a melodious accent of Dorne, like the clinking of copper. She was silent and looked at the slender body of the prince, his clothes revealed too much, too much for this weather.

"Are you not cold?", she asked

"The North is not always the coldest place on the continent. Summer nights in Dorne are so icy that they can kill a man, as is true for almost everything in Dorne. We love death", he answered.

"Dorne is beautiful, I have heard".

"Hardly so, only a Dornishman can love a vile thing that Dorne is. Hot and cold, sandy and salty, but above all love, it drives a man to make love in bed and on the battlefield"

Sansa felt uncomfortable listening, the intimate parts of love were for marriage she was taught by septa Mordane. She held on to that, at least until recently, when thoughts began to haunt her more and more. She wanted Aegon to take her and hold her, like a men, to be the fuel for the flame of her passion.

"We are the same then. Foreign to the Green lands. I was seldom long in the south, yet they never forget to remind me that the North is desolate and savage. Distant, with wrong gods and customs. Although, Dorne seems much more queer than the North", she said and earned a smile from him.

"Only wrong thing in the world is to stay the same, to breathe the same air, to look at the same sun, even love comes in all shapes and forms", Prince Oberyn said, then looked at Aegon, "he is the only thing left of my sister. His face is from Rhaegar and Targaryens, but his soul is of Elia and Dorne".

"He never spoke about his mother, or his father even less", Sansa said quietly.

"Their's is no tale of love. The cruelest destiny that can be, she loved him, he gave her only duty. And then, left her for another woman", he cast Sansa a look and she instinctively lowered her gaze.

"...and raped her", she said.

"He raped the kingdom with war and hunger. Your aunt, well, men talk what men talk. They hide what they know, and lie about what they don't. All men that knew are lost to the stranger, including valiant and brave Rhaegar", his voice betrayed slight irritation with the name of dead prince.

"Aegon is nothing like him", she said with faint anger.

"No. For one thing Aegon lives and will keep living. But also, you are not like your aunt Lyanna", the prince matched her anger, and his calm and assured tone gave her hope that Aegon could survive. Arya was like Aunt Lyanna, everyone always said that. Sansa was a Tully.

"I am not worth a realm, or a war", she said with an old memory, for the first time in her life she willfully destroyed a castle made of summer snow, in the Winterfell Godswood. Sansa would play at being a princess, and Jayne Poole would be her lady in waiting. The ruined castle brought a smile to her face.

"Clever girl. Kingdoms are boring, no crowns on heads or cloths of thread are needed for passion. We make love naked".

His words were too bold and free, but they exposed what she wanted, what had stirred her heart for months. Gods, I am turning into Arya.

"I do not want to be his queen", she said confidently, "I just want to be his, wife or lover, matters not."

"You have to fight then, against him and others, many daughters in the realm will crave a golden crown upon their head. I heard that some roses want to blossom in autumn. I knew the Fat Flower, who wanted to soar higher in the sky, than his heavy petals allowed him", he chuckled at his own jest. Sansa did not know who the fat flower was. "Fight for him to live and be yours. You are here, another woman would have already left, seeking another beast".

She will, and she must.

"We found a little scorpion", said a voice behind them. It belonged to a Dornishman of brown hair and a face more fair than Oberyn's.

"He is not venomous?", Oberyn said and the young man grinned.

"No, harmless like most Lannisters. He hid in the forest and soiled himself while we dragged him out of the hollow trunk. It seems scorpions north of the Red Mountains poison people with shit. Last time I am extracting poison out of them".

The prince laughed, "Nothing dreadful Daemon. We had a good talk lady Stark, but now I must go, you see, I have a man to torture".

He left the tent, with her puzzled look following him. Queer people, indeed. She noticed that it was time to change the compresses again. The pieces of ice had melted in the bowl of water, so she added new ones. Next to the table stood Aegon's black armor, the red dragon shone under the candlelight, while it seemed that the black steel of Blackfyre absorbed the light. The ancestral Targaryen sword was darker than Ice, her father's sword. Valyrian steel does not need a whetstone, so there was none on Aegon's belt, but she noticed something else, a handkerchief hidden in one of the pouches. A black handkerchief with a three-headed silver dragon, one of the heads in the shape of a direwolf of House Stark. She lost it the night when Aegon was attacked. He took it. Sansa laid it on his heart.

She kissed his forehead, then put the compress on. His lips were now parted.
"Call Haldon, quickly", she shouted to the men outside.

Her heart beat fast, the muscles on his face began to loosen slowly. He muttered something she did not understand, vague words soon became words of a foreign tongue, louder and louder. High Valyrian, the language of his forefathers. He swiftly uttered a word after word, Sansa did not comprehend anything, he looked like a small geyser from Winterfell, which would spout thin streams of water into the air. The pressure built up and the hissing water in the hole, in the form of high valyrian words, burst into one sentence of common tongue.

"Burn them all", "Burn them all", he said incessantly, until he gave in and went back to a motionless sleep.

When Haldon opened the flap of the tent, Sansa noticed that dawn had come.

Chapter Text

The Dancing Griffin

"We cannot put a corpse on the throne” the hard and dark voice of the past declared as Jon’s eyes followed the raven plummeting from the maester’s tower like a black stone, down the verdant green slope, then spreading its wing's above the glistening stream and barely avoiding their golden pavilions, ascending to the clouds. Such a careless bird would doom the Hayfords in a true siege, the raven would barely flinch at a nocked arrow.

Lady Hayford's wails echoed from the guest tower, her castellan had yielded the castle and sworn fealty in the name of the toothless babe. Jon had no choice but to take charge of the Hand's duties in the main hall, a cramped and dim space compared to his spacious chambers in the Hand's tower when he had served Aerys.

"With your leave, m'lord. We give her goat's milk, for she spurns the wet nurse, but that doesn't agree with her either", the maid lamented to Jon, who had no words to offer. Children had always been alien and baffling to him, even as a young lord he found it strange to think of having his own. Marriage was even more peculiar, and women more elusive and foreign. He was fortunate that his Lord father passed when he did, yet he yearned for the old man, as stern and ambitious as he was, he was always a father.

A raven with a letter flew over the banner with the Staunton chessboard, where it left its wings. The Dark wings, the dark words, save that this scroll told Lord Mooton, in Maidenpool, where they were, and what provisions he had to send. The true dark tidings, of the boy's hard ailment, Jon kept as close as his eyes. Now that the boy was slumbering and helpless, he was once more a scared seven-year-old, whom Illyrio had presented to Jon, so many years ago.

Lord Staunton was the first to rally to their cause, two days later followed by a joint host from House Stokeworth and Byrch, Ser Balman Byrch led the forces of his wife Felyse Stokeworth and brother Sylman. Kin and kith, bound by ambition, Byrch was keen to see his wife rise from an heiress to a lady, already anticipating the news of how Cersei had hurled his mother-in-law Lady Tanda from the walls of the Red Keep, onto the spiked moat.

Soon after, Aegon's camp was bedecked with more banners, Buckwell golden antlers, Chelstead mace and dagger, Rollingford roundels, Cressey helmets and coins and Mallery stars. The camp resembled more and more a westerosi camp, vibrant of colors and lively with constant shouts, whistles and humming.

Lord Renfred Rykker, a familiar face from Jon's old memories, was the last to arrive to the Hayford, flanked by two twin sons, of fourteen years, who were as identical as the two griffins embroidered on Jon's coat. Another who had profited from Robert's rebellion and seized the place of his cousin, banished to the Night's Watch.

He acted as if he did not know Jon, at least not personally, "I expected the king to be here, I wish to kneel before him, in my own person". The words were rigid, of the lordly posture, as they acquire from years of sitting in noble chairs. I have only had a few years of lordship.

"The king has been waiting for you for eight moons, and you were not there", Jon retorted with biting words, but not voice.

"Now I am here and I offer my pledge. When do you march on King's Landing?", Rykker brushed off Jon's rebuke in a lordly fashion. They always act as if they did nothing wrong.

"Soon. In Rosby they spurned our ravens, I sent horsemen to confirm their allegiance and fetch grain for King's Landing". The tidings of their triumph over the Lannisters flew faster than the lash of a storm on the crags of Cape of Wrath. By Jon's command, from Maidenpool they sent missives, by ravens and riders, to all Crownlands houses, north of Blackwater rush.

"A prudent move, my spies from the capital report that there is a dire hunger in the city, the Tyrells have shut the Rose road. Yet, there is something more urgent to tell you, a wine seller from Pentos brought curious news to Duskendale. Stannis Baratheon was sighted in Pentos", Rykker said with knowing eyes. The news was more important than all the blades he brought.

Jon stared him in the face, "does your seller know what Stannis is doing in Pentos?"

"Pentos is a vast city, with people of even vaster interests. But I know Stannis, he is a shrewd and rigid man, he does nothing without clear purpose. If he went so far, he went for a vow that he trusts will be kept". With a vague answer Rykker certainly did not mirror Stannis, but he had a point, Stannis was not a man of haggling; he believes he will get something. An army perhaps, if Jon had to guess. The balance of their forces was currently alike, if not an edge for Stannis in a few thousand, but if Stannis gained more men, that would greatly tip the scales in his favor.

"Thank you, my lord", Jon said, hoping the conversation would end.

"If it suits my lord Hand, I have a plea to make, my son Rymen", he gestured to the right twin, "is skilled with the sword, 'the new ser Arthur Dayne' says my castellan, I would recommend him for the Kingsguard". A surprising proposal, as Aegon had no kingsguard yet, Jon had postponed that for the last. With each of our steps to King's Landing, the time of old traditions becomes closer.

"Send him to ser Barristan Selmy, his word will prevail". For every castellan boasts of their pupils, that they are Dragonknight, Ser Duncan the Tall or Ser Arthur. Many have perished because of honeyed words. At last, the Lord of Duskendale bowed and departed.

With no more requests, Jon made his way to the maester's tower, where Haldon was dispatching and receiving letters, with the aid of a young maester, in the service of the Hayfords.

I ought to visit Aegon, he told himself. But the boy would not flee away, he sighed deeply. The Stark girl's claim that Aegon had spoken was vain, whatever it was, it ceased with Haldon's arrival in the tent. In the gloom of the spiral stairs of the maester's tower he saw himself kneeling before Aerys, with a golden chain of hands and vow that he would not fail his duty. Then, as now, his mind always drifted to Rhaegar, his helm and guide. Now he had an unseen shackle of golden hands around his neck and it was not bestowed on him by the king. The dark corridor turned into light and Jon was once more in the radiant Lannister pavilion where the fate of the realm was shattering.

"We cannot put a corpse on the throne”, the newly minted captain ser Brendel Byrne scowled. A dead man cannot wear a crown. The demise of Torman Peake and Ser Tristan Rivers had cleared the way for him, as one's dusk is another's dawn. "The boy has not stirred for five nights, I can laud his valiant struggle against the fever to the edge of the world, but that does not alter the facts. We must either back a new king or sail to Essos."

The remark stirred discord among the assembled and the Red viper skewered Byrne with his keen eyes, with a slight smile. A poisonous smile, Brenden did not see that his doom was before his eyes. But the prince of Dorne remained silent.

The long-awaited parley of the captains of the Golden Company and the allies from Dorne swiftly turned into a tempest of views and sharp words. Hundreds of talks were held at once, words shattered like spears. Harry Strickland claimed a seat in the heart of the large Lannister Pavilion, his squire Watkyn approached the Red Viper and urged him to take a more central spot, next to the captain-general of the Golden Company.

"The center is where I stand", the Dornish prince retorted haughtily.

The spurning of the gesture irked Strickland, who gazed at the uproar with half-lidded eyes. Jon did not fail to notice that Homeless Harry did not extand him the same courtesy as to the snake. "Mayhaps it would be wiser to sail to Essos", Strickland drawled the words, as if he was speaking of supper, not the fate of the realm, "there is too much to do. In truth, we would have to forge a new rule ourselves, quell the houses in rebellion. I wonder, is it worth it, the balance of spent and gained is too meager. We lack such might."

"I say we head to the west, the Young Wolf has shattered the lions there. We seize Casterly Rock, plunder the vaults, and we will have gold for evermore", said Marq Mandrake and roused greedy eyes and sellsword hunger of other captains and serjeants. "Not to speak of Lannisport, we feign to besiege the city and they will yield us ships to sail to the Free Cities and squander gold."

"Have you ever seen Casterly Rock", asked Prince Oberyn, and received a negative reply from Marq Mandrake's pockmarked face, "It is not a castle but a rock, tall as the sky can reach, with a slender path, where your ten thousand blades become thirty, forty men. Lannister is a wicked man, not a fool. You will roast under pots of scalding water, die against crossbows so strong that they pierce armor, and when your golden rams smash the heavy gates, before you there will be even heavier gates and the same fight, then the third, the fourth, endlessly, you will delve so deep into the lion's lair that you will never glimpse the sun again. Even if you were tenfold as many you would not have the power to do it."

Naturally, Strickland did not match the daring of Marq Mandrake, "I concur with the prince's wisdom, but it is crucial that we recoup the costs. The whisper is that the vaults in King's Landing are in a sorry state, but mayhaps enough for the our past troubles. The city is poorly guarded and to sack it will not be a trial. Stannis Baratheon will thank us when we deliver him the city". The words of a craven brought flush to Jon Connington's face, it seemed that only Oberyn Martell sensed his wrath. Aegon was alive, however faint his breath was, he was alive.

"Have you forgotten your purpose, Harry, this company was born with one idea, which Bittersteel etched into each of our contracts. That ink is invisible, but every true knight of the Golden Company feels it. Homecoming", Laswell Peake said softly. At least sense had not wholly fled the tent. The fare on the big table was already half-devoured, as well as on several small round tables where the lesser officers sat.

Arvill Cole rose in Harry's support, "we require a king to remain. The sword is worth naught, if on the morrow the high lords will crush us, because we are not of their ilk."

"We ought to send for Prince Viserys, is he not the heir?", Byrne chimed in again, rubbing a long scar across his face. Viserys Targaryen was self-satisfied and a wild man, cruel and hard. Everything that Jon dreaded that Aegon could turn into, Viserys was, as a child, when Jon dwelled in King's Landing in the company of Rhaegar; and later as an exiled prince. "The beggar king does not have all the bells tolling in his head as they ought", said Myles Toyne, after Viserys had made a feast for him, hoping that the Golden Company would back his claim.

"That's not well, Last time we see him, he dey shout at we, vexed 'cause we no stand behind him. Him keep saying, 'I be king, blah, blah,' and 'When I get back throne, blah, blah.' If I no hold back Toyne, Blackheart would cleaved him like a mango", Black Balaq chortled, reclining on soft cushions. Two whores flanked him, their arms draped over his chest. All the Lannister camp followers had switched the side, after the fray. Around him sat four of his summer islander bowmen, with bows of goldenheart. Jon wondered how Tywin Lannister would react to this menagerie 'under his roof'.

"King Aegon has a daughter", Gulian Corgyle spoke, grave and courteous, a men carved more of duty than zeal, he was the very opposite of the other Dornishmen. A fair man to look at, with short coal-black locks of hair, a lighter complexion than usual for a Dornishman, and almost a feline piercing eyes. The young knight had won Jon's esteem in a brief span, his somber deed had brought the Dornishmen here. It would not be if the viper had his way.

"Daughter", Strickland stressed the word, "A women cannot be a queen, still a child and of wildling blood".

Jon swiftly glanced at Captain Otreyes and saw anger in his eyes. "Mind your tongue Harry or your head might swim in gold sooner", Mertyn snarled.

"None can menace the captain-general of the Golden Company", Arvill Cole sprang to Strickland's aid.

"Is that so", Mertyn Otreyes laid his hand on the scabbard of wolf skin, "will you stand for him then". Cole was unsettled and withdrew, Harry Strickland was not afraid at all. The charade amused the Dornishmen, Dagos Manwoody lifted a cup to Otreyes, Ryon Allyrion smirked at Prince Oberyn, while Gerold Dayne sneered.

"I say, let us seat the young Elia as the heir and name Lord Connington as the regent, the King's hand and the Protector of the Realm", Laswell Peake rose and bent the knee before Jon.

"It is wise, we gain what we seek. Lord Connington is a stern hand", said Lymond Pease and stood, followed by all the Lothsons, Dick Cole and all his false kin, save Arvill; one by one almost all the serjeants stood.

"So many titles, so many burdens. Your back will hurt terribly", Prince Oberyn smiled, "that's why Lord Griffin will have Dornish spears to keep his spine upright".

"The company has spoken then", the last one to stand was Homeless Harry, "the power is now in your hands, Lord Connington". Harry even bowed deeply. I do not forgive so lightly Harry.

The army was already in a swift march the next morning, split into two parts. The main part, led by Jon and a smaller host under Harry, of five thousand blades, who went north to claim his fiefdom in Harrenhal.

.....

The maester's quarters were humble, cramped and dim, as all in the keep.
"My lord, a raven from Harrenhal has arrived. The captain-general has seized the castle and routed the garrison of two hundred Stark men. His scouts have sighted a larger host moving along the road to Stoney Sept", said Haldon

"Roose Bolton", Jon said with certainty, "he is going to reckon with the Forley Prester Lannisters". The tidings were good, no matter who emerged as the victor Harry would have a lighter task. At the Redwood sept, Jon had swiftly fancied the notion of Harry departing, better up there than with me here. The old man wished to take half of their strenght, but he agreed for a fourth. To bolster his five thousand, Homeless Harry gathered six hundred volunteers among the taken Lannisters; sellswords, hedge knights and petty lords, eager for a bigger bite in this world accepted his invitation.

Haldon's visage betrayed that he had more to tell, he glanced at the young maester, who was scraping the dung heaped under the cages, "Oryn, can you grant us some seclusion, please". The young maester nodded and departed, with the chime of the maester's chain much fainter than most of his peers. A commoner's son, no doubt, he had wrought enough links to be able to serve, enough to earn rank.

From the cupboard Haldon drew out several scrolls, unrolled one and handed it to Jon. The wind howled, through the half-shut wooden window, it snuffed out several tapers. The half-maester quickly busied himself by igniting the quenched wax lights.

"The wolf changes its fur, but not its temper", it read at the start of the missive, "we stand ready for whatever you plan to do".  A brief message, without any sense, on already stale parchment and without a seal, which especially caught Jon's eye.

"Whence did it come?", he queried.

"It was not meant for us. I chanced upon it while I was poring over the papers from the Lannister camp. Tywin Lannister is a clever man, by the scant number of letters in his tent, one can deduce that he was burning incoming messages. He did not manage this one". What does not exist cannot be read, knowing the foe is half the war.

"I reckon that's not all".

"No, the lack of a seal piqued me, so I sought Talophil, the maester, who was in his employ at Harrenhal. Handling ravens is not a skill that young lords acquire. Yet, the maester was not loquacious". Feeding birds and clearing muck is not a lordly task. Haldon was in a half-crouched stance, with one hand on the table as a prop, the other clutching his newly shorn beard.

"Kellerman...", an hour with the tormentor would surely divulge the secrets.

"...he did his work or at least strove. The old man as soon as he beheld the device on the table immediately spoke. The Lannisters had dealings with the Freys of the Crossing from the onset of the war, though the pact with Starks curbed cooperation. The recent wedding of Robb Stark, and the breaking of the marital bond with them angered the Freys and it seems that they turned to the Lannisters". The Freys are not men of honor, and Lord Walder Frey is a sour leech, whose lack of honor is almost as vast as the number of winters he lived through. Yet, this is a chance, if or when the war shifts against the Stark, an alliance with the Freys would be most welcome.

"Do the Hayfords have a raven for the Twins?"

Haldon shook his head.

"Then send a raven to Maidenpool, let them relay the message", Haldon gazed at him with a blend of wonder, he knew what this was aiming at. "Let the Freys know that we know and offer them a hand that we want to stand where the Lannisters halted. Be subtle and choose your words wisely, Walder Frey is a hard man". Jon did not wish to wade in murky waters, but he must, his knightly ways had brought him to ruin at Stoney Sept.

"There is where you're wrong. Lord Tywin would not have bothered with a search. He would have burned that town and every living creature in it. Men and boys, babes at the breast, noble knights and holy septones, pigs and whores, rats and rebels, he would have burned them all", Myles Toyne spoke from the grave. What would Toyne think now if he knew that Jon had defeated Tywin Lannister and had him in captivity with half of his army. Varys and Aegon had outwitted the lion, you were silent. He would lie if he said that it did not hurt that Aegon hid the plan of burning the Lannister supplies from him. Like Rhaegar and his covert plans and plots. He knew about the tourney as a ruse against Aerys, but not about the wolf maid. Later, when Rhaegar took her somewhere, it pained, because if Elia was a duty, the honor that Rhaegar gave to Lyanna Stark could be love.

Overwhelmed by unwanted thoughts, he went to the courtyard where Ser Barristan was testing young Rykker. The boy arrogantly spun around three guards, but he was good, they were powerless against him. If he survives the arrogance of a young knight, he might fulfill his father's boasts.

"Very well, very well", said Ser Barristan and took a blunt sword in his hands, "now against me", Selmy was composed.

The old game did not repeat and now the boy was on the defensive, Barristan the Bold had lost some strength with the years and nothing of his skill. The dull blows of his sword on Rykker's shield with crossed black warhammers, echoed in the small courtyard. Yet, the boy had a warrior's spirit and swiftly rallied and for a while it seemed that they were matched. The lack of knowledge and experience the boy compensated with speed and raw power of youth. And youth tires, so Barristan knocked the sword out of his hands.

"Keep training, until you get blisters on your hands", he said to the boy, as he eyed Jon on the wooden stage. The old knight climbed the stairs and joined him.

"He is fit for the Kingsguard, and it is ever good to have a member or two who are so young, it is simpler to teach them honor, pride and custom of service until they know no better", the knight answered Jon's unsaid question, as they walked on the squeaky wooden floor. Jaime Lannister was young and unblemished, that did not stop him from stabbing Aerys in the back.

"How is the Stark girl?", Jon asked Selmy.

"She wept a little more when I left the watch", the sadness that his gray beard hid, his eyes revealed. "What sort of man slays the children of his foster, who fed and sheltered him, under his own roof".

"The Ironborn are savage people Ser, you know yourself, you fought against them", Jon was thinking of the recent tidings of the death of the Stark boys. The Grayjoy invasion of the North was one of those things that worked in their favor, but he did not feel at ease at all.

He ordered the maid to prepare him a bath, after this day, Jon Connington felt foul, in and out.

....

The Spare Dragon

He cursed the sun that dared to mock him, its rays stabbing through the curtains of his merchant chamber, adding to the infernal heat that tormented him. Sweat ran down his body in rivulets, only to be dried by the cold sea breeze that brought no relief.

He loathed everything, he dismissed the whores that cluttered his bed, felt shame and rage, drowning himself in wine, trying to erase the bitter taste from his mouth. Damn Illyrio and the Eunuch, they had deceived him all these years. Or had they? What if this was all a plot against him? They had found some bastard son of a whore in Lys or Tyrosh and now they claimed he was Rhaegar's son.

That snake Elia and her small mongrels had stayed in King's Landing, he could still see the fear in her eyes, when they shoved him and his mother into the boat. His father had been wise, he knew the sand rats could not be trusted.

Only at the last hour, a year after the usurper and his dogs had defied his family, did the Dornishmen arrive, with a meager host of ten thousand spears. Had not the glorious son of his house Daeron, the Young Dragon, written that the sons of the desert and the scorching sun could muster a force of fifty thousand warriors? They had betrayed his father at the Trident, as had many others, they had failed to protect his brother, and now in league with these worms from Pentos they sought to steal his crown.

The bedding under him was wet from sweat, a faint smell of lust lingered in the air.

"My prince, I hope the ladies were to your liking, they are fresh from the pleasure houses of Lys", said a fat merchant at the doorway, crumbs of his morning meal clinging to his beard. After the letter, Viserys had sailed from Volantis hoping to find Mopatis in Pentos, but the glutton had slithered away and was gone for many a moon.

Viserys gave him no answer, but looked at the fraudster with a frown. The greedy worm feigned innocence as if all was well.

"Mopatis, what is this foul betrayal? You swore to me my father's crown and now you hand it to another. Who is this whelp, for I saw my brother's son at a Dornish harlot's tit when I left King's Landing for Dragonstone. The babe is dead, the dogs of the usurper dashed his skull"

Mopatis did not answer at once, but settled on a cushioned seat away from the casements, the odors of the night's pleasures did not bother him. A platter of grapes soon came to his grasp, which he gobbled greedily. “House Targaryen has many foes, unsettled scores, and friends so few, a men can count them on a butcher’s fingers. Varys saved the child, swapping him at the last moment, and Tywin Lannister’s brute did us a favor and smashed his head against the wall. Flattened head that not even a mother could recognize".

Viserys had lived a life of sweet words, false promises, and many secrets in Essos, which drained his nerves. "If it is true, why was I not told?"

“Ser Willem Darry knew. There was always an understanding that he was the deciding head. His wish was to keep you apart. For safety reasons of course”. Dead mouths do not speak, though Viserys was ready to sail to Braavos, open the unmarked grave of Willem Darry and seek confirmation.

He snarled his lip, the briny traces of sweat on his naked flesh vexed him. "So I am a pawn. My host was not mine, I endured moons among the reeking horse-eaters to muster a force for another. I yielded my own sister to the lord of all barbarians, for nought, it would have been more glory for House Targaryen if I had claimed her maidenhood and made her my bride".

With violet lips from the grapes, Mopatis meant to say something, but with a crammed mouth he resumed munching and it took him an age to clear his mouth and voice his thought. "Great prince, foremost of the grandest lineage that ever trod the world, It is not for naught, Aegon has no male offspring, which crowns you the Prince of Dragonstone. Besides, Rhaegar's son must seize the throne with fire and steel, perchance it is your fate, my prince, 'the throne', if he perishes. And you can yet take your sister for a wife, for... Khal Drogo is gone, slain by his own Bloodriders tales say or devoured by a witch".

The thought jolted Viserys, the dim-witted brute had never honored him and instead of honoring his part of the pact, he awaited chatter from the sky, to have his horse's god dung a turd on the spot where he should tread.

"Where is she now?", though pleased for the demise of the savage, Viserys had no patience for tales.

"Qarth, they say," the merchant mused, "but that is not all, to my ears has come an unbelievable news worth all the gold in the world." The magister chuckled, then fell silent.

"Will you tell me or do I have to swim across the Narrow Sea, and reclaim the treasuries of my noble father to loosen your tongue?"

The joke pleased the magister, who continued to giggle further, "a possibility that always rings nicely in my ears, but of course not.
Dragons, rumors say that princess Daenerys lives and that she carries with her three dragon hatchlings."

Viserys, drinking his tenth goblet of the wine since morning, did not know whether to laugh or rage. The gods were not so cruel to grant her that honor. I am the dragon.                                

"I want a ship for Qarth."

Chapter Text

The Rose of Highgarden

"I want to be the queen," she told Baelish, surrounded by war tents, broken promises and false vows.

Her brother followed Renly for passion, her father for ambition. Margaery wanted to be the first among the women of the realm. She wanted all eyes to admire her, as her cousins did now.

"Ulma from the kitchens says that Joffrey opened the belly of a cat and took out the unborn kittens", Alla said nervously, with faces of disgust from the others.

"But he has the charm of Jaime Lannister, I beheld the Kingslayer once in Oldtown at Lord Hightower's joust. Raymund and Rickard were raving about his lance and his steed, and I... oh I could not tear my gaze from his smile and golden locks", her stout cousin Megga said. A fresh pastry in her grasp, and she was already twice as larger as any of them.

Elinor smiled mischievously, "Megga speaks true, all boys are naughty, but you get his lips and antler crown". Killing kittens is not a harmless mischief.

"If the negotiations bear fruit and if father accepts the offer...", if grandmother accepts the offer. She doubted her father's ability to see his mistakes, but after the fiasco with Renly's coronation, grandmother would surely not let him decide further.

"Lady Margaery. Lady Ollena requests your presence at lunch with Lord Baelish", the maid broke into her thought, though Margaery knew what was required of her.

After the stench of the military camp at Bitterbridge, it was a joy to return to Highgarden, to the fragrance of blackberries and roses. The meeting was held in a vast green maze, between the high outer walls and the wall that marked the second tier of the castle. Even now Margaery could get lost in the in the lofty paths of hedge, blossoms, vines and thorns.

"Baelish is a player, a cunning fox, listen well to how he speaks, what he says and why. Do not return anything to his words except those white teeth of yours and cheap compliments. Be a maiden, like that silly doll Alla. He will know that you wear a mask, but not what is underneath," her grandmother counselled her, while the servants laid the table with cakes, lemonade, sweetmeats and cream. The maze was the chilliest part of the castle, ever dim and cool, the dampness drove away the scent of roses and fruits, which grew from the walls of hedge.

"And if I have a question...."

"...ask it as I told you. Do not give him any slack, pretend", her grandmother interrupted her. Margaery nodded humbly.

Soon after, her father and Lord Baelish entered, "I am indeed," her father chortled, clasping his hand on Baelish's back. Willas and Garlan walked behind them, keeping a distance.

"Lord Baelish, this is my mother Ollena, and my lovely daughter Margeary, delight of the Highgarden."

"Delight of the realm," said Baelish with a soft husky voice, with obvious pleasure from her father, who cheerfully shuffled to his plush chair. Petyr Baelish stayed on his feet.

"Will you sit or we have to leave you here like a statue, wiser ones have not found their way out of these corridors," Ollena said. Baelish smiled, dipped his head in a slight bow and sat down.

"The Lannisters seek marriage and alliance. They covet my granddaughter. In exchange they offer us what?"

"Friendship. Crown. Royal grandchildren... Forgiveness, and fiefs of those that do not ask for forgiveness."

"I just want to say, our support for Renly was premature, and on deception...", her father muttered. On the table squeaked a plate that Lady Ollena pushed to her son.

"Here dear, melon cake is especially fine, a bit hard on the outside but juicy on the inside". With a confused expression on his face, her plump lord father took a golden fork and began to nibble the cake.

"What fiefdoms?," asked Garlan.

"All those who rose against the true king... Bronzegate, Mistwood, Cider Hall, Maidenpool, Darry and many more".

"Not Storm's End", at this moment Garlan was more ambitious than their father.

"Storm's End belongs by right to the King's younger brother Tommen". Garlan shook his head dissatisfied with the answer, while their grandmother observed the small talk with a grin and ire.

"Lannister friendship you say, the Targaryens took it and got a knife in the back. Nor did the Baratheons fare any better".

With a half-smile, Baelish looked at Lady Ollena, his eyes existed only for her and Margaery occasionally. The others seemed to vanish.

"The Lannisters are not so bad as you think. They are generous and loyal to their friends. They have an ear for desires and forgive past transgressions. The King Joffrey himself named your ill-fated pact with Renly an error, not a crime. It is time for the two mightiest houses of the realm to join and bring calm and wealth to all of our lands once more".

"King Joffrey speaks wisely," her father said between bites with Baelish's pleased smile.

"I hear Cersei's words, through Littlefinger's mouth. No matter how sweet-tongued you are, and she far away, I sense fear and need in her voice. Fear of Stannis or that new dragon, irrelevant. We are there to remedy your lack of strength to win the war. Speak more plainly that we are expected to save the lion's ass," Ollena Tyrell's attitude was sharper than the neat beard on Littlefinger's face.

Lord Baelish was not deterred, "Lions have slender lungs and short breath, they sprint fast and strong, but not long. Prey sometimes gets a chance and trust that it is safe, but the lion is ever near, silent and hidden, and at last snatches all his foes."

"And you are a bird that eats fleas from the back of a lion".

"That and much more. We all have our parts to play, being shy would leave me in a simple tower on the Fingers, on a rocky shore, a place that even the waves scarcely love. But when a man shuts his eyes, and does what he must, an unsavory bedding, meal or otherwise, he gets more than this world is ready to grant him. High steward of the Reach Harlen Tyrell would concur with me". Now Lord Baelish eyed her father, while the Lord of Highgarden pondered whether to heed more to the cakes or their guest. Her father's doublet, stitched from velvet with woven silk roses, was already smeared with colorful stains.

"Mother, maybe..."

"We need to wait, yes, you are right dear, you have ever been so prudent", Lady Ollena eyed her son but sneered at Littlefinger, "after all, our honored guest knows not of this, but Aegon Targaryen also sends his envoy to parley on the same matter". Margaery joined the jest and sweetly beamed at Littlefinger.

"Lord Baelish, the white raven has heralded autumn, but summer fruit still flourishes here, I am certain that your prolonged stay in Highgarden will be pleasant", Margaery said, keeping up the play on her face. Lord Bealish was comely, she did not crave him as some other men, but enticing him in bed would surely not be torture.

....

There were eight of them, in golden armor and mail. Seven of men and a women, with lush blond hair, painted nails and rings that shone in all the colors of the rainbow. A large hat whose wide edges hid the face, and pheasant feathers made the one under the brim much taller than they were in truth.

The dragon prince's envoy was a woman. Nothing had tickled Margaery's imagination more than this for a long while, as the blonde woman guided her steed to the white pillar, ensnared under a chain of blackberries, which bore white and red roses. She plucked a rose, sniffed it and set it on the horse's mane.

When he took off his hat, in the great Atrium of the Highgarden, the man of the golden hair ceased to be a woman. He bent his knees lightly, extended his hand with the hat and bowed. "It is an honor to present myself as Lysono Marr, envoy of King Aegon the Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men," the envoy chanted the titles stressing each syllable, with a voice that seemed to match her cousins at the picnic.

"It is an immense pleasure to be here. The Splendor of the rose gardens, green corridors and white walls of Highgarden are a beauty that reaches to Volantis. The stature, wealth and deeds of arms of Lord Mace Tyrell are widely known, as well as the sharpness of his mother". Her father blushed in pride, while her grandmother was amused. The whole scene looked like a mummer show except that the man did not juggle, perform puppet shows or sing. All her father's entertainers looked at the man, wondering if he would steal their job.

"And you my dear", he turned to her with a dazzling smile, "Oh sweetnes, as if the beauty of all the summer goddesses, daughters of mother Royne, Pantera and Weeping Lady flowed into one face. You are, my dear, the Maiden reborn in flesh and blood." Margaery laughed, partly charmed and partly humored by his words.

"And I am the Stranger", her grandmother said, with laughter from almost everyone present in the large Atrium. Margaery's mother Alerie did not find the blasphemous words funny.

"What does the dragon propose?" Willas inquired.

"Marriage. Nothing less, nothing more", the playfull voice of Lysono Maar grew more grave then.

"The Lannisters proffer new fiefdoms," her second brother said.

"Argilac Durrandon, the last storm king, offerd land that wasn't his to my liege's forefather Aegon the Conqueror, in return for a service he could not achieve himself. The Lannisters are arrogant when they need nothing and humble when they are in need. There is a saying in Lys, not very graceful, but apt for this occasion: a dove in hand pecks seeds from you hand, when it takes wing shits on you."

Almost grandmother's words.

"You can humor us, but it will not bring us closer to an accord nor give you an edge over the Lannisters", Garlan muttered.

"I doubt that any words spoken here will do that, young ser. Long ago, the battle of the Trident sealed the fate of the kingdom, the Lannisters and my king will soon cross steel. The song of swords will write the pages of the future", Marr said.

"Wars do not always end with one fray. The Lannisters and the Starks have had many clashes, and the outcome of the war is still unclear. Not to mention that you are in league with Dorne, the sand serpents ever threaten us and they crippled my brother".

"Garlan. About my condition, please, I would like to speak for myself", Willas smiled gently at his younger brother. "Besides, in the last letter, Prince Oberyn wrote to me that something big is brewing. Targaryen resurgence was the last thing I would think of, but it happened". Willas was more clever than their father, more careful than Garlan and cooler-headed than Loras.

"If we have to wait, then this whole travesty is too stressful and boring, so we should stop it now. Lord Lyson, Lysen, whatever your name is, you have the hospitality of Highgarden", Olenna Tyrell was charming even in a bad mood.

Margaery did not know what to think after all that, this game was complex, full of twists and turns, both men were playing a game that she had only seen with her grandmother. The waiting was terrible and the days passed slowly.

She strove harder to catch the eye of the newcomers. She clad herself more loosely than usual, with wide slits that bared her shoulder blades and breast's and with tight and sheer silk that showed the curves of her body. The crisp autumn air hardened her nipples, to the delight of the guards, whose eyes lingered on her longer and more often than usual and to the displeasure of her mother. Lady Alerie chided her to cover up, “it’s too cold for that attire,” she said. On another occasion she added, “daughter, we are not in Dorne.”

Her grandmother was right, fair women are wine for men, in their presence they lose their wits, and become weak and clumsy. All except two, whose attention she especially craved. Lysono Marr seemed to be indifferent to women like her brother Loras, while Baelish would give her complimentary looks, but without that mindless passion. Littlefinger was more of a butcher than a gourmet. She was sure he liked to eat flesh, but above all he liked to deal with it, weigh and shape it.

Trying anything with them would be foolish, as she was yet unskilled in her arts, but their companions, for them her skirt was quite tempting.

But their their luck ran out, as Lysono Marr isolated the rest of his entourage and protected them from unwanted questions, a right that the peace banner granted them.

Margaery had learned enough, not only that one king was a monster, and the other more warrior than a king. Petyr Baelish schemed for and against the Lannisters, while the Targaryen king had a secret women. Many lords had paramours, or taking common girls as they pleased; There was no lack of bastards in all lands of the realm. But once Margaery ensnared him in her thorns, he would have eyes for none but her.

The wait for news ceased, as if it had never been. The Targaryen-Dornish host crushed the Lannister one. Tywin Lannister, his brother and many of his bannermen were in shackles.

Her father formally accepted to the marriage proposal from Lysono Marr and just like that Margaery was betrothed to a man, whom she deemed dead until a year past. Or she did not care at all to be true.

....

"Will you go and welcome the new king in the capitol?", Olenna Tyrell said mockingly to Baelish, breaking the silence.

"When the beast's jaw is open, it is not wise to use it as a door," winked Petyr Baelish, "the dragon king is a puppet of Varys. The spider and I have been playing a game against each other for a long time, under the shadow of Robert Baratheon, the king who did not favor either of us. While he did not care what we did, we fought a hundred wars". If Petyr Baelish was a member of the Small Council of a king who was losing the war, it could not be told by his voice or bearing.

"And the spider bested the bird. You are no longer Lord of anything. Harrenhal now belongs to some Strickland, fortunate for us in the Reach because he might have claimed the land of his forebears here, where his ancestors lost them backing one of those foolish Blackfyre rebellions. Not that we would not embrace him in our fold, in the name of the new king," Olenna said scornfully and continued in taunting tone, "But what of you Baelish? Are you going back to Lysa Arryn. In my time, Lords who wedded heiresses or noble widows we would call vultures. But, again, she has a son, and you no heirs. Only an old and ugly woman whose bed you warm".

"If my memory does not fail me, you also earned your thorns by warming the right bed. The Queen of Scales does not sound as good as the Queen of Thorns," Petyr said, reminding Olenna about her past. Margaery knew that her grandmother had been betrothed to a Targaryen prince, the second or third brother of the heir.

"When we speak of others we are all whores who talk of virtue," she said casually, "if it gives you comfort, you can stay in Higharden, we might even give you a job, now that you are out of the employment".

"As I said, it is always nice to have friends," Littelfinger raised his glass to them both, "and it is always trouble to choose the wrong ones," he added, looking at Margaery.

The next morning fog descended upon Highgarden, the autumn reminded them of its presence. Walking down the corridor, Margaery smiled, remembering the words of her mother, the autumn had really made her cover up her body.

A scream cut through the fog and Margaery could only make out the shapes of flowers and the shadows of people, in the blue rose garden. She went down and found the servant maid Elda, sobbing in the arms of her husband, who was one of the men at arms in the castle. Now there were several men standing around the corpse.

"Poor lad, broke his neck", said the captain of the guard.

"Youth, folly I say, he likely played on the railing", added another voice.

When they turned the body, Margaery's eyes froze on Cedric as blood dripped from his nose. She swiftly lifted her gown and ran back into the bowels of the castle. In the corridor where she had stood a few moments ago, Lord Baelish was now watching the scene in the garden. Lothor Brune, his sworn sword, stood beside him.

"His mother is so frail of heart, this will shatter her", Baelish said with a voice devoid of any grief. Margaery followed his words with chills.

"Your grandmother taught you well. I will also give you a lesson about the game. We all have secrets. On which our reputation, wealth, sometimes even life hinges. Eyes shut forever, best keep secrets. Good morning, my Lady or Your grace, I am not sure if it is too early to address you like that". He smiled at her, made her a courtesy worthy of the daughter of the Warden of the South, bowed and left.

He is a player, she repeated her grandmother's words. She seldom thought she could meet someone more clever than the Queen of Thorns.
Baelish accepted her grandmother's offer and stayed as a guest in Highgarden, the envoys of her future husband left the castle after completing all formalities. Eight of them arrived, and nine left Highgarden.
Her father's laugh reached his ears, when Lysono Marr suggested that Loras join the Kingsguard, as the protector of the future queen. Me, the thought still seemed strange. Next to Loras she would at least feel safe.

Cedric's corpse was not the only one foumd, days later, fishermen dragged out a body from the Mander, near Dunstonbury, floating with an arrow in his neck. The unlucky one was one of her father's men, with a golden rose stitched on his chest. Garlan went to see the body and returned after two days.

"Besides all the perils, now we have to deal with outlaws. Hang every one who looks like an outlaw," her father waved his index finger in front of a full hall. The dancers stopped, the singers hushed, and the court fools paused. Sworn swords, petty nobles and almost everyone who rode a horse and wielded a sword vowed revenge and that they would bring the head of the culprit.

"Father, these are not outlaws. I know this arrow well", Garlan held a broken arrow in his hand, an arrowhead and thirty inches of wood. "Such arrowheads are forged in only one place in all of Westeros. Horn Hill. The body of our man floated from Bitterbridge and this is a Tarly arrow".

Chapter Text

The Hand of the King

Father was never a military genius, competent certainly, but definitely not Randyll Tarly, Tyrion could have said but did not, now was not the time to rub salt on the fresh wound. Lord Tywin was a man of the bigger picture, patient and cunning, but on the battlefield he could slip too. If Roger Reyne had been faster and more capable, his surprise attack would have written different pages of history. Maybe Tyrion's grandfather Lord Tytos would have apologized to House Reyne for killing his eldest son. Reyne's can stay in hell, otherwise, this dwarf wouldn't be born, but the cruelty of war is, that it does not deprive the world of only the living, but also the unborn. How many maidens waited for their husbands and did not meet them. Lucky for me, I only have whores waiting.

"Is Lord Tywin dead?", Pycelle was almost formal, as formal as a screechy voice could be.

Marbrand shrugged, "we had to break through the Dornish infantry, to escape, many did not make it, that's when I saw him last. He waited behind; for us to make a passage." Tyrion remembered his father from his only battle, how he followed the development from the safety of his hilltop, surrounded by the reserves.

"And my father?" A voice piped up from the far corner of the room. The knightly mask of Lancel Lannister disappeared under the flame of uncertainty.

"Who are you?" Ser Addam looked at Lancel with a puzzled frown. Lancel's tongue had been stolen by one of Tommen's cats, it seemed, and Addam Marbrand had no patience for other people's silence.

"The rest of the army?" Tyrion asked the knight, while they both looked at the sickly Gyles Rosby who looked like he was going to collapse on the table.

Marbrand seemed more tired with every breath. "I gathered what I could, but the Dornishmen were always on our tails, and the road north was blocked, so we crossed the God's Eye river and headed here. After the river they left us alone. I have no doubt that many stragglers are hiding in the woods. I left some men to try to round them up and by luck, send them to King's Landing. Alyn Stackspear went to find Ser Forley Prester. He has some six thousand horsemen, if he still lives."

Unlike Cersei, Pycelle and Varys, whose faces were painted with despair, and Rosby who was already in the hands of the Silent Sisters, Tyrion was happy for a change. The night before, he trusted his tribesmen more than the mob called the City Watch. Bronn had brought them in line, but harassing petty thieves and defending the city were two different cups of tea. And Cersei, for sure, would not have let three hundred Lannister household guards, under Vylarr, out of the Red Keep.

The morning was brighter, he had nearly three thousand Lannisters, and more if the sick and wounded were counted, and maybe a host that could come and lift the siege. If Tyrion's trick with the wildfire worked, that would not be such a problem.

When their little meeting was over Tyrion was left alone with her in the room. After the raven from Maidenpool, by which Lord Mooton informed the world of the victory of his new royal lord, Cersei's anger boiled into disbelief, then turned into dread and fear. Ser Addam was a salvation, but his appearance pinched them and confirmed that the nightmare was real.

"How do you plan to save us?" she asked without contempt, for once. She was meek and helpless. I'm taller than the father now. His sister hid her face under her hands.

"I will try to hold the city, but, truth be told, I don't know what we can do. We're at war with half the world, we have no army left. Joffrey has to give up the crown!"

He looked into her eyes, green orbs that fought back tears.

"He'll never do that..." the old Cersei returned for a moment.

"Highgarden has bent the knee to Aegon, he is to wed Margaery Tyrell. The Eyrie declared the same. I'm half expecting a raven from the heavens to tell us that the Seven have forsaken us." Will they call me a mad dwarf when this is over, or is imp enough? Was Aerys really so mad?

"I should have let that drunk fool live. If he was here, he would not sit on his arse and rest his belly. His warhammer would smash all the pretenders. Curse those hundred stinking and drunken whores and Jon Arryn, and Stannis... and Ned Stark" she sounded too weary for rage.

"Half of them would not be pretenders if Robert was alive, and I doubt Doran Martell would have sided with the dragon boy, even if it was his own son, much less his nephew. But in that world I only live when I close my eyes." Tyrion was living a dream now, he had a civil conversation with Cersei, and maybe, her respect.

"How do I know that this Aegon won’t take revenge on us for the death of his mother and sister?”. Well, I don’t and that’s terrifying.

“When father removed Rhaegar’s children from this world…”, or one of them, “there were many who would have remained loyal to the Targaryens. With his relentless work Joff ensured that there is no one who would lift a finger for him now or later”. Tywin Lannister was not a military genius, but a genius in any case, he stopped the further war. If Ned Stark had appeared before the gates of King’s Landing the first, no one would have been polite and opened the door for him. The siege would have lasted endlessly long, and maybe Lord Tyrell would have lifted his ass from Storm’s End and come to the aid of his sovereign. The Dornishmen would surely have rushed to help their princess. But with Aerys dead, the princess and children too, for Mace Tyrell further war was too tedious affair, and the Dornishmen were not too interested in Aerys’ other children.

"And if Joff gives up the crown, why would they spare him, or Myrcella and Tommen,". She was desperate and every wrinkle on her face showed it. The most beautiful woman in Westeros, as the singers called her, now looked ten years older than she was. Her piercing emerald eyes had faded, her golden hair had withered and her skin had dried up.

"Because we can give them the West as an ally and one enemy less. Varys will hide the children until I make a deal. Neither Stannis nor Robb Stark have declared for the Dragon, if they haven't by now, they won't. Joff can bend the knee, ask for mercy and rise as the new Lord of Casterly Rock." I can then move to the happy world of dwarves. Tyrion probably never stunned Cersei more than now, but behind the shocked face there was relief. She wanted it, and naively believed Tyrion. No laws of gods and men give Joffrey the Rock, but they give it to Tyrion.

"Father...?"

"...he is as good as dead, I doubt he is alive at all. Put yourself in the vengeful skin of the young Targaryen." At least that's not a problem for you. "Father's head is worth more than Robert's. Old sins have dragged him under water, I just hope he won't drag us for a swim also."

"And I have to tell all this to Joffrey," she raised both eyebrows and revealed sleepless eyes ringed in a bowl of dark circles.

"Of course. My head is still comfortably on my shoulders and it would be nice to stay there." Tyrion doubted that the arrogant brat, who was king in his spare time, would listen to the reason.

And he didn't, the next day Tyrion was summoned to the Throne Room, where the golden-haired 'son' of Robert Baratheon sat on the Iron throne. A stream of blood flowed from a cut on his left hand. The Boy was so fidgety that he didn't notice the pain.

"I can have your head for that nonsense. I don't have the heart of a woman, to accept defeat," the words squashed in themselves from anger. You have no heart at all.

"One would think that, by now, you have learned the lesson that chopping off heads is not a wise policy." Blount, Trent, Moore were all standing ready. Ironically enough, Sandor Clegane seemed like the safest person. Still, Tyrion was surrounded by ten of his clansmen, and Bronn.

The shrill voice of Pycelle echoed in the huge room, "Lord Tyrion, speaks counsel of betrayal". The old man knew where to stand, on the dais, to make his feeble voice more powerful. For the sake of sound, Iron Throne was in the wrong place.

"Remind us Pycelle, who advised the Mad King to open the gates to my sire and his army," Tyrion said softly to the treacherous maester.

"I did what was best for the realm," the maester said more to himself than to them.

"And in the process saved your own skin. No doubt when the decisive hour comes, you will give our young king equally wise counsel." The words struck like an arrow in the bullseye and Joffrey looked nervously at the maester. Now, Pycelle was like a snake shedding skin.

"I ordered Ser Addam to take over charge of the defense of the city," Joffrey bellowed, to which Tyrion smirked slightly. A grown king would have done it himself, but not the Lannister wonderboy.

"Challenge Aegon to a duel, like in the good old days, the son of Robert Baratheon against the son of Rhaegar Targaryen".

The king was now squirming in his chair. "He is a false..., a pretender, I have no intent of acknowledging him by that act". In a falsehood you are closer to the dragon king than you think. Joffrey was surrounded by Lannister iconography, but he remained alone, in the whole court, in the belief that Robert was his father.

"You have to slay the dragon to make the throne yours, your father at least understood that much," with those words Tyrion left the great hall, he did not wait for the king's permission, but he felt the cold gaze on his back. Tyrion was sure that Ser Addam would fight to the last bit of strength, at least for the revenge and wounded pride for the Redwood sept. Until the banners of Highgarden appear, or the Dornishmen come from the south, or even Lysa Arryn sends the Knights of the Vale. Before the gates of King's Landing, the largest army in Westerosy history could gather.

Tyrion Lannister did Ser Addam a courtesy and told him about the plan with the buried barrels of wildfire. The knight was nervously darting his eyes. "Why don't we hurl them with catapults?" he said.

"Because wildfire is not just fire. Someone drops a barrel and all the walls go to the seven hell's. Varys has spies in the enemy camp, soon we will know which gate they will strike." And a week later, Varys' birds, from Hayford castle, brought news that the Dragon army was marching on the Dragon gate... the befitting entry; and as Tyrion expected, all the houses from the Crownlands joined the Dragon king, except for those who had gone over to Stannis. In the town, the lion sleeps alone. Joffrey of course threw all their kin into the black cells.

Just after they buried the last barrel, in front of the walls, the first enemy outriders rode past, their golden armor glittered in the distance. They were like fireflies, you could count them by the sparkling dots. Bronn was right, golden cloaks are folly, at least they will make it easier for our archers. Of course, the Gold Cloaks of the City Watch took off their cloaks and stayed only in a black armor. Tyrion hoped that the Targaryens would not wear black armor like in the bygone days. The world is confusing enough as it is.

....

The stones soared over the scarecrow guards and hit the wall with a chorus of dull thuds. A merlon near Tyrion burst into dust, followed by the shriek of the boys who were hiding behind the stone shield. Their lone catapult, from the Lion Gate, answered back, but the stone fell short of its enemy kin.

Tyrion, huddled behind the merlon, looked at Bronn. "The same as I told you at the Green Fork, stay low." Tyrion started laughing when the next salvo hit, shattering many lions on the watchtowers. Many of the lion statues were placed in the honor of the marriage pact between Cersei and Robert; now they vanished, but the walls stood firm. The dragons had to do better.

Lancel stood calmly behind one of the guard towers, in a bright red and richly decorated armor with lion-shaped pauldrons. He was brave, I had to give him that. "Lancel, where is the king?"

"His Grace implores you to send for him if his presence is necesery"

“I will,” Tyrion said, “maybe if the Others, Snarks and Giants come we will need his help". The Protector of the Realm.

Whatever Lancel wanted to answer, a new salvo of stones interrupted and the walls rumbled again, with dust falling and people ducking. Tyrion rinsed the taste of sand from his mouth. The smallfolk from the houses along the walls were fleeing to the inner city. Smaller stones overflew the walls. When they all fled, a woman’s body lay on the street, staining the muddy and strawy ground with the redness of blood. The poor wretch had run from the rumbling into death.

“I doubt they will attack soon,” he said to Bronn.

“Probably not, maybe not at all,” the sellsword replied, “they are playing with mind's, when the folk go mad enough, the crowd will run to open the gates.”

"And the dwarf will be blamed for everything in the end".

"If they don't eat you first," Bronn said casually.

Yes. If they don't eat me first. The affection of the smallfolk is harder to earn than to play the game of thrones. You give them a little, it's not enough; you give them a lot, you could have done more.

"My Lord," a page in a red Lannister coat was crawling up the battlements, wriggling between people, "my Lord Hand"

"Yes, I'm here," Tyrion shouted, like a lord.

The boy was terrified, though, judging by his clean clothes, he had just climbed up to the walls. Again, Tyrion had lost track of time.

"Lord Varys pleads that you come to the Red Keep. The queen wants to poison the children." Of course she does, I don't mind her action, if she is the first to take a sip.

"Chella, Timmet with me," the dwarf said, "Bronn, you too."

"I wouldn't stay anyway."

Their mounts trotted through the empty streets with haste. Tyrion had long reconciled with his stature, but life was a bitch, eager to remind him every day of the drawbacks of being low. A gallop would suit the current urgency, but his riding skills did not allow it.

Still, they quickly passed under the shadow of the Sept of Baelor and entered the spacious cobblestone of the Central Square, from where followed a steep climb to Aegon's high hill. The streets were deserted, and silent prayers replaced the stench as the main ornament of the capital. The bronze gates of the Red Keep loomed before them.

"Halfman, look, gate, gate," Chella said with a grating voice.

Yes, Chella, gates. The bronze gates were as they had left them. The guards on the battlements eyed them through the crossbow sights.

"Nooo, no big house gate. Wall gate, wall gate," she repeated.

This time Tyrion turned and King's Landing was in his palm. In his palm, but not in the grip of his family. The Gate of the Gods and the King's Gate were both wide open and cavalry was pouring through both. Ser Addam Marbrand and his men would soon be caught in a pincer move.

Bronn was a dozen feet lower, watching the scene with a casual air. Tyrion would be lying to himself if he said he was surprised, he had a feeling in his small bones that it couldn't end any other way. But how? he wondered, who opened the heavy oak doors, then the iron hinges.

"We part ways now, friend," Bronn said with a pinch of melancholy, which did not suit him at all.

"Did you have a hand in this?" Tyrion wanted to know.

"The lads did ask, I said no. I don't work for the shadow men, or the shadow coin, not actively at least." The Gold Cloaks of course. Was it Baelish from far away pulling strings? Lysa Arryn had bent her son's knee and Baelish was fucking her. And Tyrion thought he replaced all of the officers loyal to Littlefinger. And I did, realization came.

Fuck me, it is I who opened the gates. Four are there in the room: a lord, a merchant, a septon and a common sellsword. Where does the power reside?, the question was. Beneath the board where The Spider lurks. I replaced Littlefinger's men, with those loyal to his foe.

He pierced his departing protector with a cold gaze.

"You said it yourself," Bronn lowered his eyebrows "Death is boring, I don't believe in 'onorable last stand. I don't think that I ever fought for 'onor in my life."

"I am paying you more, isn't that of importance for your lying treacherous heart?"

"Aye, but a gold a man cannot carry is not his gold, better a small amount I can put in me pockets, in me bag and leave as a free man. Here a lot is less, I guess." His words were louder than the dull distant sounds of battle.

"True, but in any case go to hell."

"I don't think that you believe in any other hell than this one we are living. All of this doesn't mean that we are not friends..."

"Yes, my head on a spike, yours in honey and mead."

"I rather prefer good ale, but I can hide you, no one is paying me for a dwarf's head, just to not fight back."

"I have to save the children," conscience spoke instead of Tyrion.

"Yeah, you do," Bronn uttered the last words and rode into the city, to drown in thievery, to hide until the uncertainty passed.

"Halfmen, should Timit bring you his head"

"No Timmit shouldn't", he told to the chiftain.

With Gold Cloaks also on the Red Keep battlement he was not sure the gates would open. The creaking of the hinges dispelled his doubts.

As he passed through the half-open gate, he was immediately knocked down by a dull blow. Timmet snarled at the maid who had collided with Tyrion and the poor woman screamed, looking at his burned eyesocket. She ran away without an apology.

The flames of chaos ruled the castle, servants rushed headlong, guards were not at their posts. Tyrion's eyes found Joffrey on the great stairs.

"Kill them," the boy king barked, but Vylarr and the rest of Lannister household guards did not listen or did not understand. Kill whom? The army that was conquering the city, the servants in anarchy, the ghosts that whispered foul words to Joffrey's mind.

Joffrey's sense of entitlement began to crumble. He had always believed himself invincible, shielded by the power of his crown and the might of House Lannister. Both were now gone.
The brat was lost, but months of enduring his idiocy erupted in Tyrion, spewing fire like the mighty volcanoes of old Valyria.

"You fool," he hit Joffrey with every ounce of his small body, "People are already dying, the city is burning." Joffrey tumbled down the stairs and hit his head on an ornate grotesque. Tyrion snatched the crown off his bloody head and threw it down the stairs. The golden antler circle clanged with every bounce of the smooth stone, until the last clang stopped at Hound's feet. Joffrey's protector watched silently as Tyrion humiliated his King.

Vylarr and Lannister guards under halfhelms stood motionless, just a day before they would have dragged Tyrion to Ilyn Payne, without a second thought.

"Many men would like to pierce this beauty. Only once," the fair-faced septa, with lustful eyes, gently stroked Cersei’s smooth chin.

“Halfman, shall Timmet kill women?”

He almost answered no, it was unseemly for a man to raise his hand to a woman, but these were Dornishwomen, with knives instead of fingers and tongues venomous as rattlesnakes. Bronn avoided Dornish whores, “they have teeth on their lower lips too”. But, Dornishmen were too brave to be cockless.

“We would be flattered by that Timmet,” the fair one said, “or maybe the other creature wants to try,” her poisonous blue eyes pierced Chella.

He measured the time by the shadow of the bed, which stretched across the floor in the afternoon light. Before him, the girls had stripped off the septa’s robes. Underneath, Obarra wore warriors practicality, and Tyene beauty and seduction. Stealing glances at the younger Dornish girl, he cursed himself, but still got hard on as her attire was inversely proportional to the septa’s. Sandsilk barely concealed her well-shaped breasts, and leather pants accentuated her eye-pleasing rear. His crotch was alive, it might as well be your last time.

Obara glared with annoyance as he bantered with Tyene. The brown-haired Obarra would rather be a mute sentinel. She had snapped at him several times for tapping his feet too loudly and forbade him to drink any of the chamber's plentiful wine. Look Father, I am not the greatest drunk of the family. Your lovely daughter is.

"Ahhh", he grunted in bewilderment, unaware of the meaning behind his words. Across the room, Tyene's lips curled into a smile for the umpteenth time that day.

"Don’t make a fool of yourself," Obara snapped at the knight, "Take him away."

"And the Queen?" he inquired.

"She is in no condition," Obara replied.

"I warned you, we should have used less," Tyene said with a reproach from Obara's eyes.

The Red Keep bore the scars of war, with corpses of Lannister and foe alike strewn along the halls and corridors. The bloodstains blended with the crimson stone, almost invisible to the eye. They dragged Tyrion through the battlements, heading for the Tower of the Hand. Over the city, Tyrion glimpsed a black banner flying over the Gate of the Lion. A red speck adorned its center, closer to the eye, it would be a three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

A voice from the ramparts hailed Tyrion’s chief guard. “Hey Cole, let the dwarf have a look.”

They made their way to the watchtower over the main bronze gate, which was now lifting slowly. The Spider had revealed to them the secret passages, the hidden mysteries of King Maegor that Tyrion had sought to unravel since he came to dwell at King Robert’s court. The sunset dyed the hilltops in a fiery color, while on the east the darkness engulfed the sea. The Red Keep’s walls were manned by hundreds of Golden Company men and Dornishmen.

The broad road that descended from Aegon’s high hill was no longer empty, people cautiously came out of their houses, drawn by the smell of bread, that the conquerors of the city were handing out. Like a golden snake, a procession approached the gate from the Central Square. The head of the snake was formed by the banners of House Targaryen and Martell. Tyrion recognized the banners of Qorgyle, Ironwood, Mooton, Stokeworth and many smaller houses that were too many to count. The hungry crowd cheered the army that climbed to the castle, which would soon be home to House Targaryen once more.

"Look carefully, Imp, some faces may ring a bell,” the bearded sellsword mocked him.

As the horsemen passed through the gate, Tyrion scanned the crowd for the new king, but there was no sign of the milky pallor and silvery locks. His gaze froze on another man.

Tywin Lannister rode on a donkey, dressed in a woman's gown. The commoners pelted him with stones and dung. The Lord of Casterly Rock looked straight ahead, keeping his rigid countenance.

In the courtyard, the boy who led the donkey spat at Tyrion's father, and commanded him to dismount the animal. Then the eyes of father and son met. As usual, Tyrion Lannister tried to find disappointment in his father's eyes, but the old eyes told a different story.

In those same eyes, Tyrion had seen, a hundred times, shame and anger for his dwarf son, but now Lord Tywin was ashamed of being in his own skin.

Chapter Text

The Queen presumptive

Lady Alerie was sobbing as the Silent Sisters performed their slow ritual around Garlan's body. Her wails were only matched by his wife Lady Leonette. Margaery's brother lay on a great pedestal, his face powdered and perfumed to ward off the stench of death, on a bed of green branches and fresh flowers.

The septon recited passages from the Seven-Pointed Star, adorned in an incomprehensible language, while Margaery lifted her gaze from her brother's body to the Warrior. You have abandoned him, you betrayed him. Every tear cut her face with the reminder that this was reality. The brother she loved was dead. On her shoulder she felt a hand, Willas was moving his courage and steadfastness to her.

....

After he slaughtered all men that stayed true to House Tyrell at Bitterbridge, Randyll Tarly proclaimed himself Lord Paramount of the Mander, and Warden of the South, all in the name of King Stannis. The betrayal left a bitter taste in there mouth and unleashed the dogs of war across the fertile fields of Reach. Petty lords turned against each other in a matter of days, old enmities resurfaced, new ones arose from greed for another's land. Tarly was soon joined by Lady Oakheart, both of Fossoways, red and green, and Florents. From the wrath of betrayal, the loyalist force under Lord Rowan barely escaped from Bitterbridge.

Mander relentlessly spat out bodies, and every day more candles burned under the white statue of the Mother.

"We are blessed, if the most of the banners remained at Bitterbridge, the damage would have been far greater," sighed Willas. He turned to Margaery, "Dear sister, you saved us." The uncertainty about her betrothal, and to whom House Tyrell would give its allegiance, created a waiting, a precious time. Without Renly's tournaments and pageants, the army soon melted away. The lords wanted to go home, to tend their fields with the same strong arms that wielded their spears.

"Autumn is cruel to the crops," Lord Ambrose lamented. "The harvest is meager enough, and if we do not reap swiftly, the wheat will rot in the damp air."

Her father had hearkened to the ravens from Bitterbridge and many had left the gathering, only to come back soon enough. Like a flush of spring roses, a new host sprouted, around the skeleton of ten thousand men that her father already had. Garlan had led almost twenty-five thousand along the Rose road, joined with Lord Rowan and met Tarly in battle. Her brother was slain by Perman the Purple, near Appleton. The Mother's mercy did not spare Lord Rowan for the second time and he was taken prisoner. The loss of both commanders devastated the morale of the Tyrell army and it crumbled, like dried petals in the wind.

"Death is not the only child of defeat, betrayal is its twin," said Lord Baelish, without his usual smirk. A few betrayals became many betrayals after Appleton. Footly, Blackbar, Webber, Stackhouse, all turned their cloaks.

"Youthful rashness. No wise man would face Randyll Tarly on a open field. I am a women, and still know that," the blackness of the mourning, cloaked Ollenna Tyrell's face. Old and stiff, but beneath all that, of a gentle heart, for her grandchildren.

"I say, it is a folly to fight Randyll Tarly on any field," replied Baelish. Margaery had known Littlefinger long enough to know that he did not mean to yield, or to give up. Behind the sharp beard and short hair, there were ways beyond the pride and vanity of martial lords. The death of her former husband showed the truth, where war can be won without the armies ever clashing into each other.

The faces of the seven gods seemed empty when she returned to the sept, to look into her brother's eyes for the last time. The stone and wooden faces were before her eyes, once she would have been afraid, and yet, in the hour of her sorrow, the dread of the Stranger is gone, the grace of the Maid faded, and the face of the Mother hardened like the rock it was hewn from. The jagged sun through the glass dome brought light. Are you a god?, she asked the heavenly circle, maybe I should pray to you.

Willas sat alone by the altar, with his sword drawn and kept vigil. Their father should have relieved him, but the heart of the Lord of Highgarden was broken and he locked himself in his chambers. With Loras far away, Willas did not let cousins take over the funeral rites for the family. The true family, only we are House Tyrell, no matter what one's name said.

"A better warrior than anyone, I thought," she said.

"And he was," Willas answered, "but war is fickle, Garlan took an arrow under his arm, and then he could not lift it. The finest swordsman cannot fight without a hand."

The flowers on the altar wilted and lost their luster, the wax from the candles dripped, a foul smell crept through the shield of fragrant oils. She stroked Garlan's face, "they already whisper that he was reckless, he charged at that cursed traitor on the open ground, they say."

Willas gazed at her pensively, "Tarly seems no less hasty. He could have waited for Garlan at Bitterbridge and held the bridge over Mander, a much stronger position, yet he did not. Garlan was clever, he took the high ground. The slopes near Appleton are no hills but the best men can do in that situation, and deprived Tarly's archers of a prized terrain. Cousin Rickard says Garlan led a horse charge and smashed through Fossoway and Florent lines. We came close to victory."

What could have been was too painful for her. "Any word from my betrothed? Should he not come to our aid?" After Garlan's fall, Tarly was marching to Highgarden, with all his turncloaks and those he picked on the way.

"Our cause is not lost, but we do need help, so I eagerly await a raven from King's Landing. The Hightower host is marching towards Horn Hill, to besiege Tarly's seat. It seems our cousins took Father's way and are going to fight our battles where we do not need them.

"Brother, I do not see concern on your face?" She wanted to smile at him, but sorrow forbade it.

"Hardly a time for concern. The walls of Highgarden are stern and thick. The green maze is treacherous, and we have two levels to retreat to; food for three winters and fresh wells to drink from. Dear Margaery, atop the white towers you will not notice that we are under siege."

"Proper, isn't it? A fair lady waiting for her prince of silver hair, riding in a knightly armor on a black steed."

"Yours is half-Dornish, if he has a taste for a good mount, you will see him on a sand steed, maybe black as a raven with a fiery mane, as it befits the colors of his house," he took her hand. "Your house." Now she did smile faintly. I am going to be the queen. When the bones of all living men turn to dust, and a hundred winters come and go, the realm will speak of Queen Margaery, daughter of the greatest lord in the kingdom, wife to a mighty king, and mother of a grand king. She will be that and more, more than Rhaenys and Visenya were to the first Aegon, more than the good queen Alysanne was to Jaehaerys.

I have to think of names for the sons I will give him. She would be lying if she said she liked the Targaryen names. Foreign and queer, hard to pronounce, even harder to remember.

Petyr Baelish entered the sept, walking like a shadow.

"Lord Baelish, I did not see you as a godly man," she gave him a cold look, measuring his figure.

"Men can find gods in many different things. Some find them in ruined crops, blisters on their hands, harsh winters, hungry years and in the fire of war. The Seven are aspects of one, the septons preach, if they are, the one true god is lord of desire and coin. I happen to provide both."

The sword in Willas's hands became a servant of war for a moment, her older brother had one bad leg, but two strong hands. "Words of wisdom are always welcome where I am, Lord Baelish," the wisdom in Willas's voice lost its meaning, "Yet, still, my brother lies dead here."

As usual, the silent threats to Baelish seemed as dangerous as the chirping of birds in the gardens of Highgarden.

"No offense, my lord. I only came to pay my respects to young Garlan, and inform our queen that we are leaving before the sunrise."

"Leaving?" she eyed at him with distrust, "Where?"

Willas wanted to turn his angry gaze into a new warning, but Baelish beat him to it.

"Your grandmother believes it to be prudent for you to go and meet your future husband sooner. The current lack of peace in Reach may leave unfortunate consequences, so there will no ceremonial escort that Queen Cersei once received."

War is jeopardizing the alliance, sooner she weds the king and beds him, the sooner the position of her family becomes secure.
"I am ready now, if my lord of Fingers is," she smiled at him. No tears are allowed in the game. "Am I going to be safe with you though, since you are afraid to return to the capital?"

"Believe me, my lady, in less than a fortnight, the king and you can give yourself to the pleasure of royal obligations. Of creating heirs."

"And Father is content with this?" Willas addressed her rather than Baelish.

Father is indisposed, she could have said. Instead she simply said, "I am content." He had found solace for the loss of the son in food and ate more than usual. They said Lord Manderly could not ride, so fat he was, she feared her father would follow that path. The vassals loved his kindness and hospitality, but love could turn into mockery overnight. Her house would survive the current betrayal, but not with an untarnished reputation, she feared.

"By sunset I will arrange one hundred men for an escort," Willas said.

"Additional security is always welcome, but in this case not. Travel is faster under the errand of secrecy. A large group is noticeable; we will ride on the southern bank of Mander, and opposite to the enemy, but still, the loyalties of small lords are not a sure thing. If I may say."

"Lord Baelish is right, brother. I am assured in his ability to bring me to my destination." Truly she was, the man had his ways around the world and motivation. To rise under the good grace of the king, he needed her family. The new queen could provide him with new opportunities at the court. Maybe even return, to his old post, at the small council.

"Well, then, be safe," he hugged her and kissed her on the forehead, "do our family honor, our place at the court is long overdue." His beard tickled her when she returned the affection, with a kiss on the cheek.

She was not destined to sleep that night, for Littlefinger suddenly moved the departure earlier, for the hour of the ghost. That was a lesson too, changing plans and paths best hid the traces and drove the enemies to the wrong directions. Mark Mullender and her great-uncle Garth joined them. She barely had time to kiss her father and mother, and grandmother Olenna, before Highgarden became a white blur on the horizon.
.....

The Widow of Winterfell

The Kingslayer stood alone in the middle of the great hall, shackled by chains, with his golden hair dirty and dull, his pale skin parched and lips cracked. Days without sun had taken their toll and Tywin Lannister's son had lost the contours of his carefully preserved beauty.

Outside Riverrun, the autumn wind battered the walls and howled harshly, mingling with the thunderous rain. Braziers warmed the rooms with security, and candles lit salvation. The Trident raged on all three sides, this was not a time when a man should venture outside.

Robb sat on the dais, with Edmure by his side. Great lords of the North and the Trident stood together. The hall was full of talk and laughter; Robb had brought much of gold, wheat and cattle from the western campaign, and a wife, and Edmure was still boasting of his achievements against the Lannisters at the Fords. Catelyn knew the truth, the battle was short as the Lannisters turned back immediately after they heard of their calamity at Harrenhal. Rickard Karstark exchanged inseparable glances with his son Harrion, but the boy had to go back and resume his captivity, those were the rules of honor.

"Why am I here, Stark? The dungeon halfwits, you put for my torment, are not doing their job. Or am I to lose my head?" the Kingslayer said with a raspy voice. His dry throat craved wine, to wash away the filth.

"A head that does not have much of value," Tytos Blackwood, as ever, stood out with his feathered cloak. Many laughed, but Robb kept his eyes serious. The deaths of Bran and Rickon had taken a greater toll than any eye but a mother's could notice. He seldom laughed at anything nowadays.

Lannister looked at him, slight confusion in his eyes.

"Your father's army has been defeated by the Targaryen claimant, and King's Landing has fallen to them. Most of your kin are either dead or captive," Robb went straight to the point.

A wretched look did not hide the horrendous blow and Jaime Lannister replied, "You cannot play with my mind, any more than the darkness of your dungeon."

"Believe what you want, Lannister, truth is truth. And the truth now is that you are of no use to me", Robb said, his voice cold and hard. A raven had flown to Maidenpool, offering to trade the Kingslayer for Sansa. The man had killed the last Targaryen king, after all, broke his vow, no matter how evil that king may have been. The reply had said bluntly no, and repeated the command that all lords must bend the knee. They had many more lords captive, and lordlings alike, but if the Kingslayer was out of consideration, the rest were valued less. Robb had given permission to all of his lords to start negotiating with westermen families, for ransoms. The Lannisters were not their main enemy anymore, though the thought felt strange.

"My sister...?"

"Your lover, you mean," Greatjon jested and once again the room roared in laughter.

"And my brother, the children, how they fare," Jaime did not heed the laughter. He truly cared for them, Cat was astonished. So much so, that his vanity took a respite.

"I do not know," Robb uttered. The mention of the children clenched Catelyn Stark's heart and her thoughts wandered again to her lost sons. Brienne, her guard, noticed her discomfort and gently caught her hand. With all might of her size, Brienne still had the gentleness of a woman. The two of them sat, on the left side of the hall, on a lonely short table.

Bowing his head, Lannister awaited the sword of an invisible executioner. He wanted to die, these few moments took more out of him than months of captivity.

"As befits your crimes; murder, vows forsaken, violation of your own sister, I banish you to the Night's Watch," the invisible executioner turned into Robb's words. Catelyn was convinced that the Kingslayer had pushed Bran from the tower, but he would not confess. A man, without proof, could not be judged. Luckily, Jaime Lannister had committed so much evil that a hundred could be sent to the Wall for the same. Robb had hesitated in his judgment, but her voice had prevailed. Executing him would just create more of the bad blood, and the Targaryen boy did not value him as highly as they had hoped. With his last living son by his side, even Rickard Karstark, hungry for vengeance, did not rage as expected. But, at the same time, the man deserved to be punished.

"Better kill me," Lannister spat, "I do not give a damn about your northern fairy tales or honour in freezing at the Wall."

"Then you will learn. All the time of the world will serve you in learning our customs and traditions," northern defiance snarled from Robb. "Take him away," he ordered the guards, who dragged Lannister out of the great hall, amid laughter and jeers from those present.

Greatjon roared, "The King in the North," and the northmen took up the cry. Ser Tytos Blackwood raised his voice for the rivermen, and even Lord Jonos Bracken and his kin joined him. “The King of the Trident.”

The wish for other men's praise was foreign to Robb, as it was to his father. He thanked his bannermen, each one by the name, and left the hall through the back entrance. In passing, he glanced at Catelyn and she rose and followed him. Brienne went in the opposite direction, not wanting to share company with scores of men.

When they met again in the corridor, he could not look her in the eyes, ashamed of the injury to his honor. She had told him a hundred times that her heart cared not for honor, not when he was all she had left, and not when Robb loved the girl so much. Family, duty, honor. Family came first, the portraits from the walls spoke, her ancestors, from the days of old.

"The queen did not attend the feast," Catelyn said more as a statement than a question. Jeyne had kept to her chambers for two days.

"My lady is feeling unwell, she has been tired for several days. Last night she vomited several times, and this morning again," he paused for a moment and for the first time since his arrival she saw a true smile on his face. "Maester Vyman does not believe it is an illness."

She embraced him warmly and kissed his brow. Oh Ned, you should be here.

His cheerful face turned serious again, "It is time to return home, and drive the reavers from our land. Ravens were sent to White Harbor and Barrowton to raise more men. Lord Manderly was already raising more of his levies.”

"But the Lannisters..."

"Are not of our concern anymore, I fought a war for justice and honor. From the grave or black cells the Lannisters cannot give us either. I ordered Roose to make a deal with Prester, if he takes the road to the south, he can freely exit our land. And there is no honor in feasting here while my land suffers from the Ironborn. Father always said they are weak on the land, powerless without their longships."

Robb had to go to the North, there was no doubt about that. The northern lords were too impatient, more out of their wounded honor. The Karstarks, the Manderlys, the Umbers and the Boltons had not suffered as much as Tallharts or Glovers, or suffered at all, but they were still of wild northern blood, and northern blood never sleeps. The Ironborn were not the only ones deserving of punishment. The young Bolton bastard was creating havoc, the ill fate of Lady Hornwood had reached even Riverrun. Catelyn loathed the boy twice over, for every time she heard his name Snow, she was reminded of another.

“The boy is of bastard blood, baseborn, passionate and evil, it was my mistake, that I gave him a roof, after the death of my Domeric,” Roose Bolton told them through a raven. As clever as he was, Roose played the victim as well, mentioning his own dead son in moments when Catelyn and Robb mourned Bran and Rickon.

She worried too much for Robb, another loss would be too painful, and the path to the north was barred, not only at the Neck, but unspoken, also at the Twins.

“Still, Victarion Greyjoy holds Moat Cailin,” Cat said to her only son.

“Meage and Galbart Glover will soon depart to Seagard. It took some convincing, but Jason Mallister will lend us three ships. Under my banner, they will enter the swamps of the Neck, and find Greywater Watch and recruit help from Howland Reed. With the help of the crannogmen, Moat Cailin can once again be in Stark hands.”

She sighed, gazing at the tapestries of the dewy fields on the green landscapes, that stretched on the walls behind the stone stairs, which led to Robb’s chambers, “and then you will lead your army back to the north.”

"And… I don’t need him. Moons ago, we needed to cross the river swiftly. Now, every other ford suits my need, however distant it can be. Lord Frey can soak in his castle, but when I drive away the Ironborn band, he will answer for his decision".

“You know the best way", she kissed him on the cheek.

She lost Ned, she lost Bran and Rickon. Sansa was far away and Arya was beyond her knowledge. Yet, finally Catelyn fell asleep happy, her son will soon have a child of his own. Happiness lasted just for one sweet dream. A new life was dawning, but another was fading. She woke to the news that her father had passed away.

Dark morning brought dark tidings, for Walder Fray answered requests with his own proposition. For a marriage.

.....

The Fiery Stag

Extravagance on polished floors where a man's reflection mocked him, unchanged and unbroken; extravagance on the walls, paintings of journeys that the lords of the palace never took; battles that they never bled in; obscene and shameless display of animal lusts at work, sexual acts in unnatural positions, acts of men with men, women with women; beasts in the marriage chambers. A twisted world, foul and repulsive.

Stannis regretted his decision to come here with every step. Magister Lorho Odaikos had given his word in writing, pledging the support of a group of 'allies' from Pentos, Lys and Tyrosh. A word that was supposed to mean ships and men.

"You and I are the same. Lonely in serving the reason in a world of madness", the magister said. A lean man, with regular features, with scant redish hair and skin, which was not smooth and shiny, but neither worn by hard work or war campaigns.

"Are we?" Stannis said, "I had to spend days in the peculiar halls of Targaryen folly, but you chose your Dragonstone". The men of the free cities are men of coin, they speak of feasts and tourneys before men of Robert's hunger, before men of Stannis' mold they are stern and calculative. But in any case, not trustworthy.

"The imagery displeases you?", Lorho Odaikos said with ignorant disdain, but not towards Stannis.

"It is distracting, a nuisance", Stannis simply answered.

"More maidens have been defiled here and bastards born out of lust than in all of Westeros". Men of Westeros are not so cerebral and honorable.

"Destroy it then", Stannis clenched his teeth, too impatient for hesitation.

"You did not change Dragonstone, did you, removed the gargoyles, leveled the grotesques. Your brother's hatred for the House of the Dragon reached us, but he kept the dragon skulls. The past is the ground on which we stand, even when we deny it. This palace was my uncle's, his ways died with him in the grave, but even if I paint over the walls his gold coins will remind me that I stand on his bones".

True enough. Robert's hatred for the Targaryens went beyond the bounds of decency. He drank and whored in their palaces, sat on their throne and ruled the continent they had forged into one kingdom. And yet he drunkenly roared, for all to hear, how the Targaryens had taken something from him.

"I did not come here to talk about the sins of our predecessors".

"No, you are here because you want a host and ships".

Stannis frowned at the man, He dares to claim that I gave impetus for this affair. "I have a letter here and what it says. The pirate Salador Saan vouches that you are a man of your word. Before receiving the letter I needed another host, after receiving it I need a fulfilled word."

"My word was fulfilled when the ink on the parchment dried. I do not waste paper on nonsense", he said in a voice whose dullness even Stannis would not envy. "I want to know if I am entrusting my resources to a man or a false shadow of tales from afar".

"The mummer games are not to my taste", Stannis looked again at his reflection on the ground, he never admired himself as Renly did, nor had the need to embellish.

"I see", Odaikos said. "Follow me", he headed for the golden doors. With deminishing patience, Stannis followed the man. They descended for a long time by the corner stairs to the river that flowed along the palace and guarded the eastern part of the massive building. Lavish barges were moored at the docks. Odaikos boarded one, and gestured his hand to Stannis for another. Both barges could separately, with comfort, carry both of them, with all their guards and servants.

The voyage was long, his guards gazed at the long-legged pink birds and white elephants that drank water along the shore. A beast is only a beast. On the paved plain, without walls, Odaikos' host waited.

"In the old days, when Pentos observed the slave custom of its mother Valyria, this was one of the trading posts. Of course, since our wars with Braavos, slavery is strictly forbidden". Forbidden was true, strictly was not. Stannis knew enough about Pentoshi schemes.

Unlike Westerosi hosts, in this one, each man wore the same chest armor made of sturdy linen and small plates of jade, with shoulder pieces made of the same material. Unlike any man in Westeros would, these soldiers wore linen skirts. The head was protected by a bronze helmet, with the face hidden under silken cloth. Muscular arms revealed the strength of the warriors, but also the weakness of exposed flesh.

"Not all of the ports commit to the safety of my goods, so I had to provide service myself in cooperation with my trade partners across the world. Necessity is the basis of every business, so we created our own legions".

"Slaves", Stannis stressed, recoiling from the foul practice. The man uses foreign interests to have a larger fleet than Braavos permits and an army in greater numbers than he should. Muscular arms in every shade of skin known to man; fair, ebony, olive, bronze and many more.

Odaikos pondered his answer. "True, some were, but it is I who rescued them out of the calamity. Put honest work into their hands, gave them contracts, and coin in their pockets. The nature of contracts is they expire, and after, these men can seek another employment over mine. As slaves, every choice leads to a whip, too many choices to an early grave."

"A mule with stirrups and saddle does not make a warhorse", Stannis admonished. Slavery in all but name, fine words change nothing. If any of these men would disobey, the peddler would sell them in the first port he can. In Essos, slavery is the norm, not the exception.

"I can show you each of their contracts. My patience is deeper than the sea and higher than your wall", Odaikos said impassively. He hid everything wrong, with himself, behind discipline.

"No need. In my ranks they will serve as free men, obey orders as any lord does and face justice for the transgressions in the same manner".

"Surely they will. And as promised my support comes free of any payment".

Four thousand spearmen, forty warships, as large as any in the royal fleet, and three times as many trade galleys. What kind of hatred does this man, and his secret colleagues, have for this Illyrio Mopatis to invest so much.

"Why do you hate that man?", he regretted as soon as he uttered the question, Stannis does not meddle in other people's affairs.

"No one said that I hate him, nor that it is my interest for him to fail". Of course it is not. Lies here have their own lies. He repeated the question with his eyes.

"Many of my merchant colleagues think that Westeros is not worth the trouble. Mopatis is not such a fool, he will use all the power of the united kingdom, with a vast population, and an even greater resources. The Power that can challenge the strongest money interests in the known world".

The merchant read the astonishment and confusion on Stannis’ face. The dragon pretender may be worse for the realm than he ever feared. The rule of such a man could bring many of the noble and smallfolk alike into this same false freedom that the jade warriors had. And Stannis had allied himself with hell to defeat demons. No, to defeat the great shadow with the blue eyes. The fire had told him the truth.

“You Westerosi lords only think of peasants and grain. Armor is forged only for war, clothes sewn only for wear. No vision. If I had only two pairs of shoes left, the first thing I would do is sell one pair and buy two more for a lower price”.

I cannot listen to this anymore. The man is servile to someone else, yet provides what Stannis needs. He barely endured his courtesy and then returned to his ship, and as soon as the sea stilled, five galleys sailed back to Dragonstone. The sea was calm, so the mighty autumn wind hastened the return and after two weeks of sailing, the huge pillar of ash appeared on the horizon. Dragonmount was not at rest and the top of the volcano was so hot that it served as a lighthouse.

Her work, he did not doubt, but the priestess gave away what she promised. The banners of Storm’s End are now his, and the Florents and Fossoways promised more. The red woman disliked the idea of help from the Pentoshi merchant. All of Renly’s arrogance fit into one peach... or mine.

"The Lord's chosen, needs no ships, nor more men, only fire.", she chanted the words, more than she spoke them. The last time he saw her, she promised him even more. With each new day he trusted in her god of the light. Stannis never believed in the Seven, he dutifully went to the septs when the occasion required, as a child he recalled the verses that the septons demanded. He did not believe, but customs and traditions are the pillar of the realm, without them the world is ruled by chaos and evil. Faith brings order to the world of men, just as the king's sword does, so he had to believe.

Robert believed in all of that, Stannis was certain of it; for every sept he entered, he visited a hundred brothels, but he believed. In the early days of his royal reign, when they could still have a decent talk, he boasted how the bells in Stony Sept were gods singing to him. Foolish as ever, he never spoke of the Seven as one, the complexity of it was too much for him. If it is not simple, it is not good. As a Battle commander he was good, with bold moves and swift marches, tactics simple but executed with firm will to precision. But facing the genius of Lord Tarly, simple and bold was not enough. The thought of Robert always left a sour taste in his mouth.

The ash pillar turned into a black island of sharp rocks, from which rose the dragon towers of Stannis' seat. Gargoyle merlons and towers, queer beasts of cultures lost to time, or they never roamed the world. Cressen wanted him to learn about them. But why, what serves men to know the difference between sea dragons and wyverns. Or what is the story behind hellhounds. It hurt that the old man was gone, Stannis made a mistake not sending him back to Storm's End.

The numerous ships of the Royal fleet were docked at the shallow waters of the small port. Stormlords brought him men, but not much of a fleet. With allies from Myr, Lysene pirate lord and now mighty fleet of Pentoshi merchant, he can counter not only the ships that stayed at King's Landing, but with proper strategy he can smash Paxter Redwyne. The man is equally guilty for the year of torment in Storm's End as was his Tyrell liege lord.

Davos was waiting for him at the docks. If all the loyalty of the world could dwell in one man, that would be the Onion knight. Stannis owed him more than half of the fleet. Dealing with pirates was dishonorable and displeasing, but necessary.

They walked together towards the castle. "Tidings? I don't see Velaryon and Celtigar ships", Stannis asked, while Seaworth eyed the large merchant fleet. Almost a month and a half of absence was a month and a half of trouble, he did not doubt.

"After the news of the Targaryen boy's victory over the Lannisters came..."

"Pretender of name and claim, call him for what he is."

"Pretender's victory", Davos corrected himself. "Under the cover of the night they raised sails and presumably joined the foe. The boy has taken King's Landing".

Stannis halted after the last sentence. He knew of the Lannister defeat, wisely, Davos had sent one of the swift pirate galleys to bring news to Stannis, but he did not expect for the capital to fall, not before his return to Westeros.

"How?", he inquired. Davos had no answer, and just shook a head.

"It happened in a single day, it seems".

Fury rose in him, but as always he quelled the unwanted feelings with patience.

The climb up the long stairs was hard, but Davos did not lose his breath, although older than Stannis and the guards who followed them, in strength and stamina, the sailor would shame them. All of life on his feet, and hands that grew strong pulling heavy ropes, he looked younger than his face told.

"Is that all?", he fought with fatigue.

Uncertain eyes answered before the man. Melisandre. Concerns about the red priestess are in order. "No. Not everything is grim", Davos said carefully. "Randyl Tarly seems to have changed his mind and accepted your offer. He secured a significant part of Renly's provisions for your cause and smashed the Tyrell host. One of Mace Tyrell's sons died in battle, the middle one, I believe. Tarly took Mathos Rowan as a captive." The lord will give you more, Melisandre's words pierced his body.

Her red dress was visible, at the top of the stairs, flanked by two fourteen foot high dragon statues, which guarded the gates to the castle. Fire burned in their stone jaws and unseen fire in her heart.

"The flames showed me your safe return", the red woman said. "Did my King find what he sought across the sea?"

"I did", he said.

The pulsing crystal on her pale skin drew his attention so much that he did not notice the rest of the welcome, his goodbrother Imry, with uncles Alester and Axell and the fleet admiral Morosh the Myrmen.

"Coin secures ships, not the Fire gods", Morosh mocked. From the height of the castle gates, Stannis saw for the first time the full strength of the fleet, three hundred and fifty sails and more.

Melisandre of Asshai smiled to the Myrish men. "Lord of the Light burns ships. King Stannis is Lord's chosen, with one ship, and Lightbringer in his hand, he would destroy a thousand more".

"Lucky us then, we should all go home, for we are not needed", Morosh replied.

"Come my King, there is much for you to see". red priestess said.

He expected to be led to the throne room or in the great hall with the carved table map of Westeros, but they entered mouth of manticore which led deep down to the dungeons. Davos followed them reluctantly, while the smile of Axell Florent revealed childish joy. Castellan of Dragonstone was one of the most fervent supporters of the Lord of Light. If Selyse is not counted.

"Tarly. Is he your doing?", Stannis asked.

"I am merely a vessel for the Lord's work and his mercy granted me power to bring Tarly under your banner. His power is the only power". In the dim circular stairs Melisandre shone like the torches on the wall.

"When we got him at Storm's End, I had to put him in a box, so that no one could see through the ploy", Axel Florent exclaimed excitedly.

"The Lord's work is not a ploy", Melisandre said.

Florent took a torch from the wall and stretched it towards the dark bars of the dungeon. The lit face of the man puzzled Stannis.

"I thought you said, he reconsidered and joined my cause"

"Beforehand, I had some respect for you Baratheon, but a man who deals with sorcery is a foul man and cursed by the seven", Randyl Tarly answered, with bloody and sweaty face.

"There are no Seven, only one" Melisandre smiled.

Davos repeated Stannis' question, "He fights for us, you said?"

"And he does", fire danced in Melisandre's eyes "by the grace of the Lord I have put Tarly's face on another, now he leads Tarly's hosts in the name of R'hllor and Azor Ahai, his chosen warrior".

"Praised be Rohller", ser Axell mispronounced the name of the God to whom he prays.

Stannis was silent, but fearful and disgusted at the same time. Things that she does, a year ago, existed only in fisherwives' tales. His eyes found Davos whose face wore pure contempt for the act. Yet, victory is victory, the priestess had removed an enemy, whom Stannis could not match in numbers. An enemy who was preparing to join with another enemy.

Later, Davos tried to persuade him to leave Melisandre at the court.

"If men find out about this, everyone from Arbor to the Wall will turn against you. Some already whisper that you are a kinslayer", the last part he whispered so quietly that Stannis barely heard him. Once, I would have been first in your camp, but not now. I need her.

He remembered Odaikos and his selfish pragmatism. "She will sail with us to the capital." What worth is the power if men cannot use it.

Chapter Text

A broken old man wept in the corner, curled up. His beard was stained with yellow, his nails were long and ragged, scratching at the red walls that hemmed him in, but they only mocked with their whispers.

"Why don't you listen", a voice like a shadow surrounded the old man. It came from nowhere and everywhere, from the cracks and crevices of the chamber. No one else was in the room, the walls were talking and squeezing the old man with words. He tried to flee, but his head throbbed with pain. A cold dread spread through his veins. Shaena's cries were heard from beyond the red wall, and he clawed at the stone, desperate to reach her. But in vain, the world was cruel and unchanging.

"Listen," the voice thundred, and a leaf of weirwood drifted into the room. "The roots are dying, I can't bear it any longer. You must burn them, burn them all." The roots stretched across green expanses, hot deserts and finally cold glaciers, then plunged through the hard ground going further and further and everywhere. An endless spiral, intertwined, linking the wall of ice to geysers, hot springs to cold walls of the storm castle, the storm castle to a black monolith, the black monolith to a great crimson rock by the sea, which turned into a blue eye of a green giant. A hand of frost gnawed at the root, trying to break through the unseen barrier. It was all here, he thought, and for a moment he was young again, and sober, sharing his body with another. I am a king,  the thought seemed strange and wrong. He looked at his reflection in a pool of blood, but it was not his own. It was young and fair and dying.

"Burn them all", the voice of the shadow repeated, now calm, certain that the old man was listening; not me, the old man whispered sadly, looking at his sleeping twin reflection.

"Burn them all", the old man and his twin said in unison. Each time he repeated the words, his head hurt more, and his heart sank deeper into the abyss. Not this, please, he begged the shadow with black wings, Where are Daeron, and Aegon, and Jaeherys and... Shaena, oh, my sweet girl.

The night ceased to be a night, and snow flew through the great arched window of the old man's lavish chamber. You are the king, the splendor reminded him. The snowstorm raged, a white blanket hid the ground, and the snow turned into darkness, silent and deadly.

The darkness was lit by deep blue eyes. Children, women, old men, faces beautiful and faces maimed. They all screamed. Trapped. Their cage was crueler than his, they pounded on the chains that kept them in their bodies. Let us go, he heard through their piercing blue eyes.

"Burn them all", the wall spoke, "Burn them all, Let them free, Save the Realm."

"The realm, the realm, the realm", the voice shrieked, echoing through the deserted halls of the red palace. Eight candles burned on the table, but with his cry, the second one snuffed out.

"No, not my daughter," he sobbed. Fire is freedom. Fire is salvation, Fire is the savior, he is the fire born flesh.

The remaining flames flickered, he shielded them from the cold, but they died one by one, until only three were left.

"Burn them again," the voice from the walls repeated, followed by the drums of war and the song of burning.

The old man looked at his reflection and the shadow spoke a name, "Rise, Aegon, rise, you are the king." But I am the king and my Aegon is dead, he never was, but a child. I am dead. The old man looked at his hands that were fading and at the last moment realized that he was not looking at the past but he was the past. Raising his eyes he saw his younger self looking at him. Silver hair and purple eyes.

"I will show you," the shadow said to the young reflection and the old man vanished, as did the red chamber. The world turned green, filled with the scent of spring grass and the murmur of a melted running stream.

Wolfmaid stood at the place where the lake blended with the forest. With a smile on her face she tried to take off her armor, piece by piece, it fell between the thick roots of weirwood tree.

"You should be more careful. Not everyone is amused by your little stunt, however noble it may be," the silver-haired prince said. I know you, the young reflection thought. The prince did not answer, nor did the wolf maid notice him. They don't see me, the young reflection realized.

"Where is the daring if a man is safe? Careless is not me. Now let me go or I'll make you," she turned her blunt training sword toward him. Mischief was in her face.

"That's how you lose your hand, or in front of my father a head."

"Are you a warrior of sword or a warrior of nagging", the wolf maid mocked prince.

"I don't know, but I don't know what are you, either."

She rushed at him with a sword aiming at his legs, dull tournament blade bounced off the black armor. He grabbed the sword with a strong hand, took it from her grasp and struck her chest with a pommel. The dull sound of metal hitting plate turned into a gasp of air and for a few moments she struggled on the ground to breathe.

"Teach me," she breathed out excitedly, lying on the dewy grass.

"Women are not meant to be warriors," the prince replied. "We all have our roles." His face was sad, like an unfinished portrait, something was missing.

"It's hard to believe that you are of such opinion. Roynish women are skilled with spear and blade and beyond the wall, wildling girls are so skilled with stone and bronze spears, they call them spearwomen. Men of the Night's Watch fear them the same as their husbands. Spear and blade are freedom," she almost lost her breath, how fast she spoke the words.

"What would your future husband think of those thoughts?"

"Surely he would like his little beauty in the gown, to receive cute giggles from me and, at the end of the day while drunk he would fuck me, with his hairy chest and brawny arms, with dirt in his hair and smell of wine in his breath. Who wouldn't like that, especially since before or after he will go and warm the bed of the first wench he finds," unlike a proper lady she spat, throwing a piece of rusty armor in the lake. Her beauty was the beauty of rough.

The prince looked at her strangely, a slight pity in his eyes. "Escape from our destiny is impossible. And days with Robert Baratheon at Storm's End are yours, however you dislike the man."

"Dislike the man," she whispered softly, "I...," she struggled with the words, her long face was shackled by sorrow, heavy, like an oak shield, with a smiling weirwood. Yet, her wild nature prevailed, "I dislike all men, in a way I shouldn't. Robert is just more man than others are, which makes him even worse. No softness, no gentle smells, no curves, I find you...," she looked at the prince directly in the eyes and spoke louder, but still quiet enough to keep the words in the intimacy of only two of them "repulsive."

The prince laughed, and she blushed, both from shame and anger, she dared not say anything and yet she did. "Fair enough, I wouldn't disagree, men are easy to dislike, and I, also, dislike them in the same way," he winked briefly at the last part.

"No one can know, but surely the prince of Dragonstone is capable of keeping secrets," her words were cheeky.

"Spreading personal indiscretions for court amusement was never my way. Who likes whom, who is to be betrothed to whom, who is to marry whom. People of our stature are so well fed with cakes and wine that they lack proper purpose."

"I never told anyone...," she narrowed her eyes, defiance and sadness creating a strong bond on her beautiful long face. For a short moment the prince realized why Robert craved the girl; in a certain way the wolfmaid was more pleasing than Elia or even Cersei.

"So I am privileged then," the prince granted her a slight smile.

"Well, second to know, to be true. A traveling smith visited White Harbor by invitation of Lord Manderly. Reasonably being in the North he visited Winterfell together with his daughter..." The prince watched her deeply. "Well uhm she was the most beautiful person I ever saw. Her smiles soon became kisses hidden from her father and mine. Winterfell is known to me better than to any servant so we were always safe. After a mere fortnight the smith left unsatisfied that Father didn't buy his luxurious steel... Her name was N'ryma." Her disappointment wrapped them in a ring of silence.

"So, back at Harrenhall tears were not for me, but rather for a song", he jested, trying to cheer her up.

"for a song", she smiled, shrugging her shoulders, "and a little bit for your voice, you have a woman's voice, at least while singing, you do".

He turned around and stopped his gaze on the weirwood, "Why this place, there are more desirable places to hide in the woods?"

"It's secluded enough, I've been coming here for days and I haven't seen a living soul, but...", she paused again, unsure if she wanted to reveal more, "it just seemed familiar, like a forgotten dream, the great roots of the weirwood plunging into the water, then coming out again", she climbed on the thick root that was leaving the shore like a departing boat.

His face hardened with curiosity. "Dream. I would have given everything for a dream, to clear my path"

"Rather, they will give you confusion, things unreal, dark and strange", she pondered her own dreams. Some were happy, most were cold, fear turned to ice.

"What do you dream of Lady Stark that frightens you so much", the prince asked. Somehow he knew, or wanted to know. For him, dreams were more real than for others. A dream long forgotten on a page of a book told him much, yet much more answers were desired.

"It's a nightmare, a dungeon of piercing blue eyes. Robert has pair of those, maybe my marriage to him is that dungeon, but the lady that haunts my dreams is made of ice, she is gorgeous but terrifying at the same time. At first she was gentle and serene, but the more I fought against her wishes, the more terrifying she becomes",

"An Other", the prince replied with all of the seriousness

"Possibly, the Children in the north listen to so many stories of others that it isn't strange some of it went into my dreams".

"Or it didn't".

"Tales do say that you believe in queer stuff, obsessed with ghosts", she mockingly waved her hands, "I didn't think you would believe in Others"

"The world is larger than many can comprehend", the prince was not offended."Do you dream often of Ice lady"

"No, mostly when I sleep near weirwood groves, or when I swim in godswood hot pool, near the great face tree".

The change on his face revealed his intention.

"Don't you dare", she warned him. She was afraid, not of him, but of her own closed eyes.

"Too afraid to use the gift", he said softly with a serious voice, "I will help you". A piece of armor that she had taken off a few moments ago flew towards her, the padding absorbed the impact, but her legs lost balance and soon she sank. She saw the shadow of prince Rhaegar Targaryen on the shore through the blue cover of water.

Hands were grabbing her from all sides, black and dried up, brown with exposed bones. Ruined faces with blue eyes. Fear shaped into a scream was lost in the muddy lake,but no help came. The cry of a raven replaced the howling of water and told her "swim, swim".

Barely alive she dragged herself to the surface and the safety of the shore.

"What's wrong with you", she yelled at the prince, "Brave enough for stupid riding pageants, not to help a lady in danger", she was still spitting out bits of water.

"What did you see", the prince captured her with his arms, she tried to break free and kicked him in the stomach escaping from his cold embrace.

"Never again touch me like that, you may be Prince of Dragonstone ten times, but I will slice you", she held a small knife. 

"Apologies, my act was unbecoming", he said quietly, not at all disturbed by her blow. "Yet, this is too important, grave danger is upon the realm, evils from your nightmares are true. It seems you and I are chosen to face them".

The wind sang, the leaves joined the song with a hissing sound. The faces of Wolfmaid and Prince of Dragonstone shone like diamonds, clear and recognizable, until they were no more. Dreams speak a strange language, the king knew their names although he never saw her, and was but a babe when he last gazed at his father.

Alive. The word came soon. Alive. Alive.

"I am alive", he dreamed, no, he thought, no, he said; before taking a deep breath, with a powerful cry of pain in the chest. Every breath burned, his lungs were fire, and his skin was living flame. He saw the canopy of the bed, in a golden color, with black ornaments.

His eyes hurt, the brightness of the world was too quickly sinking into them. The luxurious room revealed itself, a lavish chamber with crimson walls and curtains that concealed parts of them. He glimpsed frescoes and tapestries on the edges, depicting scenes of glory and splendor. A sweet taste lingered in his mouth, mixed with a slightly unpleasant smell, which emanated from the room.

Drowned in a soft bed, his power left him and it seemed that he was nailed to the bed. As his eyes got used to the light, so did his strength slowly come into muscles and soon the body was under his command again.

He tried to recall where he was, why he was here and who he was. The King. The word came to him naturally, without an effort. Quickly, like a boy, he sprang out from under the heavy quilt, until the pain wanted to bring him back. With the strength of will, he resisted the pain and soon was on his feet. A cold wind warned him that he was naked, so he covered himself with a warm linen blanket and cautiously walked to the source of the light. The balcony revealed the city, large and spacious, not grand as Volantis or even Pentos, but still a city, with all the outlines of greatness that adorn that name.

To the east, a fleet of ships lay at anchor, forming a makeshift harbor under the shadow of the high walls. To the north and west, green fields stretched to the rolling hills, crowned by dark woods. Before him, within a ring of stone walls, two hills rose up, each bearing a different sight. On one, a splendid edifice of glass and marble, with a towering statue of a sacred guardian. On the other, a broken shell of a building, roofless and overgrown with greenery.

King's Landing, he thought, until a dull thud snapped him out of a reverie. He turned his head to the opulent chamber. The maid, with wide eyes, looked torn between him and the bowl of spilled wine on the floor.

"Your grace", she whispered, lowering her eyes.

"What is your name?", he asked.

"Thelma, if it please your grace".

"And what is mine, Thelma?". The girl was confused by the question. How can a man not know his own name, her face replied.

"You are the King", she said quickly.

"Yes, but even kings have names", he said softly. And mine is eluding me.

"Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, if it please your grace",  her words poured life into his memories and in a blink he became the person the girl named. They have taken King's Landing, which means we won the battle. The pit of lost days was larger than he anticipated.

"Thelma, please summon Lord Connington to my chambers". Royal chambers I suppose. "and I need clothes, the King is the last person that should be naked, I think". He almost smiled at his own remark, then remembered his dream, but with each passing breath more of it faded. That was the way of dreams. The faces were gone, but not the feelings, the dread, yes, I should be afraid of something, but of what?

Aegon shook his head, Dreams are dreams.

"A heavy sleep", said Jon Connington as he entered, a smile tugging at his lips. The joy in the griffin's eyes belied the traces of sleepless night. "Even after Haldon said that you would live, we all feared, by day and night". By we all, Aegon knew Jon meant I. Leaving all rules of courtesy behind him, Aegon hugged his foster father, feeling the beating of the man's heart.

"I slept a lot", he whispered through a smile.

"You did", relief softened Jon's voice. Aegon's absence must have been a great hindrance for their cause, and yet Jon's heart told him, the griffin would have endured tenfold more. The only thing that mattered to him was that Aegon was back.

Others followed after, Haldon to examine his health, Septa Lemore showered him with more hugs than prayers, and Laswell Peake offered his usual discreet respect. The last to enter the spacious chamber was a shadow of velvet and silk, with a strong perfumed scent. The silent bald man needed no introduction, though Aegon had never met the men in person, only through letters.

"Lord Varys".

"Your grace, I am glad that Lord Connington's faith in your recovery was not misplaced, as some rashly assumed", Varys had a soft voice of feminine quality, but better controlled than Lysono Maar's.

"That makes two of us", Aegon replied carefully. The spider was still a mystery to him, and like with everything unknown Aegon acted with caution. "The realm did not sleep while I did. Lord Varys, be so kind and bring me up to days".

Battles were won, battles were lost, and many more loomed on the horizon. His uncle Oberyn's absence had taken the shape of a new military campaign.

"All of the cavalry in the city departed for Highgarden", the eunuch's voice was gentle too "cohorts under Lord Otreyes, the Dornish led by your uncle, as well as newly gained allies from the Crownlands. The Dornish increased the number of mounted men by using captured Lannister horses, so half of the men that were on foot are also gone".

And Stannis Baratheon was gathering strength in the dark walls and black shores of Dragonstone, Aegon's true home. Whatever secrecy Stannis hoped for was shattered by the centuries-old loyalty of Houses Velaryon and Celtigar. A massive attack on the capital was now known.

Varys finished with a thought that lingered in Aegon's mind. "Your bride arrived last night". I asked for it, didn't I. I rise up to a world that I sowed, a marriage that I do not desire, but need. Sansa had crossed his mind more than once, and sometimes he would look at the door expecting her entrance, knowing she would not come. Now he was certain she would not.

Calmly, Jon Connington followed Varys' words, without his usual anger. How could he not, the eunuch had given them the city, with little bloodshed, fire, and ill will among the smallfolk.

"One more thing, Lord Varys, you more than anyone know where the remains of my mother and sister lie. I wish to visit them and give my sister a proper Targaryen funeral".

The spider bowed modestly.

Jon helped Aegon to dress in a new black doublet, with golden shoulder pieces and a red dragon of his house on the chest. Stiffness and clumsiness still plagued his hands, he had not used them for too long.

In the hallway, he was greeted by many curious looks, a throng of faces that parted before him like a sea. Servants and guards, sworn swords and courtiers, they all craned their necks to catch a glimpse of him. With slow and careful movements, behind the mask of calm, he hid the pain and clumsiness that was the result of a long sleep. They saw nothing amiss, he realized, too dazzled by his presence to notice the subtle signs of his long slumber.
The corridors were crowded wherever he went, from the bridge that linked Maegor's Holdfast to the rest of the Red Keep, to the stairs that led to the Throne Room. 

He swallowed a lump before the stairs, unsure of his legs. The joints still hurt and it would be unseemly if the first thing the King did was fall over the steps. Feeling his unrest, Jon took his hand, squeezing it gently, and Aegon saw a reassuring nod. Together they stepped down the great red spiral and the heavy fate in his mind became an easier path. 

Like sturdy pillars five white knights of the Kingsguard waited for Aegon at the end of the stairs. Lord Commander Ser Barristan Selmy using the authority bestowed on him by Jon, as Hand of the King, put a white cloak on four more of his brothers. Ser Rolly Duckfield, a friend and companion, fulfilling an old Aegon's wish and Jon's misgivings; Ser Daemon Sand, knighted by uncle Oberyn, more keen to use a Dornish spear and saber, rather than a long sword and two men that counted fewer name days than Aegon, Ser Rymen Rykker, newly knighted with skill far beyond his age and Ser Loras Tyrell, adorned in rich armor, of shine and gold, famed by chivalry in tourneys, soon to be Aegon's goodbrother.

Aegon stepped to the left, now being at the center of the square of white protectors.

"Your grace, the Throne Room is on this side," Haldon pointed his hand to the opposite direction.

"Thank you, Haldon, but I am not going to the Throne Room," his crown had no priority.

As soon as they saddled the horses, he went to Visenya's Hill, accompanied by Jon and surrounded by the Kingsguard. Now thousands of eyes followed him and not all with delight, some faces were marked by fear and uncertainty. Was a new Joffrey before them? Aegon was a bit older, but still a boy in his face.

He tried to return the smiles he saw, but in the end he gave up, for the tingles in his heart were stronger. The dusk painted the crystal domes of the Great Sept, melting the myriad of colors into a dance of splendor. Thinking of what awaited him, he wished to turn back, uncertainty and waiting were more pleasant than truth. No, he thought again. Mother; Rhaenys I am here.

Under the shadow of the approaching darkness the marble stone of the spacious plaza took a darker hue. With great difficulty he dismounted from a horse and bowed his head as he climbed the long stairs, measuring the face of Baelor the Blessed, his predecessor but not his ancestor. The statue bore no trace of Targaryen features, whether by design or by poor craftsmanship, it was hard to say. The Faith respected the power of House Targaryen, but not the customs of old Valyria. Baelor spent his whole life cleansing himself of sins, unaware that his greatest sin was his face, his eyes and his hair.

Septas with lit candles silently welcomed his arrival, while the richly dressed septons formed two lines. Through a narrow passage, of holly men, Aegon entered the sacred building, and in the middle he found the High Septon, whose crystal crown absorbed, reflected and stretched the rays of light from thousands of candles, in front of the Seven Great deities.

The first among septons extended his hand for a kiss, but Aegon only clasped it with his own. Better men than you did not deserve that honour. Silence prevailed, Aegon had no intention of speaking first, and the High Septon looked obviously displeased by the treatment. His holiness had forgotten that he was appointed by the Lannisters.

"Seven blessings upon you, Your Grace. May we speak about the coronation," the old man decided to speak first.

"That is not the reason why I am here. Only to visit the resting place of my sister and mother."

Without interest for an answer, Aegon, Jon and the men of the Kingsguard descended into the catacombs below the sept. Decorated altars kept the members of the Targaryen family, but with irony from the gods, Robert and Aerys were the only kings buried beneath. The Targaryens did not bury their dead in the ground, nor drown them in the sea, nor seal them in stone tombs. No, my kind is fire-born flesh, and by fire we all must return.

Elia Martell and Rhaenys were buried in narrow tombs, carved in the wall, without candles and without sigils or family name. Without the Spider he would never have found them. The bones of his mother, he would send to Sunspear, but not his sister.

"Open it," he pointed at the smaller tomb.

"Aegon, please, it will be too much," Jon said sadly.

Strong beats of his heart and flames of fear and nervousness also begged him to stop, but he had to continue, he owed it to his sister. Although strong men, Ser Daemon and Ser Rymen used all of their might to remove the heavy stone cover. The loud thud of stone on cobble floor knocked the air out of Aegon's lungs.

He stared frozen at the small pile of bones, which by nothing but their smallness, resembled a child. The ribs were completely shattered, and a few broken pieces vaguely looked like a skull. She was stabbed a thousand times, not a hundred. After the flesh decayed, the skeleton collapsed on its own. In the middle of the pile a crystal shone, placed according to the custom rites of the Faith of the Seven. Aegon took the crystal and squeezed it tightly in his hand, while tears ran down his motionless face. He did not sob, nor cry, he only heard the silence shaped by deep breathing. The members of his escort lived the moment equally mute.

"Tywin Lannister will pay."

"Execution can be organized whenever you want," Jon said.

"No," Aegon swallowed the pain in his throat, "there has to be a trial. All of the realm must witness the truth and justice."

"Hardly lives a man in the Seven Kingdoms who does not believe that it was his command."

Taking off his black cloak, Aegon gently covered the bones, "Tomorrow night, on the hill of her namesake, in the belly of the Dragonpit, we will send her off in a proper Targaryen way." He put the small crystal in his pocket.

....

Returning to the Red Keep, Aegon went to meet his betrothed. However, she was waiting for him in the dining room of Maegor's Holdfast, with the dinner. Margaery Tyrell was as fair as the tales told, hers was a beauty that separated a noble lady from a commoner, something higher and more fragrant. Her gown spoke the language of rich and pristine, the colors were unblemished and lively, while every cut was precise. Yet, with all of that, Aegon's eyes escaped to the figure beside Margaery. Sansa sat quietly, she seemed wiser and more mature than that rainy night, when they last exchanged words. The cooled dinner before her waited untouched.

For a short moment Margaery looked irritated that another stole the attention of her betrothed, so she gracefully jumped out of her chair, and with a swift movement and a cheerful face, came to Aegon and stretched out her hand. He took her gentle small hand in his own. She expected a kiss.

"Your grace," she affably bowed her head, "I came to your chamber last night, and saw in those beautiful eyes that you will live. With all of my heart I will be your consort." She kissed him inappropriately on the cheek, transferring warmth to his face and a trace of balmed shine.

"And no one could ask for better," Aegon returned the kindness and received another kiss on the cheek as a token of gratitude. The beauty of his queen would make the affair more bearable, as if a golden spoon made the dish tastier.

"My lady companions stayed in Highgarden, the roads are too perilous for travel these days," she said sweetly, with a touch of sorrow sprinkled over her words. You should not have come either, at least not so soon, Aegon thought. Margaery's arrival, under these circumstances, spoke of the Tyrells' eagerness to secure the alliance. "So Lady Sansa, Lady Jayne and Lady Lolys joined me, at my request, as my new ladies in waiting," she revealed with a wide smile, showing her pearly white teeth, neatly aligned. The rest of the women were silent. Sansa's dark-haired friend Jayne had the posture of a girl unsure if she belonged at the table, and Aegon wondered if Lolys was with a child or plump. Probably both.

The group of girls looked sad and stiff, unlike what Aegon had seen long ago with Eira and her friends. I was but a boy then, without a kingdom or any true responsibility. I read to learn, I worked to gain experience rather than to create. Now he felt uneasy, Sansa clearly did not want to be here, at least not while he was there.

"My lady," he addressed Margaery, ignoring her false excitement about the ladies in waiting, "my councillors advised that we should take our vows of marriage as soon as possible. It would be most appropriate if you organized the ceremony. The current conditions require modesty, but with your skill, the event will acquire suitable contours," he said, casting a glance at Sansa's bowed head over Margaery's shoulder.

"Nothing would make me happier," his future bride replied, "our wedding will be a splendid crown over your triumph against the Lannisters." A triumph I barely witnessed. But he feigned a smile at her words "...and I," she winked meaningfully, "will serve the royal house in the bedchamber as you valiantly did on the field of battle," she whispered, keeping the last sentence for their ears only. His mind recoiled, but his body still desired her.

"Encouraging sentiments... most gracious", he said awkwardly, hoping to end the conversation. "If you will excuse me, I have more kingly duties to attend to before I retire." A drop of sweat slid past his brow, though it was not hot at all.

"Of course...", for the first time she noticed the roughness of his hands, the rings that once were blisters, and the brownish lines carved by the pull of ropes. The hands of a craftsman, not a king. She quickly hid her initial confusion under a new smile. If the realm knew half of the things he had done, they would call him Aegon the Chisel or Aegon the Fisher.

"Before hard work, you should eat something," Margaery said in her wifely tone, knowing he would decline. Nonetheless, he did crave food, meat especially, living so many days on honey and milk that Haldon poured in his mouth. Just not the company. By now Aegon was more of a bee or a goat,
then a dragon.

"Very kind of you, but I am not hungry."

Then he approached the table. Sansa was not the only one without appetite, the girl next to her also ate modestly. The food in front of plump Lolys, however, was gone.

"Lady Sansa, accept my deepest condolences. I vow to you that Greyjoy will not elude justice and your brothers will be avenged," he said softly, trying to sound gentle and kind, but his words came out more anxious, especially as he took off his regal tone.

"Thank you... Your Grace," Sansa looked at the space next to him, avoiding his eyes. He saw only half of her clenched face. Even in this strange situation, he felt calm because she was here. He had to leave now before the situation got worse and Margaery was looking at him with a raised eyebrow, as if she had realized something.

"Lady Lolys," he turned to the thinner girl in surprise. "Lady Jay..."

"I am Jayne, Lady Stokeworth is there," Jayne regretted correcting him in fear.

"Yes, ah, my apologies," he said to the girl, that he did not take her words in offense. He never made mistakes with names. Instead of the alleged work, he just went back to his chambers, sleeping little that night, spending the hours gazing at King's Landing from the balcony. The tales and deeds of his kin played out before his eyes. A shiver ran through him, here was where Aerys and Rhaella lived unhappily, but also many happier ones. If only his father had been wiser, and stayed here as a loyal husband and a good son, curbing his father's madness, the world would be different.

Aegon might have wed his aunt Daenerys as the Prince of Dragonstone, by the dragon's custom. His mother Elia could not give Rhaegar another son, or any child, so his uncle Viserys would have ranted and raved across the realm like all spare heirs. Jon had no love for him, though he had only glimpsed him from afar. "Mad as his sire", he told Aegon, but Aegon doubted that Jon Connington was the same man either; the friend of Rhaegar Targaryen must have been more gentle and chivalrous. Aegon was never bitter about Westeros, for Aegon had not lost a life here. His heart yearned for his mother and sister, but was it for vengeance and justice or for love? He could not say.

And yet, whatever other life, full of ease and affection, he might have had; if given the choice to take it, he would have refused. Losing years with Eira and losing Elia cannot be paid by any price. More than ever he wanted Elia here, yet enemy sails in the Narrow Sea and dark autumn winds sneered at him. Now or never, if he waited any longer, he would not see her until spring, after the long winter, by then she would be a woman grown. A woman unknown. No crown was worth of that. So a plan had to be made, Stannis would never dare to attack Braavosi ships, and merchant vessels would always carry a cargo without question if paid well enough. And taking her, through the Bay of Crabs and Maidenpool might avoid the Baratheon fleet altogether.

He was so gloomy that even the stink of the city did not bother him. The ship of time sailed down the river of thoughts and moored at dawn. His body felt twice as strong as it did the day before, and his muscles ached less with every movement. The cock's crow came before the sound of hammers from the walls, where mighty hands worked to strenghten the defense of the ramparts, where Tyrion Lannister had stopped.

Jon waited for him in the courtyard for a training session.

"Mercy will not bring me back to form," Aegon alluded to Jon's choice to be his sparring partner.

"No, I will," Jon charged at him with a blunt sword. Aegon used his shield more to deflect the attack than his sword. The heavy oak, rimmed with iron, pressed three times harder on his weak arm.

"No need for a lesson, only for hands and legs to remember," Jon continued, completely calm and without a drop of sweat, everything that Aegon was not. His lungs begged him to stop, and his helmet trapped so much sweat that he expected a stream when he had to take it off.

His shield and sword learned to work together, and his clumsy defence became a decent counter. More careful than gentle, Jon was an excellent teacher, putting necessary harshness on Aegon, yet skillfully avoiding injury.

"Have you ever trained a cripple, you have a knack for it," Aegon remarked.

"Only myself," Griff knocked Aegon's sword aside and pressed his own by Aegon's neck. "Not a cripple, a dead man," he smiled. "It's almost as if you're getting better at this."

"Almost," Aegon took a seat at a nearby bench. "My mind is where it was, but my body needs to follow. War times require a warrior king."

"Not every king leads his army. Daeron the Good was wise beyond most men of his time, and yet, not a man of the sword; sensibly leaving the duty of military command to more qualified men. You proved your worth on the battlefield, and are not the first nor the last man that took a wound. Now the realm needs you on the throne and don't worry about your fighting condition."

"Perhaps, but the realm does not know me. I saw their faces yesterday, when I rode through the city, they fear me. In my shiny doublet, I am no better than Joffrey, a craven, a weak man hiding behind guards and strong walls. Using the strength of others to take a coin from them to finance my war." He sighed deeply. "The realm needs peace, and a king with a sword can make it. The realm needs bread, and a king with a sword will open the path to the Reach and and let the grain flow again".

"A sound reasoning," Jon studying him with a careful eye, "but you are not only the king of smallfolk, all those lords await you to sit on the Iron Throne, and you have not set foot in the Throne Room. No king can win alone, only through their banners." As ever, Jon spoke the truth, and Aegon's fear was shaped by the great doors of the Throne Room. To sit on the Iron Throne was to feel dirt on his skin, while so much work lay unfinished.

"In time, my deeds may raise me there." 

Jon Connington's face showed obvious disappointment, but Aegon saw a glint of pride on the edges. The King stood up, fastened his visor, lifted his shield and drew his sword. "Not before the wedding. After Margaery and I exchange our vows, together we will have our coronation. I do wish..."

"for you to place the crown on my head."

"Tradition is for the High Septon to do so," Jon said without visible protest.

"Some traditions are older and more sacred, not based on politics. Like the bond and trust that a son owes to his father."

Jon stood there in silence, forgetting that they were training. "I will not put you at ill way with the Faith." No one is more deserving than you. A crystal crown cannot change that.

"For once, I do not care. The Faith served all the Lannister follies and they should think twice if they plan to train their arrogance on me." Aegon took a more regal voice, and then ended softly, "I command you to accept the honor." No king ever issued a better command.

"Yes, my king," Jon replied, bending the knee.

Training being too tiresome, Aegon rested afterwards, postponing the meeting with the lords present in the capital. For the sake of his time and wits, he decided to take their oath' in the sept of Baelor, just before twilight. The affair was rather short, Lord Renfred Rykker knelt first, while old Lady Stokworth, weak of legs, just took a seat on a chair. They were followed by the rest of the small retinue of crown lords. The last man to approach was Dagos Manwoody, Lord of Kingsgrave, and commander of a thousand Dornishmen who did not follow Aegon's uncle to the Reach. The High Septon closed the brief ceremony with holy words. Though well acquainted with the Seven-Pointed Star, Aegon found the verses unfamiliar. That is why the man is High Septon, he mused, wiser than the known worn phrases.

Descending back to the catacombs, Aegon found Silent Sisters creating a half-circle around an empty grave of Rhaenys. Instead, the bones of his older sister were on an ancient stone altar, in a sack woven from his cloak. The holy sisters had shown some effort and left a three-headed dragon in the center.

Aegon gently lifted the cloth and lowered the light burden into the shallow open coffin, and took the handle on the right front side, standing shoulder to shoulder with Jon who grasped the left side. Laswell Peake accepted the rear handle behind Aegon, while Ser Barristan did the same on the left side. With slow steps they left the dim room and surrounded by Kingsguard on the polished floor they headed for the exit. The High Septon joined the procession, together with all the lords who swore their oath and Black Balaq and Lymond Pease.

Just before the large entrance doors Margaery stood with her ladies in waiting. Burning candles were in their hands. Sansa looked at Aegon in the eyes for the first time, he saw they shared a pain.

"Knowing your intent, I ordered seven hundred candles to be lit, may the Seven's mercy be on your sister's soul," Margaery said piously. A dead child has no sins. She wore a black dress with crimson scales; that did not escape his attention.

He nodded his head, taking a vow of silence. Margaery's words became sparks in the endless crowd gathered on the marble plaza, hundreds more watched the procession in the green gardens that surrounded the sept. All of King's Landing flowed into the Street of Sisters as the procession descended on the cobble street. A chain of Golden Company men-at-arms now in new black Targaryen cloaks formed on both sides of the street, protecting the way from the gathered. However, there was no violence, instead a dull silence enveloped the city. Every candle burned and thousands of his subjects saw for the first time the face of their new king.

Eyes followed them from windows and roofs, and only one street had more people breathing than in all of Maidenpool. More eyes lingered on Margaery who walked beside him. Boys admired Ser Barristan, who was shaved again, while the older ones measured Jon, perhaps remembering the young Hand of the King who rode out of the city to quell a rebellion.

The shadow of the high hill of Rhaenys loomed over the procession and soon they entered a stone tunnel, with the smell of moss clinging to the walls. The climb through the winding passages was hindered by rats. The rodents did not bother Margaery.

Light heralded the end of the travel and the narrow corridor of the tunnel widened into a vast stone pit, with large pieces of the dome scattered on the ground. Lonely thick pillars rose to the sky, holding nothing. At the end of the Dragonpit one of the larger pillars had fallen and pierced the ground, revealing another spacious chamber. Dozens of caves and rooms were below them, Aegon knew, meant for hatchlings or smaller dragons, guarding them from behemoths like Vermithor and Caraxes. The last ruin of old Valyria, all that made the freehold died here.

They laid the bones on one of the rounded stones that a century and a half ago belonged to the dome of the magnificent building. Holding a torch in his hand, Jon looked at Aegon. From his belt, Aegon pulled out his poniard, and slashed his left palm, letting drops of blood soak into the black cloak. The gesture was strange to the men around him, and the High Septon would have voiced his disapproval if the occasion were different.

"Perzys ānogār," Aegon said and gave a nod for Jon to light the torch. Taking the torch, Aegon set a fire to the cloth, which soon caught flame and the bones of Rhaenys Targaryen, firstborn child and only daughter of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, heir apparent to the Iron Throne and Princess Elia Martell of Dorne, burned.

May fire bring you peace, sister.

Chapter Text

Streams of color shrieked over the guests, green and gold dazzling the faces on the left side of the Great Sept of Baelor; the dragon's own black and red cast a dark veil over the officers of the Golden Company and his lordly vassals. A three-headed dragon banner, larger than Aegon had ever seen, stood behind the statue of the Father, while an equally grand Rose banner of the Tyrells fluttered behind the statue of the Mother.

Color clashed on the aisle where Margaery Tyrell walked towards him, radiant in a splendid dress of ivory silk, with short sleeves slit by a line in the middle revealing her pale skin. The gown blossomed into a multilayered skirt, in shape of golden petals. The bride's hair was piled up in a overbundant bun of curls, intricately woven together. She needs no crown, the King thought. Queenship comes naturally to her, resting on years of honing the skill at Highgarden, where her tongue learned diplomacy and her actions cunning.

Holding her hand, Loras Tyrell gleamed in his armor, and side by side, the siblings indeed looked like twins. Slowly they approached the elongated dais between the altars of the Father and the Mother. With tenderness, the bride took a few last steps and stood beside Aegon.

The High Septon invoked verses about the dawn of creation itself, the sacred purpose of men and women, and the divine duty of royalty. For all the sacred pomp that men had, the wording was brief and precise. Perhaps his text was also Margaery's doing. The royal wedding was crafted immaculately, with all of her skill on display. Of all the guests here to witness the exchange of vows, only a quarter were highborn, but she had gathered the rich of the city, merchants and artisans of luxury goods. Those who lacked in noble blood, made up for it in gold.

"The guardian may remove the cloak," the High Septon intoned, and Ser Loras unclasped the green robe with golden roses engraved. His Holiness nodded to Ser Loras, "and at this sacred shrine, between the face of our protector Father and the mercy of holy Mother, his majesty the King and lady Margaery exchange vows of everlasting love and duty."

Aegon placed the royal cloak of black and red on her gentle shoulders, and with a smile as her ornament, she turned to him. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my queen and wife," the King said. At least the words are in proper order, queen then wife. She echoed his words, and they sealed the pact with a kiss. His wife's mouth was soft and fresh.

"One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever," concluded the High Septon and the crowd cheered. Forever, forever, forever.

The orderly ceremony dissolved into a tumult of joy as throngs of well-wishers, both familiar and foreign, flocked to offer their congratulations. Barely surviving through courtesies, Aegon hand in hand with his new wife, made their way out of the sept. The crowd outside was bigger, with deafening cheers. The Kingsguard formed a shield, as they climbed into the carriage. The city smelled of peanut bread, as peanut from the Reach and Rosby grain created a proper smallfolk delicacy for troubled times of scarcity. The new dish may as well be the thing Aegon most liked about this affair.

Alone in the carriage, she gave him a coy grin from across the seat, then closed the distance by settling on his lap.

"They say this carriage belonged to Cersei, for years she claimed the title of the most beautiful woman in the realm," she whispered, kissing his neck; as his face tightened, Aegon barely felt any pleasure. "Although a lie, I deem it's fitting that the carriage now belongs to the true queen worthy of the title, not some old hag."

"Age comes to all men," he remarked, dashing her sweet words.

For a moment she retreated, but came back, "mayhaps, so we better make use of our beauty then."

"Shall I take your maidenhood here?" he asked, anger seething within.

"As far as I am concerned, whatever my King wishes." Shower of kisses continued. "I will perform adequately." He felt a flicker of temptation, consummating their marriage here would be unceremonious and rough. Somehow fitting. Aegon seemed determined not to enjoy the act.

"There is a feast to attend," he reminded her, peering through the gap at the gathered crowd. Further from the sept, the cobbled road was worse and every bump was felt in the carriage.

"Close your eyes; think of Sansa. You want her, don't you?" After such words Aegon pierced her with an empty gaze. He had married a queen, not a woman. "I don't care, if it suits your taste, poor Sansa may even join our bed."

The spiteful comment did not sit well with the king. "Sit on the other side," Aegon ordered coldly, "after the feast we will perform our marital duty, in the bedchamber, as it befits husband and wife."

"As my beloved husband commands," she planted a last kiss on his cheek and moved to the old seat, not removing the seductive wink from her face.

"You know... I care not whether you love me or not. The crown is on my head, I will serve your house and the realm... and myself," she spoke with honesty.

"Truly I am sorry," Aegon decided not to look at her. "You deserve better."

"No, you do, Aegon. It's not me that craves for someone else, I am satisied with my stature, living the dream every Tyrell had since my birth. Renly, Joffrey, you... even Stannis, it matters not, my heart is at peace. Yours isn't, you torment yourself for it, but mark my words," Margaery's sweet voice was gone, replaced by harshness, "you will not punish, nor blame, nor hurt me. No one is blind, you didn't wed me, you wed the Reach and all that it holds, an army of a hundred thousand, crops, the Oldtown, Redwyne ships and wine."

"When the roads are free of peril once more, I shall send Sansa to a safer place, mayhaps to my uncle or even ransom back to her kin," he pondered aloud, giving voice to his inarticulate thoughts, more than proposing anything.

"No," Margaery was firm, "As a captive she has value, no coin of the Starks can replace that. Let the realm behold our power, House Targaryen saved the Stark maiden from the clutches of the Lannisters. Not her hero brother, nor northern courage, but the might of dragons." We. "Having Sansa in the Red Keep does not pain me. I told you so, didn't I? You can take her and ten whores more."

Putting her and whores in the same breath, not in front of me. He wanted to say, but the beast before him fed on that.

"She will cease to serve as your lady in waiting, as will Lady Jayne."

"So be it," the queen replied, "Silence is a dull companion anyway." The words were ment for him.

"Also, I favor this side of you, when we are in private." He spoke the truth, Margaery without a mask was tolerable, a future with her conceivable.

"Well, it's tiresome to always wear a facade, sooner or later they must fall." She reclined on the plush pillow and parted her legs, forsaking the ladylike posture. "My mask is on the face, but yours," she chuckled, "you cling to that bloody black armor. Even now I see it on you. One of the simpletons who came in Lysono Maar's company, to Highgarden, described you as silent and stern. A truth only for a feeble eye, as beneath the black wall lurks a man who yearns to be anywhere but here."

"Not anywhere in the world, but somewhere. I have a daughter, being with her would make me happier. All the smiles she gave were honest ones, like her mother's." The Confession didn't come as a surprise to her.

"Good, a daughter is good. A son would concern me, your heir must be my child," she said. Aegon almost laughed at that.

"While I was asleep, Jon and the rest of the men named Elia my heir. Of course a male child would have preference, so the Tyrells shouldn't fear succession."

"I will give you a son," Margaery was so certain as if saying the sun was in the sky.

The rest of the journey they spent in blissful silence, laced with sentiments better left unsaid, avoiding each other's glances.

The feast at the Red Keep's river walk was the grandest one he had attended since leaving Pentos almost a year ago. Yet modest, for the belly of Illyrio Mopatis. Margaery had excused herself to don a new gown, while Aegon sought some solace on the walls to clear the mind, Ser Barristan by his side. Litters with guests were ascending Aegon's high hill, the High Septon being the most resplendent with crystals that sparkled like silver stars, heralding his arrival.

"Not every marriage is borne of love, your grace, most are not. Within these same walls I stood as your parents wed, and as kind as the prince was to your mother, it was not love," Ser Barristan recounted. Kind enough, to abandon her for another woman.

"Tell me, Ser Barristan, have you ever known love?" the king asked, his voice hollow.

"Aye, your grace, once I did, but I was sworn to a higher duty. Even now I wonder if my oath was worth more than her heart."

"You are fortunate, then," he said to the knight with a parched voice. "I watched my love perish, and could not save her. That day still haunts me, with fury I went to the small sailor's sept in Pentos and screamed curses at all seven Andal gods. Today, the seven laugh at me as I am the bane of love."

"No men can envy you," the knight sighed.

"No, but none ever speak of the curse of kingship," Varys slithered in as quiet as a cat. "The realm sees rich tables and pageants of every kind, yet if a king dares to rise above, in the sphere of difficult decisions, it is a terrible fate."

"Jon bore a deep enmity for you, Lord Varys, one that festered in his heart for years. He often lamented the missed chance when my father could have claimed the throne, at Lord Whent's infamous tourney, but the thousand ears of the spider stopped him."

Varys gave him a thin smile, exposing his hands, in contrast to his smooth ace, his hands were rough and old.
"Ah, but those were troubled times, your grace. The king was mad, unhinged at the court, yet the realm was at peace." The spider stressed the word peace as if it were the most precious thing in the world, and his Myrish accent crept into his words. "... and Prince Rhaegar sought to shatter that peace, for his deed would rend the realm asunder. Save for some minor skirmishes with Dorne, occasional Ironborn reaving and raiding, and Lord Tywin's war against his father's bannermen, which were all swiftly quelled, or small in nature; the bloodiest conflicts were Targaryen civil wars. The Dance of the Dragons and the Blackfyre rebellions. Only the house of the dragon can keep Westeros safe or doom it."

"And my father's deeds sowed the seeds of discord," Aegon mused about the world that might have been. His father had divided the realm, just not in the way he intended.

"The prince was beloved, indeed. Many would forsake their oaths to the liege lords or the king himself, just to follow Prince Rhaegar, as more then few had done for Daemon Blackfyre. They knew not his cause, nor did they care. By the end of the last winter, Aerys's madness wasn't still a strong issue. Nor was that the motive for the prince's actions. He dwelt on Dragonstone, far from the court, or roamed the realm with his friends. Staying in King's Landing only when he had to." Ser Barristan listen, weighing his words carefully, loathing what the spider would say next more than what he had already said.

"Why then?"

"Rheagar Targaryen believed that he was the warrior-hero from the ancient prophecy that would vanquish the darkness itself in a sacred war." It sounded almost like a joke, though a delusion of grandeur was not rare among the high and mighty. Varys had salvaged some of the Targaryen records, royal letters, scrolls and journals. Aegon's forefathers spoke to him through ink and parchment. Including the words of the Prince that was Promised, an old prophecy ascribed to the Conqueror himself. It was mentioned only once in the records, and his father had staked his life on it, with full faith."

"Aerys does not seem so mad now," Varys said with a sneer, "until he began to burn people alive."

Aegon said nothing, the annals of his house were rife with madness, more than wisdom: Maegor, the Rogue Prince, Aegon the Unworthy, Aerion Brightflame, Aerys. The roll was long and wearying, and worse when the likes of Prince Aemon, son of Jaehaerys, or Baelor Breakspear and his sons, who promised a bright future, were taken by the gods.

Aegon looked at ser Barristan, "Your lips are sealed, but your eyes speak."

"Your grace, the spider is the last man to trust on Prince Rhaegar. True, the prince had strange pursuits, but nevertheless he was ever diligent towards his obligations as heir apparent."

"Oh, my good ser, we all can hear what people say, or see what they do, but what lies in a man's heart is hidden even from me. Therefore, words and deeds matter," Varys retorde curtosly.

"I concur with Lord Varys," the king asserted simply. "Now let us leave the past behind, rather then fight over perception. What of the war in the Reach?"

"The Tarly host has abandoned the siege of Highgarden, crossed the Mander, and is treading the same road your bride took. Unfortunately, that means Prince Oberyn is on the wrong side of the river, marching towards an enemy that is not there. In the south, the Fowler host has broken from the Prince's Pass and accordingly, the Old Hawk will unite with Ser Baelor. Brightsmile protests the abandonment of the Horn Hill, imploring your grace to rescind your command."

Aegon had received a raven from Lord Leyton's son, but refused to heed any disobedience. The man surely wanted to seize the traitor's castle and hold it for one of his younger brothers.

"Tarly aims to join with Lord Stannis. Strike from both the sea and land," ser Barristan expressed concern.

"Two attacks from the land. The battle already draws near to our very walls, Stannis has brought some horsemen to the south along the Kingsroad", Aegon said, "but we have strong walls and ten thousand swords to man them. He cannot risk a long siege, otherwise all the hosts gathering in the Reach can strangle him."

"Men of the city watch are of poor battle quality. Though they number four thousand, their strength is thrice less", Ser Barristan warned. Aegon knew that well enough, but he needed men on the Kingsroad to secure the supplies from Maidenpool, especially with the grain from the Vale coming by sea from Gulltown. The host under Harry Strickland was busy guarding the northern flank against the Starks.

"True, but not all tidings are as good, your grace. Lord Yronwood did not break out of the Boneway. The opposition by the marcher lords is quite strong, led by none other than Ser Barristan's grandnephew", Varys said with a smile, glancing at Ser Barristan, who scorned him with the eyebrows. "Young Arstan has also taken command of the Dondarrion men in Lord Beric's absence, along with those sent by Lord Gulian Swann. Their efforts to repel the Dornish incursion, in the name of Stannis, seem successful. For now, at least. We can only hope they will not last."

"Warrior's blood runs thick in House Selmy. Isn't that so, Ser Barristan?" the king smiled at the knight.

"It would seem so, your grace", the knight replied, brooding over many litters resting in the courtyard. Out of one stepped the High Septon, his holy robes shimmering in the sun. Behind him, a younger septon emerged from another litter and placed the crystal crown upon the pious head. Servants hastened to guide the guests to the feast and other commodities.

"Your grace, Queen Margaery already seated hetself", one of Margaery's servant ladies announced. The girl had served Cersei a moon's turn ago. A command hidden behind a statement.

Aegon nodded. The fair in the gardens was alive with chatter, and golden spoon fed eyes followed him to the main table. Arranged in two great half-circles facing each other, with a heart of singers, fools and jesters under the apple trees. His queen had made sure that every guest could gaze upon them. She rose at once and gave him a kiss on the lips, to another round of cheers and gasps from the ladies present. Well, not all ladies, Aegon noticed. Sansa was sitting directly opposite the newlyweds, on the other table.

On Aegon's left, Jon modestly enjoyed every course. It was strange to see him delighting in food. Seven courses were served, depleting the royal stocks of the Red Keep heavily. Time would tell how unwise that was. King's Landing was on heavy rations, and thousands of Lannister prisoners ate even worse, scraping their own leftovers. Hungry men are weak and weak men don't need as many guards, his councillors advised.

"A toast, your grace", many voices called. "A toast", "Please, your grace", "Please".

Reluctantly he rose from a chair, raising a golden goblet. "To all good things. The Harvest, The Peace and my lovely Wife". The gesture, of course, was to their liking and the guests rewarded him with loud applause. Well-fed mouths don't think about the harvest, and for most of them the war was as distant as the last winter, almost forgotten. Stannis is knocking on the door. Am I the only one who hears the thunderous thuds?

The feast was long and tedious, but when it was over, it felt like a fleeting moment, culminating with the wedding cake, a towering monstrosity that was bland to the tongue. Only three pigeons burst out of it, their feathers dull and gray. The last thing in the ceremony were the gifts, mostly treasures of this and that kind, a dazzling array of precious things, silk and gold. Jon bestowed upon him a new shield, apparently a twin to the one his father had carried, and Varys an ornate edition of the Young Dragon's conquest, a lesson in history for the King to avoid repeating the errors of others.

Sansa and Jeyne were the last to offer their gift, a finely sewn black cloak for him. Lady Jeyne spoke on their behalf, "We used the art that maester Haldon gave us. The Targaryens of old favored golden patterns more than their successors. Sansa and I hope the gift delights your grace". As dark as the moonless night, the black cloak was trimmed with golden flames that formed a chain around the edge. Golden horns crowned the three heads of a dragon that glinted in the light.

With gratitude, Aegon vowed to wear the gift, and Margaery admired the embroidery, "it's exquisite and masterful too. Thank you my ladies". She gazed at Aegon with a mischievous glint in her eyes, then with a radiant smile at Sansa. "My sweet husband, a brilliant idea struck me. Willas, my brother, is unwed and I can think of no finer match than Lady Sansa. Both are young and gentle, never in my life have I beheld a pair of souls more suited for each other... except for us of course". She kissed him passionately, yet clumsily as he barely reciprocated.

The proposal stunned him into silence, and Sansa flushed in red as well. A pang of jealousy twisted in his stomach. Selfishness shamed Aegon, she deserved happiness, and Willas was renowned as a peaceful and noble man, though almost ten years her senior. Not that it mattered much. You are almost five years older than her.

"What say you lady Sansa", Margaery insisted.

"I... I... I have no guardian. It is not seemly for a lady to choose a husband without a guardian. My brother Robb has taken my father's place. The choice is his," Sansa replied softly, to Aegon's relief. Damn selfish fool, let her go. Robb is Aegon's foe as much as Stannis or Balon Greyjoy.

"Not if the King decrees it," Margaery looked at Aegon. "And of course, my sweet Sansa, we can be as sisters. Highgarden is a splendid seat, my brother may not be a prince, but he is the closest to the men you fancied as a little girl. Of course, after Joffrey, your appetite for men must be somewhat more modest. Lemon cakes will greet you every morning, in our verdant garden, and singers will serenade you of Jonquil and Florian the Fool to the night."

Sansa leaned over the table and whispered to Margaery, "If I were you, I wouldn't trust Littlefinger; his truths hide their own lies." Her words wiped the smile off Margaery's face. "As I said, Robb is my guardian, and only he will decide who I marry". Bites like a wolf maid. A fire sparked in Aegon's heart, and he couldn't tear his gaze away from those deep blue eyes. The feeling carried him back to Maidenpool. I am a bigger fool than Florian, he thought.

"Your brother is in open rebellion against the crown. A choice made by him may not be the best for the realm. Surely you are loyal to Aegon." Margaery sprang the waek trap.

Anger swept across Sansa's face, subtle yet telling, she parted her lips, but held her tongue. The misery in the air revolted Aegon, and he put an end to the farce. "I shall not impose any choice upon Lady Sansa, nor will the wishes of her family be honored if they clash with the interests of the crown. My ladies, once again, I am deeply grateful for the gift." Please leave now, let the distance be a shield.

"Now, in the Mother's embrace, we proceed with the bedding to conclude the ceremony," proclaimed the High Septon in a loud voice. Aegon declined to partake in the customary ritual; instead, he would be only borne by women to the bedchamber. He had no doubt that Margaery would not mind being undressed. A dozen women, strangers to him, surrounded him, and soon, they hoisted him awkwardly. Through the throng, he glimpsed Margaery getting the same treatment. Although he abstained, Jon followed the men.

The men were quicker, with stronger arms, carrying the light bride, so the women took double the pace. When they laid him on the bed, Margaery was already there, bare as the day she was born. Slender as a willow, she snuggled against him, pressing her small breasts to his chest, with her long fingers undoing the doublet buttons. The large garment vanished swiftly, followed by a linen shirt. Margaery traced all of the scars that marked his chest, including the large ring of puckered skin where a crossbow bolt had pierced him. His bride always surprised him, other women might avert their gaze or shrink back, but not Margaery. The gleam in her eyes showed that she liked it, not just him, but the warrior who had fought in numerous battles and won - or at least, that's what she wanted to believe. She lusted for control, not over his flesh, but to break him like a wild stallion, to subdue the realm under her foot.

Every part of his chest was touched by her breath, devoured by eagerness to mark his body as her own. Filled with a waterfall of energy, Margaery kissed him, her mighty female tongue conquering his own. Now, revenge was served for every slight he had given her, every refusal to play by her rules. 'Now, you will be quiet,' her desire told him

Removing breeches, she immediately took his member in the mouth, once again hesitation was absent, she was familiar with the ground she was walking on. The skill was too pleasurable, too good for a maiden who never touched a man. Renly died before ever deflowering her, Tyrell's seneschal cousin sang assurance to him, as if it wasn't known that Renly preferred another road. Per instruction, Lysono didn't mention maidenhood as a requirement. Both Lysono, through a written account and Varys informed him of her promiscuity. The master of whispers assumed that Lady Olenna made sure the girl was trained in the arts of bedding. If so, all that Margaery was doing now didn't distract from that belief.

Flames of anxiety defeated him, and soon, Margary was placed on her back by Aegon's strong hands. In her brown eyes, uncertainty revealed itself, immediately replaced by dedication. Aegon entered her; now, the king fulfilled his duty. The Queen screamed, perhaps the first time he had seen her surprised and in pain. It was quick, devoid of any passion. The red streaks on the bedsheets formally sealed the marriage pact.

Aegon and Margaery, the king and his queen, after, didn't speak a word the whole night. The weight of insomnia denied him sleep until almost midnight when Eira appeared in his dream. For the first time, her face completely disappeared into the mist of nothingness, invisible... forbidden to his eyes.

Chapter Text

"All hail His Grace Aegon of the House Targaryen and Queen Margaery," bellowed the royal herald as Aegon set foot in the Great Hall, striding toward the Iron Throne, with his fair queen at his side.

The Throne Room was packed with lords and ladies as the pair made their way down the aisle, flanked by five white cloaks, with old Ser Barristan at their head. A twinge of pain in joints reminded Aegon of a past wounds, the walk up the serpentine steps took a small toll. The Chain of Golden Hands hailed Jon Connington as the proper Hand of the King, while the griffin stood before the dais that bore the dreaded Iron Throne, coveted by so many.

The rest of the Small Council were gathered: Varys, the sole remnant of the old council; Gorys Edoryen, the new Master of Coin who had consented to serve Illyrio's cause; Obara, a councilor without a title who spoke for Dorne; Lord Monford Velaryon, the Lord Admiral of the Royal Fleet, with Ser Horas Redwyne as his second, for Aegon had not yet named a Master of Ships. They said Renly had dubbed his Kingsguard the 'Rainbow Guard,' and Aegon might do the same for his Small Council. Cousin Monford had fair locks, Jon and Gorys a red hair of different shades, the first fiery and the second a darker, bloodier hue; Redwyne had a strange orange color, and Obara had brown head. The seat of Master of Laws was vacant, awaiting one of the Reacher lords, who were busy with their wars.

The kingly crown was solemnly borne by Septa Lemore, clad in a white robe, with Aegon's cousin Tyene at her side in a matching garb. Aegon knew it was a jest, for she would soon scandalize the High Septon and others with her scanty attire. The crown was a perfect thread to Targaryen heritage, a plain band of square-cut Valyrian steel and rubies. Robert's smashing of his father's ruby chest was more symbolic than he thought. Another crown, bestowed to Loras by his seneschal cousin, was more elaborate, with a golden band encrusted with splendid flames and nine gemmed coins, each for a vassal house, with the Targaryen three-headed dragon in the middle. The crown that had graced Aegon's grandmother Rhaella, now ment for Margaery, eclipsed the Crown of the Conqueror.

Below the steps of the Iron Throne, the royal pair faced the throng, greeted by cheers. Margaery donned the cloak Aegon had draped over her at their nuptials, while the king had one gifted by Sansa. Aegon's eyes searched the vast hall, seeking her. His wife had done well, for Sansa was far from the front row, near a stout pillar, hardly visible to the eye. You changed the game.

The High Septon, with a sour look, stood before them under the dais, uttering a prayer, shorter than the one at their wedding. He wasted no time before going back to his seat. Aegon and Margaery then bent their knees, and Jon set the crown on Aegon's short silver hair, while Loras did likewise for her soon after. The deed was silent, marked by deafening claps. To the left of the throne, Haldon assumed the part of a herald: "All hail His Grace Aegon of House Targaryen, the Sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, and his Queen Consort, Margaery of House Tyrell."

Ascending the lofty seat herself, Margaery pressed her lips to his, and the deed was greeted with a burst of loud and merry acclaim. Clasping their hands, the royal pair made their way down the steps and vanished through the rear door. The Queen was keen to quicken a child, demanding a daily regimen for coupling at least twice a day, and oft more. Being so often near, Aegon grew fond of his queen's caress, savoring the deed each time more.

"Why not tarry for later, abide with me in bed," she cried out wistfully. "I would have you one more time."

"Siring a son is not the sole duty of a king," Aegon murmured softly. "Jon and the others of the Small Council await me at the Tower of the Hand. We have filled our days with banquets and mummer shows; it is hard to remember there is a realm to govern and a war to end." He kissed her brow to soothe her vexation.

Donning on a fresh doublet after a bath, Aegon, escorted by Ser Daemon, walked to Jon's Small Council chamber. Loras remained by the door to guard his sister. As he had foreseen, they were all ready at the council table, rising from their seats in deference to their king.

"Your Grace," Jon said formally

"Has this place changed at all? I never thought to ask," Aegon gazed at the roomy chamber. It was one of a pair of council chambers, the other one hidden behind the throne room. For now, Aegon preferred, for his legs' sake, to ascend the stairs in the Tower of the Hand rather than the serpentine ones.

"Too many hands have come and gone for that, I fear," Jon pondered.

Aegon nodded, taking his seat at the head of the table, gesturing with his hand for the rest to sit.

"You spoke of an urgent matter," Aegon glanced at Varys but caught a frown on Jon Connington's face.

"Yes. Lord Strickland has been abducted," Varys got straight to the point.

The Master of Coin Edoryen was the most aghast. "Abducted! By whom?" he cried out.

"The Brotherhood Without Banners."

"Who are these Brotherhood Without Banners?" Obara asked. Congratulations Harry, you have outdone yourself.

"A growing band of well-armed rogues led by Lord Beric Dondarrion and the red priest Thoros of Myr. Both men were dispatched by the late Lord Stark to capture Gregor Clegane after his vile deeds in the Riverlands. It seems that after the demise of King Robert and the Hand of the King, these men found a new cause. At first, they were a nuisance to Tywin Lannister, but lately, every side in the war has become their prey. Since our forces are mainly in the south, we have largely evaded their raids. But of course, with Lord Strickland seizing Harrenhal, he has strayed right into their territory," Varys said with a voice tinged with faint worry

"Lord Dondarrion perished, I have heard," Lord Velaryon said perplexedly.

"So have I, many times. The Lannisters were keen to make sure they slew him," Varys said, shrugging and looking somewhat fearful. The sorceries of R'hllor priests were notorious across Essos. If Dondarrion rides with a red priest, their mummer tricks may fake his death.

"And they demand eleven thousand gold dragons. Our coffers are already so meager," Jon said, with a thick tome in front of himself.

"I examined the numbers. The former rule left a grim financial state, mostly debt and taxes that will not win us the smallfolk's love," mused Edoryn. "The coin is lacking. Half of the royal debt is due to House Lannister, so we can disregard that, but the rest is to the Iron Bank. The Queen Regent for this Joffrey spurned to pay, and interest rates swelled it to four million. I propose we shun such foolish policy and promptly seek a new deal."

"Do as you must," Aegon said.

"The coin is scant. Aye. Yet, the plight of Strickland cannot be overlooked," Jon looked disheartened.

"Yielding to brigands would give the wrong impression," Monford Velaryon's mouth twitched out of firmness.

"They will deem us as feeble and a source of wealth. Strickland took five thousand men from us. Let them rescue his hide." Obara sat alone at the end of the table, shunned by the other men at first sight. This is not Dorne; not all are at ease with a woman in this role.

"So be it, then," Aegon groaned. "Tell Byrne and Lothson that it is of paramount importance that they bring Harry back alive, but make plain that this is a royal order". I doubt they are as eager to save Harry.

"Though, I should add, Lord Strickland showed himself a capable steward, winning the fealty of all houses sworn to House Whent and, to our astonishment, reclaiming House Darry as well. The Darry lordling was keen to join the Targaryen cause; his late sire never forsook hope in it. And not to mention, Lord Strickland wedded the daughter of Lady Whent but vows not to displace her sons," Varys gave a smile to everyone at the table.

Horas Redwyne smirked, "Well, if recollection serves me, Lady Whent has four sons, three of them their own offspring. Many mishaps would have to befall to make her lands Strickland's."

"She may have aided the abductors. With such a men under the roof, I would do the same. An encroacher," Obara's words drew a faint smile to Aegon's face, while Horas chuckled, and Lord Velaryon was not pleased at all.

"Let's not hastily judge anything," Aegon said.

Varys shifted the topic to the state of King's Landing. "Many have escaped from the city, lions and stags alike, joined in their fear that the dragon will not spare."

"Have they seen the bloody letter? All who bend will be amnestied," Jon was not content, but it was Aegon who declined to keep the city gates shut. As many of them leave, there will be fewer mouths to feed.

"The proclamation has been spread at every nook of the city, no ear has eluded it," Varys refused to take the blame. Bald men had a knack for making his ire rise without lifting the voice. "Peaceful conquests are rare in Westeros. The Lannisters butchered all of Ned Stark's men, even septas and servants."

"And you watched it all," Ser Barristan Selmy arched an eyebrow.

"As would my good ser, if I didn't aid him. When Cersei haughtily ripped Robert's will, you just sat there, as we all did. The same when the gold cloaks massacred Stark men-at-arms in the Great Hall." The Spider clenched his teeth, but it wasn't the words that stunned the knight, but the man himself. The man sitting across the table wasn't the same one from Robert's reign.

Aegon had to end this. "I value the efforts of both of you, but no hostility will be tolerated. There are enough foes on our borders."

Varys bowed his head, and Ser Barristan restored his face to his usual serene demeanor.

The meeting concluded with news from the Reach, where the situation stayed mostly unchanged, and good news from the south, where a larger Dornish host under Lord Yronwood finally breached the Boneway. But it was already too late to join the combined Fowler-Hightower host, which was rushing toward Bitterbridge to intercept Tarly. If successful, Tarly would find himself between two of Aegon's hosts, as his uncle Oberyn was likely soon to reach Highgarden.

"Your Grace, may I propose some counsel, a wise one, I trust," Varys spoke with wariness.

"I am all ears for prudent words," Aegon smiled to the men.

"Mayhaps, it is time to start negotiations with Casterly Rock, a way to bring another kingdom under your banner." All eyes in the chamber were now on the spider, not all were ready for a peace with lions.

"Peace, you say. My aim is to chop off Tywin Lannister's head. Will Lannisters forgive me that," Aegon chided at the plan.

"The vanity of a Lannister never ceases to amaze me, so I can foresee any outcome, that's the reason for the proposal. Tywin Lannister is at his weakest point ever in his life, ready to accept anything for the survival of his kin. Even his dwarf son as the new Lord of the Westerlands. A lord shrewd enough to see the wisdom in a peace."

Whispers rose over the table. Obara, especially, gave Varys a scornful look. "No Lannister is wise, nor forgiving. For moons, I endured their stink, hearing lies. At the first chance, they will turn coat and strike us from behind."

"Lady Obara speaks sensibly. It was the Lannister treachery of your house that doomed fate of Dragons. Tywin came before the gate, claiming intentions of aid and recalling past friendship to the king Aerys. In truth, he only brought ruthless slaughter of the innocent," Lord Velaryon snarled.

"How do you know if the dwarf will accept?" Jon asked.

"Because he meant to do so before you seized the city. I planted the idea, praising the mercy you showed at Maidenpool and Crackclaw Point."

Horas gave him backing, "Joffrey is a hard man, a madman caught in his own vile delusion. Cersei is no better. Of all of them, it seems that Tyrion was the most lucid, shielding Lady Sansa from the torment inflicted by the incestuous whelp." The more Aegon learned about the Lannister kin, the fewer virtuous traits he could find. If Tyrion Lannister defended Sansa, mayhaps, after all, he is a man of good heart.

"Be that as it may, attaining goals without shedding blood is worth a peril," Aegon ended the debate. "Tywin and his lackeys are the only ones who concern me. Cersei and the children can be apt captives if Tyrion consents to the terms. I deem that would be all for today." All but Jon and Varys left the chamber.

"Your Grace, I deemed it best for you to be the one to speak to Tyrion," Varys slid his chair back into its spot, the only one to do so, a chilled vexation still plain on his powdered face.

"Tonight, the three of us shall have a feast. I earnestly hope, Lord Varys, that the truth of yours is not baseless," Aegon gazed into the man's eyes before he left the chamber.

Life in King's Landing had turned dull, as every city does after enough time. Aegon's life, too, had sunk into this rut. Bedding, sword training, ruling. A hidden trap clutched him from all different sides, fusing into the Iron Throne, like the thousands of swords of Aegon's foes. If he wins the war, the world may only recall a swift triumph, a few years stained by strife, but not the blandness of it all. Not a mind tormented by hundreds of options, yet hopelessly set on just a few answers.

Small green bailey, which joined the tower to the great yard, revealed five odd elder men encircling Varys. Ten guards behind them gripped their spears with unease. A perilous aura radiated from the old men, clad in snug rags as thick as padding, with only their faces bare. An alchemist of some sort, Aegon guessed, using layers of linen to shun burns from the potions they were brewing. Ser Daemon Sand placed himself before Aegon and Jon, holding his hand on a sword hilt.

"Beholding Aegon's face, their leader, somewhat shorter than the rest, aged and bearing a fair amount of white beard on his face, began to sob. Others joined in the sobbing, and a shorter man with a crooked gait dashed toward Aegon but swiftly fell to the ground, kicked by the armored foot of Ser Daemon Sand. The old man spat blood, fervor still on his face. He uttered through tears, "Master has come back," he said, "Oh, he did."

With a baffled look, Aegon sought an answer on Varys's face, but it was Jon who spoke, "Pyromancers. A wicked ring of fools, making trouble with their trials. Wildfire makers."

"The wisdoms," wheezed the old man, still struggling to regain strength, his fellows aiding him to stand, "we are the Wisdoms, and our craft is not a trouble, but a boon to House Targaryen. King Aerys esteemed our work."

"Nothing is finer to devour a man than wildfire," Varys snickered from behind.

"The substance is potent for such deed. Aye," the pyromancer bobbed, not grasping Varys's jest.

"So, it's you who brewed wildfire for the Lannisters?" Aegon asked. Without Varys inside the city, half of his host might have blazed before the city gates.

"And they scorned our work, not as the dragons did. I'd like to tell you that we now have twice the pots that Lord Dwarf hid. Our lore in the matter is deep, and our skills plentiful. Yet, even with our swelling numbers, we couldn't do the same without your coming," the man vowed, his mind foolishly untroubled by the wickedness of his deeds.

"My coming? My memory serves me well enough to know I have not toiled in your forges," Aegon gave the man an unworthy grin.

"Not you, Master, but your blood. When dragons ruled the skies, a mere novice could make one pot as quick as the wisdom does now. My order suspected the return of the dragons, as we aided the Targaryens in their quest to bring the beasts back from oblivion. But it might as well be your blood that fuels the magic."

Disgust joined Jon and Varys against the Pyromancers, yet the words roused curiosity in Aegon. "Some might say you have waned in skill over time."

Again, a clear rebuke flew over the man's head, as he stayed fidgety about his craft. "The methods of our order have been refined over centuries, kept secret, yet our wisdom is still reliant on the magic."

Cersei Lannister gave a large commission of wildfire, which Aegon intends to use against Stannis, along with a chain forged by the dwarf's order. "Is there a reason for the usage of wildfire?" he asked Jon.

"Wildfire is a two-edged blade, like a untamed elephant. It can easily trample us over our foe," Jon was silent, fearful of the substance, yet tempted still. A foe, in vast numbers, can be crushed faster than anything else in the world, especially a foe coming from the sea,  burdened by the deep water below.

"During the reign of the second Daeron, wildfire ravaged a fourth of King's Landing," Varys fed Aegon's doubts. A like disaster befell during the rule of Maegor when Kingswood burned.

The Pyromancer nearly straightened his back from the insult towards the men, "Such blunders are due to unskilled handlers. Men of the Alchemist Guild do not err such."

"Then your Guild will ready the weapon," Aegon smiled at the man, longing deep in his soul for a quick victory.

A somewhat younger Pyromancer, shorn with a square-shaped face, gave a small clay pot, no bigger than a cup, to Hallyne. "Mayhaps, Your Grace, desire to witness the full might of the substance." A wicked grin was on the man's face, not of Joffrey's sort, but one of power.

Glancing around, Jon, Varys, and even the usually calm Daemon all shook their heads. But Aegon had to see, so he motioned for Hallyne to do his will. The pyromancer, who was twice as big, fetched a larger pot, set it on the ground, and lifted the lid. The serpent emerged from the guts of the clay pot with coiling and hissing. Everyone stepped away, pressing against the walls, near the exit. Hallyne kept his space, deftly lifted a small cup in his hand, added a speck of powder, and flung it into the pot with the serpent. The old man stumbled oddly to the wall. The inside blazed in bright green flames, in which the pot, the serpent, and everything within a three-foot span vanished. The others squinted against the flash, but Aegon kept watching, the scene in the green flame as plain as day. It seemed to him that the serpent had spread its wings before the fire devoured it.

The wild fire consumed the prey quicker than thunder, leaving behind only flames gnawing on the mucky ground below. "Here is just a taste of the might the substance offers," Hallyne   bellowed in an old man's voice.

"Well," Aegon's bland face hid his keen pleasure. "Carry on your work. If resources are needed, the Crown shall supply."

"Master is as kind and shrewd as his grandsire. The instant we beheld that face, we knew his true regard for our craft," the man declared, showing gratitude along with his colleagues. So many times, the guards had to drag them away.

Jon escorted Aegon to Maegor's Holdfast, and the king wanted to ask him something he had been mulling for a long time. "That wasn't just a plain remark about my resemblance to Aerys. I saw it in the old Brunes' eyes and the Mootons still. These men see something more than just Targaryen features."

Drawing a deep breath, Jon looked ahead. "You do bear a certain likeness to him, in face, I mean. Yet, Aerys seldom showed himself in public during the last years of his rule, so it isn't odd that no one noticed. Most who were often seeing him were butchered by the Lannisters."

"And you deemed it not vital for me to know," Aegon wasn't angry.

"No, especially when you already had so many burdens," Jon sighed.

With a smile, Aegon gazed at his dim reflection on the gleaming wall. "It's handy you know; it frightens people I want frightened." He was pleased Jon also took it as a jape.

When night fell, he departed one gathering only to find himself at another. The dining table was bereft of opulence, a simple porridge stew hiding a few small chunks of meat. A way soldiers dine, cheap and easy to make, easier yet to eat.

A small figure came into the room under the guard of the Golden Company men. His clothes showed no mark of his captivity. For the sake of plunder, no one steals a dwarf's clothing. Too small for a man, too large for a child. Tyrion Lannister's garments must be as splendid as they were on the day dragons removed the chain of golden hands, still jingling around his oversized neck. He approached the table with cautious and halting steps.

"Your Grace," the dwarf spoke in a tone free of pride or malice, sweeping his gaze over the room. He flashed a sour grin at Varys and a faint smile at Ser Barristan, paying no heed to young Rymen Rykker. The boy knight looked at the dwarf with wonder, as if watching a mummer's farce. "Can you do tricks?" he likely wanted to query the Lannister imp.

Aegon deemed that the little man merited respect and rose from his seat. He had been kind to Sansa, easing her woes under Joffrey. "Lord Tyrion, be at ease. The stew is still warm, though it may not suit your Lannister fine tongue."

The dwarf seemed amused, "Now I eat with a prisoner's tongue." He managed to sit on a chair, waiting for Aegon to sit again, then tore off a piece of bread, dipping it into the stew. "Ser Barristan, you've found yourself a new king, I see."

The old knight ignored the words, much to the dwarf's displeasure. "As did the spider."

"My loyalties never lay with any king, but with the people," the Spider spoke solemnly, looking more like a septon than a royal spymaster.

Reclining in his chair, made for a man twice his size, Tyrion Lannister joyfully gasped, "A foolish thing to say in front of the king."

"My lord, envision a world where your father did not shame you, where he honored you as his son. I quail at the notion. This war would have been done ere now, with the Lannisters firm on the Iron Throne, Robb Stark cooling his head in Moat Cailin, and Stannis and Renly cold in their graves." The words seemed to sway the dwarf Lannister, as he found new savor in his fare.

Varys went on, "Joffrey lit the fire, and King Aegon will quench it. We spared the realm from forty years of tyranny under Joffrey."

"You are mistaken. Joffrey would not have seen forty years. Men like him die young, not with a gift for making foes at every turn," sorrow claimed Tyrion. Then he bestowed upon them a genial glance. "Autumn winds rage across the realm; no smallfolk can ensure a bounteous harvest. Not now. The best we can do is strive, and strive I shall."

Aegon nodded, "Henceforth, you have the freedom of the castle." Scant a reward, yet if the dwarf would assume the mantle of the new Lord of the Westerlands, he must be regarded as one of our own.

"The Crown has a great debt to House Lannister, as justice is a matter for you..." The dwarf surely had the nerve to dictate his own terms.

"Aye, I mean to be a just king, and debt is debt. The Master of Coin has done the sums, subtracting the recompense due by House Lannister to the Crown for their part in the Rebellion and the ruin of property during the sack of King's Landing." Tyrion heeded well to Aegon's words, sensing where this was leading. "Moreover, the Crown shall demand recompense for the havoc House Lannister wrought in the Riverlands."

"So much havoc, whole fields laid waste," Varys aided his king.

Aegon clapped, beckoning a servant to lay a small coin purse before Tyrion. "With all subtractions, the Crown in all owes forty-seven gold dragons, one hundred fifty-one silver stags, and eighty-two coppers," remnants of the nearly three and a half million dragons Robert Baratheon wasted.

Flushness rose to Tyrion's face as he measured the purse in his hand. "Any commoner would be wealthy with this purse, but not a Lannister of Casterly Rock." The bag clinked as it dropped onto the table. "Lannister always pays his debts," he said.

"In three days, your father and Joffrey will stand a trial," Aegon cut off the dwarf's ponderings about the coin. He lifted his massive head, peering into the past, like as not tallying all the sins of his kin.

"Shall I be a witness? Is that part of this bargain?" Tyrion looked forlorn. He had been ill-used by his family his whole life but still loved them.

"Doubtless you know much and more, but no," Aegon assured him. "Ruin of your repute does not serve me. Treason against one's own blood is abhorred throughout the realm, however wicked that blood may be."

"No word of Cersei's trial?" Lannister asked.

Varys spoke instead of Aegon, "A dreadful woman she may be, but nay, in the eyes of the realm, she is still a mother and was a queen."

Tyrion bobbed his head sagely, as if weighing each conclusion separately. "May the gods show mercy to the Lannister brood," he uttered with eloquent mockery.

Pleased for the day, Aegon went back to Margaery, where they repeated their nightly ritual. With both of them weary, it seemed more like a chore from a schedule than a fervor of a loving couple. His queen grew restless as the sought-after outcome eluded them, and their wedlock was near a fortnight old. Haldon reassured her it's not as simple or swift as some might hope. Yet, she came to him every day for a checkup.

"I require a better account than that," she scolded the halfmaester, but not even Maester Franken, who served under Pycelle, could give her the answer she craved. Aegon grasped her trouble; as in every endeavor, she wanted to excel and be the first to prevail. But, a coin and family blood couldn't conquer nature. To soothe her misgivings, Aegon asked her to arrange the ceremonial part of the trial, a task she grudgingly accepted. Yet, as ever, the Throne Room looked splendid for the day when Aegon entered....

Chapter Text

In contrast to the coronation, all guests were seated between stone pillars, with an aisle twice as large, guarded by Targaryen men-at-arms in black surcoats and cloaks. A modest wooden podium had been erected for the two defendants, with plain wooden chairs. Just in front of them, on the throne dais, stood a bench for four judges. Aegon chose four men, each representing one pillar of his loyalists: Dagos Manwoody for Dorne, Lymond Pease for the Golden Company, Garth Tyrell for the Reach, and Lord Rykker for the Crownlands. The king sat above them, in the throne, as the fifth presiding the council of judges.

From the gallery, Aegon met scorn as Cersei Lannister cast her first gaze upon him, her open jaw seemingly eager to swallow him whole. Lannister Lords in fetters encircled her, witnessing the trial. Tywin's brother, Kevan, appeared composed and weary, while his son Lancel sported the scar of a lost ear, gone in defense of the city. The marred face did not trouble his father; rather, there was a touch of pride, as his son wore the badge of courage. Another Lannister champion gazed, Ser Addam Marbrand, a man who had slain two knights before yielding himself. Among the Lannister sworn men also stood out Harry Swift, who led a failed charge against Aegon's ranks.

The clank of shackles heralded the arrival of the accused. Filthy and tattered, from afar, they looked like two peasants after a long toil in the field. For the first time in his life, Aegon set his eyes on his mother's murderer. Not the mindless brute heeding his master's evil will, but the mind itself, a word that spells death. The command personified in a flesh of a man. Hate stirred in Aegon, something he foresaw but never this much. He gripped the armrest of the throne so hard that the three-hundred-year-old blunt blade sliced his finger. What he loathed the most was the man's appearance, the parched skin on the wan old face, and the ragged garb worn for days in the black cell. Yet, an aura of self-confidence and authority emanated from the man, and even in wretched state like this, he still commanded respect. The Black Cells had taken naught from him. Blonde Joffrey, was elsewise broken, had his head already marked for the headsman's axe. The boy met eyes of his mother and rebuffed her tenderness with an irritated glance.

"Lies!" Cersei Lannister screamed from the gallery. "No hhore's spawn will tarnish my name."

"Be silent, or you will be dragged out," Aegon said coolly, and Cersei retreated, spurning her uncle Kevan's proffered hand. On the other side of the gallery, Aegon glimpsed Sansa smiling. His heart yearned it was meant for him.

"The accused will declare their guilt," Lord Manwoody resumed in place of Tyrell.

Lifting his eyes, Tywin Lannister surveyed the room, disregarding the judges, and gazed towards his daughter and brother. Concern and disdain spoiled his rock face. "I do not acknowledge the authority of this court, nor the lawfulness of this king." It was a lie, and a plain one. He knows I am Aerys's blood.

The burden of finding witnesses fell to Varys, the eunuch had unearthed hundreds of them. The list had to be whittled down to just a few score. Carpenters, masons, courtesans, blacksmiths, bakers, all old enough to have seen the sack of King's Landing two decades past.

"Lions set my shop aflame" was one of the mildest charges, while the most savage included, "They raped my Connie, and then..." Tears brimmed in the eyes of an arrowsmith from the Street of Steel. "The lions slew her." After that, it was a grisly reversal of crimes.

None of the savagery seemed to touch Tywin Lannister, a man who had heeded dozens of testimonies as if he were just a lord listening to the grievances of smallfolk. 'Rape of a daughter or murder of a son,' it could have been a stolen pig or something equally petty in the ears of a Lannister.
In the gallery, Kevan Lannister did not share his brother's stern, ruthless nature, and a trace of remorse showed on his face.

"Let the next witness come forth," Pease called out, as two maesters went off the stand. Grand Maester Pycelle moved with a slow and frail pace, his chains clinking softly; a lannister creature, now ready to turn against them. His former masters looked on with dismay, none more than the queen. A serving boy set a ponderous tome before the four judges.

"You have outlived your usefulness," Joffrey spat, his voice thick with rage. "When I reclaim my throne, you shall all rue this day, every one of you!" He glared at the crowd that had once filled his court with flattery and praise. Rykker silenced the boy by banging his hand on the table.

"Maester, there is the significance in this book, yes?" Manwoody inquired.

"The proof of Joffrey's bastardy," Pycelle began with a voice, thin and wheezy, as he gripped the arm of a chair, for support. "Grand Maester Melleon's work precisely shows the strong physical attributes of House Baratheon, attributes that have never been absent from father to son in the main line."

"Black hair and blue eyes, you speak of that," Rykker stated, already aware of the answer.

Maester glimpsed at Joffrey and Cersei. "Aye, this boy and his brother and sister are the sole outliers to that rule. It was known that the late King Robert was fond of wenches, and as such, he fathered many bastards. All known to me had Baratheon traits, including a daughter from the Vale who serves the Arryns, the highborne bastard Edric Storm, and several baseborn children in King's Landing, slain on the order of the false Baratheon, Joffrey."

"And through all of it, you held your tongue. Is there any honor in that white beard of yours?" Rykker bellowed furiously at the man.

The old man's brow grew so damp that when he tried to dab it with the sleeve of his robe, large sweat stains spread. "All those who knew the truth are gone, including the late Hand Arryn and the late Hand Stark. The Lannisters slew them for the truth. Many more, no doubt. I bided my time for the sake of safety." Cersei had been spared from his charge per Varys's instructions. She waited anxiously, dreading the faithless maester would betray her.

"Which Lannister?" Tyrell Seneschal asked. Pycelle pointed towards the stand with the accused. "...it is the boy who killed Lord Stark. All of us at the council begged him, not to, yet the vile incestuous blood is ruthless."

"If Robert is not the boy's sire, then who is?" asked Manwoody.

"Lord Stannis penned in his letter about incest between the Queen and Ser Jaime. I fear I have no proof of that, nor of anyone else. Plentiful evidence suggests that Robert is not the father, and the boy bears clear Lannister traits, so I am of the mind it might be incest." Cersei's green eyes made her face as green as if she required the maester's aid.

Sansa had claimed the seat of the maester, looking lovely in her new gown. "Joffrey Baratheon vowed mercy to my father," she said, giving the Lannister boy a harsh look that daunted him. "Yet he lied, as he is of that ilk. No man in the Seven Kingdoms is less worthy to be the King than him. I witnessed it all, I endured it all. Beatings, torment, slaughter."

"And no man in the Seven Kingdoms deserves a lying cunt for a wife," Joffrey snarled. "Have you already tasted his cock, or shall that be a prize for your venomous tongue?"

Instead of wrath, Sansa gave him a grin. "The only prize I crave is your head on a spike, a golden crown on a spike." A warm smile came to Aegon's face.

"Lady Sansa, please. Those are not words befitting a highborn lady," Garth Tyrell chided Sansa. After Sansa, a dozen more witnesses attested hundreds of deeds of Joffrey's brutality. Supper came, though many stomachs were surely turned.

"Are you well?" Aegon laid a hand on Margaery's shoulder as she absentmindedly swirled her soup.

"I almost married that monster," she gasped oddly to her.

"I deem you could handle anything," Aegon sought to console her.

"Keep your head," Jon cut in, "you know what comes next. They want to rile your emotions."

"Trust me, my last wish is to give the Lannisters pleasure." Tywin was more calculating than Aegon suspected, keeping his demeanor calm and cold as a statue, holding his defense firmly.

On short notice, everyone returned to their places in the great hall. Moon Boy was walking on his hands, circling the podium with the accused, sticking out his tongue.
"An old toothless lion here to feed the little cub, ohohoho, to feed, to feed, but no milk, ohoho." Performing a cartwheel, the fool vanished behind a pillar, amid the laughter of the spectators and Tywin Lannister's scowl. If this lion had mighty teeth he lost, the fool's head would adorn the ramparts.

"Lord Varys of the Small Council," the herald proclaimed as the Spider crept toward the witness stand.

"The Red Keep seemed like the Seven Hells themselves: fires of slaughter, rape, vile ruin of every sort. I knew I had to act, and swift, so His Grace was switched for a baseborn babe. Robert was coming for a crown, and with Prince Rhaegar's fall, prince Aegon became the heir to the throne," Varys said, gazing at the grown man he had carried to safety. Though grateful, Aegon still felt guilt for a child slain as the shield. As me, he would be a men grown by now, making his first strides in some trade or brandishing a spear in a war.

Sobbing, tears streamed down Varys's  face, "if only I had known. I never even considered that Princess Elia and Rhaenys, just a little girl, could be harmed. Taking their lives gave rebels naught at all, but the heart of Tywin Lannister is too black, his beasts' jaws wide open." He dabbed his cheek with a kerchief. "Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch scaled the walls of Maegor's, Lorch slew Princess Rhaenys, a wicked manticore pierced her with a hundred jabs of a venomous scorpion's tail, while Clegane savagely crushed the skull of the boy who had taken King Aegon's place, then drenched in blood, raped... and butchered Princess Elia. Tywin Lannister shrouded the corpses, a vile deed cloaked under scarlet Lannister cloaks. My lords, I glimpsed men's eyes then; he was offering trophies to the usurper; a king his oathbreaker son killed, and a murdered family, clearing the way for Robert Baratheon to steal the throne."

The sight unraveled before Aegon's eyes, brightly red cloaks soaked in blood, a dark stain that nothing could wash away.  Unwittingly, he reached for the hilt of Blackfyre, but the Valyrian sword was not there.

With loathing on his face, Dagos Manwoody spoke, "Tywin Lannister, do you deny ordering the deaths of Princess Elia and Princess Rhaenys?"

"Categorically so," Lannister said sternly, "whatever befell, happened in the conduct of war. A commander cannot control the deeds of every man."

"No man would scale the walls of Maegor's of his own will, with iron spikes beneath," Rykker put in. "Only a man heeding orders, dreading the commander more than a mortal fall."

"No command of such has ever been issued. Not by me," Tywin Lannister persisted in denial. "As a proper leader, I was outside the city walls, overseeing military affairs."

"Overseeing your treachery, you mean. Aerys was your king, yet you broke an oath. An oathbreaker like your kingslayer son," Rykker argued fiercely.

"Any king who lacks the might to hold his own throne is no king at all," Tywin's remark left a scar on Joffrey's face. "Power is truth; I recognize it, and so did you. Elsewise, Lord Rykker, you would not be a lord at all, but your knee did bend to Robert." The lack of principle recoiled in Rykker's face. Tywin Lannister's voice remained cool, like a sage elder leader schooling green boys. "Actions were needed to spare the realm from further ruin. My duty was grounded on reason: to cease harm to those who suffered it, to avert harm to my own kingdom, to the territory I guard as a warden."

Hush fell upon the hall, stilled by the reason in Tywin's words. All of them set by Margaery's will, to serve as rabble to vex the accused, but Tywin's words had disarmed them. Aegon despised the man even more so, for his skill to hide slaughter under the cloak of sense. Why should one's kin matter when thousands bled because of it?. Their eyes met, and Lannister grinned, not at Aegon, but at the face of Aerys. I slew you, now I take more from you. By his grandsire, Joffrey jeered. The fool thinks that will sway aught.

"Bring the next witness," Manwoody summoned, and a hulking shadow entered. A burly man missing his right hand below the elbow, with a pale, pig-like face scored by thin scars. From afar, a black scorpion decked his surcoat, but as he neared, its shape morphed into a kind of manticore, like to those from Essos. Amory Lorch, in a flash, Aegon knew the man who had killed his sister. Dornish justice had left him crippled; no man in such a state could be fit for forage or murder.

He laid his left hand on the armrest of a chair and showed two lost fingers. The herald named him, and Jon Connington glanced at Aegon, who returned a calm nod.

"I am Ser Amory of House Lorch. By my own will and seeking mercy from all seven gods, I mean to confess," he spoke with a thin voice through many gone teeth. The judges gazed in stillness, though Lorch expected a follow-up question. "Confess what?"

"By strict orders of Tywin Lannister, I murdered an innocent girl. By the same order, Ser Gregor Clegane butchered a Targaryen babe."

"Did he order the slaying of Princess Elia as well?" Aegon asked, stirring gasps from the throng.

"Nay," Lorch said, "not in the name. But to kill the royal family, all of them, the Lord commanded. The Mad King's pregnant queen and the younger son too, not only Rhaegar's children. We believed them to be in the holdfast, not knowing they had fled by sea."

"You beheld Clegane in the deed?" Manwoody asked, scarcely holding his wrath. Aegon stayed oddly calm, as though a healer were drawing arrow from his flesh. Only the quiet made the pain more bearable and pass quicker. The wound now ached like nothing he had ever felt.

"The babe was the first to die." Aegon spied a slight foam on Lorch's lips. They had gave him truth serum, whether Dornish or Varys. "I only glimpsed the crushed head when I came into the room. Clegane was fucking mother still..." Sharp pain tore through Aegon, blood dripping from both of his hands. It was easy to disregard the pain from the slices; it was not true pain at all.

"Mind your tongue," roared Manwoody.

"Forgive me, my Lord. Clegane was... violating her. She was half-bare, her clothes torn. When an outrider, Kale, asked for a turn, Clegane struck him so hard that all of his teeth flew out. She shrieked and wept, 'my babes,' 'my babes, please, no.'" The wound on Aegon's chest widened, devouring his heart. The truth serum did not stir any pity from Lorch, for his vile tale was just one for alehouse. "Clegane wildly cursed at her to cease whimpering, then he strangled her." Suddenly, Lorch began to laugh deeply, probably as he did on the day itself, enjoying the rape. The truth serum shedding any semblance of decency.

Profound silence shrouded the room, a silence wholly different from the one Tywin Lannister had wrought with his keen mind. A rotten soul devours an intelligent mind.

"Lord Lannister, do you have a clever remark about this?" Lord Rykker smirked.

"Men is clearly tortured, under the influence of some kind of elixir. A puppet to potions," Tywin rebuked, fixing Lorch with a look that instilled fear in his clouded mind.

"Judges see no fault with the state of Amory Lorch. The man is a sound witness, and he is not alone," said Lord Manwoody as four more men came in, each avowing their presence at the time Lorch slew Rhaenys or Clegane Aegon's mother. One said he beheld the death of the babe. They appeared more lucid than Lorch. Varys had said Lorch had named more men, and some were among Lannister captives. Valuing his own word still, Aegon kept his ears away from the Spider's promises to these men. No word of mine shall be broken, but their necks will.

Afterward, the named witnesses of Tywin Lannister stepped forth, each one claiming that they had not heard any order to slay the royal kin; neither of any of Joffrey's crimes. The last of them was Tywin's own brother, Kevan, who, like Tywin, glimpsed Aerys in Aegon's face, which brought unease to his expression. "My brother's order was to seize the royal family for Robert Baratheon, not to slay." Yet, to "seize" might as well be to slay. Kevan Lannister seemed to be a man who loathed lying. There was much more honor in him than in Tywin.

With the hearings done, Aegon withdrew with the four judges to weigh the verdict. The matter was brief, as none opposed the proposed sentences, as expected. An hour later, they came back to the hall. Scores of servants were lighting torches, bringing light to the half-dark chamber as dusk fell upon the castle.

The seneschal proclaimed the sentences, "Tywin Lannister, erstwhile Lord of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands, Warden of the West, is hereby, by the verdict of this council, convicted of all charges and condemned to death by beheading." Grim words, but Tywin Lannister faced them unflinching, like a rock of his seat.

"False King Joffrey, a boy deemed the spawn of adultery by the decree of this council; as non-Targaryen is lacking any right to the throne, and abusing the power he held. The council did not find proof of incest reasonable enough to confirm such a claim as true." Cersei Lannister almost looked pleased, but the next words crushed her joy. "As such, he is sentenced to banishment to serve in the Night's Watch."

"You charge me of falsehood, of usurpation, my mother slandered with harlotry. My grandsire has every right; no authority resides in any of you. Nor can justice be given. Only the gods can weigh my guilt, and so they will. The Seven shall choose the rightful king, you or me. I demand a trial by battle. I call for trial by seven."

The throne room buzzed with murmurs, and the four judges looked at Aegon with uncertain eyes. Jon Connington rushed up the short steps, "It's a trap; you must deny him. You have the right to deny him." Wordless, Aegon surveyed the crowd. If it's a trap, it worked; they all crave to see the clash, seven against seven, as in days of old.

"High Septon," said Tywin Lannister, and all voices fell silent, eager to hear. "Is it not a right of a nobleman to fight off accusations with a sword in hand?"

"It is," the man nervously uttered, afraid of the consequences. A dilemma tore at Aegon's soul. With the power in his hand, he could back off and refuse Joffrey. However, the realm would see him as a coward, sowing doubt in his rule. In every alley, every tavern, they would whisper about how he had stolen Joffrey's crown, a craven who refused to fight. All ill will, all malice against Joffrey would disappear, and he would be hailed as the true-born son of Robert Baratheon, whose father had defeated Aegon's in battle. And now Aegon is afraid because he knows the gods favore Baratheon over Targaryen. A thousand whispers united in Aegon's mind, overwhelming him. A satisfied smug adorned Tywin Lannister's face.

"I accept," a voice of need spoke from Aegon.

Chapter Text

"Are you mad?" Margaery shrieked at him, her voice ringing in the council chamber behind the throne hall. "This is ludicrous, sheer stupidity. Make an end of them, take their golden heads. Tywin, Joffrey, Cersei, the dwarf, all of the foul kin, spare them not for they would spare none of us." She clutched both of his shoulders, the fair face of the Tyrell flushed red with fury. A small throng gathered around, no face bore goodwill to his choice, so no one chided Margaery for raising her tone.

"And be the second Maegor," Aegon said softly, loath to quarrel with her or anyone else for that matter. "I deem, I can best him."

"And if you don't? If a Lannister beast cracks your helm, what then?" You can marry him; Tywin would not mind, nor would your lord father.

"There will be no 'then'," Aegon replied, lacking any of the ire she had. Tricked and deceived, the king felt hollow, as if the battle plan had fallen apart, and now he beheld the slain and gutted corpses of his comrades. Things of such a sort happened to him, shrouding him in silence, as if he speaks, the sorrow would be greater.

Sansa entered with others too.
"Her grace is right; it is foolish to heed Joffrey in any circumstance. He punishes people not out of law, but because he likes to see them hopeless," Taking Margaery's side brought no pride to the queen's face. Quite the opposite, she ignored Sansa's remark.

Measuring into her deep blue eyes, Aegon smiled, more out of anguish than joy. "I vowed to you, Joffrey will die by my hand." Everyone treats me as a tool to an end, just to forsake my honor.

"Back then, you were whole," she breathed, giving his soul a hard slap. Is the whole you crave? He could not bear to look her in the eyes. "My wish is for you to live on."

"The matter is now past dispute," Aegon declared, growing irritated by their complaints. It's foolish to retreat after accepting before everyone at court. And it's cowardly. "Tomorrow morning we fight."

"And what if you perish?" Varys probed.

"Well, honor and Gods demand that Joffrey be restored to his crown, does it not?" The answer did not gladden anyone, but Aegon went on, still giving them a dry smile. "But I advise that all of you flee from the city before seven thousand Lannister captives get their arms back."

"We hold the city and them," Rykker faltered, not relishing the prospect of explaining to Tywin Lannisters why he changed the cloak. In despair, every man beseeches the gods for salvation; when in power; he shuns them. The men glanced at Pease and Black Balaq, commanders of four thousand Golden Company men in the city. Aegon now saw that if he dies, they'll turn on each other like ants without a queen.

"Use that 'hold' well, then," Aegon narrowed his eyes.

"This Joffrey, if a brave man; his blade would fight our in battle, not hide behind the grandsire," Black Balaq mused, easing strain by pouring wine to Lymond Pease, Lord Dagos, Obara, and Lord Rykker. The ebony marksman didn't favor Garth Tyrell, so he passed him by, though both the seneschal and he looked like part of some mummer's show.

"Coward in spirit and flesh," chimed in freckle-faced Horas Redwyne.

At the table, Varys didn't share their comfort. "A trained craven, thought by the master-at-arms as any young lord would be. Armed not only with good Lannister steel but with the confidence that he can take on a weaker adversary. Lady Sansa is right; he preys upon the weak."

"Aegon is not weak," Jon cut the Spider's talk. "No training can match years of experience, which the boy doesn't have. The King is a veteran of a dozen battles, and Blackfyre shall slice through any Lannister armor."

"Your Grace, you need to choose six knights to fight with," Lord Rykker said, but also asked; longing to know who will fight by the king's side.

Ser Barristan stepped forth, "The duty of the Kingsguard is to stand by the King; all five of us will fight. Yet a seventh is still needed."

"I'll be the seventh," said Jon. Aegon bowed his head in pride and dread. No man wishes me more good than Jon, and there's no one I want to lose less than him.

Withdrawing to his solar, Aegon passed the early night in solitude, for Margaery was wroth with him and chose to abide in the queen's apartments, forsaking their nightly bedding for the first time since they had wed. As ever before a battle, Aegon found no rest, and slowly, dread wormed its way under his skin, the shadow of death looming over him. Battle wounds oft tend to hurt only after the body grows cold from the fury and the fervor. The same holds true for fear; long after the peril ends, the fear remains, souring the mind with dark thoughts. Each foe's blow could have been his bane, and every blunder he made seemed like a curse.

Here and now was the worst. The bed offered him no comfort, the sleep refused to come. Potential missteps wearied his spirit, stumbling tomorrow would mean all had been for naught, and Tywin Lannister would escape his justice, leaving the realm in the clutches of the evil. The full moon lent its light upon the city, exposing catapults and ballistae on stout walls.

A knook on the door freed him of his wakeful nightmares. Ser Barristan unlatched the door, and Jon Connington gingerly entered, settling on the bed beside Aegon.

"I knew you would not sleep," Jon whispered softly, gazing at him kindly. Nor could you, not with such grave stakes burdening your mind.

"No. I am afraid", he confessed, baring a fear to the only man he could. "Not for myself... tomorrow, so much hangs on me. So many souls."

"Stoney Sept still haunts me after so many years. From King's Landing to there, the thought of fighting thrilled me to the skies. Slaying Robert... and then, naught. He slew my friends, nigh slew me."

"If you mean to aid me with a tale, you're not quite there," Aegon laughed, and Jon joined in. Many suns had gone since the last time they japed together, unbound by aught. A potent memory flared inside him at that instant, hurling him back to the days when they were but two. Warmth pooled around his eyes as tears yearned to break free. Years past, Jon was his shield, his guide... his sire.

"Well, the lesson is to drive that steel of yours into that blond skull tomorrow," Jon exhorted. "Excitement is a delusion, and fear is a reminder. We will grant you freedom while holding others at bay. That's why I came hither."

"Joffrey's six champions are known," Aegon guessed, and Jon bobbed his head. The Lannister was swift; Aegon gave him favor by bringing thousands of captives to the city, each keen to fight for glory, for coin, for their vows. It mattered not.

"Three of his own Kingsguard shall contend, three who still may, which tells of their prowess. Oakheart, Moore, and Swann." This was not what Aegon hoped for, especially from ser Mandon Moore, a Valeman, and Balon Swann, of whom Varys says is a pragmatic man, with his sire serving Stannis. Arys Oakheart seemed noble enough to fight for his oath rather than for the king, but the first two did not. Tywin Lannister's coin spoke through the walls. Obara slew two Kingsguard, Meryn Trant and Boros Blount, in the course of seizing Cersei and her whelps, while the Mountain's brother, Sandor, cut down five men, fleeing to the city and was not seen after.

"And Addam Marbrand, Lancel Lannister, and Alyn Stackspear," Jon named the rest of the lot. "Most of them able knights, some perilous, but it is certain, Joffrey is the frail link. If he breaks, the chain is sundered." All three men spent captivity in Maidenvault, being fed well, yet could not train, which may have dulled their skill.

"Tywin knows that. Joffrey shall be shielded by at least two of them, Marbrand and Swann, if I may deem. Those two seem the most apt to ward and slash attackers. The rest are going to assail me." It sounds as a tactic Aegon oft used when playing Cyvasse. Yield pieces but put a dire threat on the foe's king while easing pressure on your own. Tywin cares not if all six of Joffrey's champions perish, as long as they drag me to the grave, too. Even Joffrey, if I fall first. The boy Tommen could replace his vile brother.

"Duckfield and the Bastard of the Godsgrace press for something akin, a more belligerent approach. Three of you to focus on Joffrey, four of us to bind as many of them for ourselves," concern carved on Jon's face, and Aegon knew why. He mistrusts some of them. Custom is for the Kingsguard to stand for royalty in a trial by combat. Dragonknight upheld the honor of Queen Nerys; three Kingsguard fought beside King Maekar, then prince, and his two sons.

"Which one," the king queried, albeit knowing likely names. Jon loathed Rolly's anointment among the white brothers.

"Young Rykker had never fought in a fray; mayhaps it would be wise to replace him. Duckfield doesn't reassure me either."

"Both are of the Kingsguard. I've seen Rolly fight many times; the man is dauntless. Rykker has finer instincts than most knights. If you seek for a weak point, it's before you. None of them has a throbbing chest or joints," Aegon grinned, but this time Jon didn't chime in. But the truth has been spoken. Aegon has trained much, but his old form is far away still.

"Naught but endure. Just bite your tongue and head forth. For many a week now, you've trained; that crossbow bolt didn't rob you of your skill. I saw it." Grimly, Jon seized his hand. No, but it sapped my strength. No archer can loose an arrow from a broken bow, nor a warrior fight with feeble legs or arms. Prolonged training tends to make armor heavy for Aegon. Stamina is akin to skill. Battles are oft decided by which warrior can keep himself on his feet the longest.

"If I fall tomorr..."

"Such talk isn't allowed. Not before me," Jon scolded him, a nervous twitch taking over his hand. Fear, even he cannot mask the fear. Tomorrow is the scale, ghastly and almost even, where the tip can go in any way. The fate of the realm is fixed by the weight of the feather.

"Jon, please... it's important." A clear mind eluded Aegon, but priorities must be set, regardless of the outcome. "Others are not trustworthy, so the last duty is yours. Sansa, Margaery, Lemore, Haldon must be escorted safely out of the city. Assemble good men and send them home. Burn my body." Tongues of funeral flames licked Jon Connington, and he shifted uncomfortably on a plush bed.

"Mace Tyrell is shameless; he may offer the Queen to the Lannisters," the griffin said, trying to avoid the topic of death with Aegon. And Tywin Lannister might be weak enough to agree upon it. How many of them will hasten to arm the Lannisters, Aegon know not. Some allies are like the Dothraki, loyal to strength, unforgiving to weakness.

"Loyalty you did not forswear. Look at me; I wouldn't be half a man without you. Cheesemonger's coin never lured me, nor spider's tales, nor Toyne's tutelage, but your words." Aegon embraced Jon, holding him firmly, feeling the warmth of the griffin's heart under a red woolen cloak, with one white griffin, lacking its red counterpart. Victory is the only path.

Calm expression returned to Jon Connington as he gracefully rose from the bed. "Take some sleep," he offered sincere counsel and left Aegon alone once more. Compelling himself, and tired of heart, the king did so, returning to his old childhood dream, riding an indistinct shape he deemed was a dragon, gliding through cloudy skies. Deftly steering between green hills, feeling free. Now, as never before, two shadows flanked him, on the left, a silver-haired woman rode a dark shape. The crowing of the rooster cut off the dream, disclosing nothing more than dawn. Half-light draped his room, lending it a gloomy and dismal feeling.

A servant came in with breakfast: smoked beef, olives, and cheese. Settling for only a few bites, Aegon walked to Margaery's chamber.

"My sister is not feeling well, Your Grace," Loras Tyrell hailed him. Strip him of armor, put him in a gown, coiffed his hair in Margaery's curly bun, and the two of them would have been one and the same.

"And how do you feel, Ser Loras? In mere hours, death may claim both of us," Aegon arched an eyebrow. The handsome man composed his face. If there was fear, he was masking it better than Aegon.

"A life I have already lost; death doesn't daunt me," Loras said absently.

"So did I once, yet the heart does not ask if it should beat" Aegon didn't think he would ever share aught with Ser Loras, let alone talk a thing about Eira.

Ser Loras met eyes with Aegon, "I know. Margaery told me". Secrets cannot be concealed from a sibling, not when she trusts you more than me.

"Open the door," Aegon ordered, and the Kingsguard complied with displeasure.

Margaery sat by the table, penning a letter, wearing only a simple silk nightgown. She looked quite unlike her usual self, weary and messy, lacking the usual charm. Dark circles around her eyes blemished her fair face, and tangled hair spoke of sleepless night.

"I am not in the mood," she expected bedding.

"Men prefer bedding after combat, not before," he exclaimed in a hollow jest. Dornish at least did, both before and after, to ready for a fight or to rejoice in victory.

"Japes of yours are not welcome, not when you did your 'best' yesterday. But you may prevail, after all, the noble Aegon is fighting to avenge Sansa's tears." She didn't have to gaze at him; scorn oozed in the room.

Though longing to depart, Aegon stuck to his original intent, "I came for a token of your honor, a meet thing for a husband to have from his wife." The part she liked the most, when someone seeks her favor.

"Handkerchiefs are in the second drawer; choose whichever you fancy," she pointed a finger at a piece of furniture, taking no more interest. Aegon swallowed irritation and picked a silken cloth; a dragon and a rose shared the same pale green field, solitary among other needlework, roses of every sort.

The larger, manly shade of his covered the small, womanly body as he neared her desk. His presence and kiss on the brow unsettled her, so she averted her head, shunning any further intimacy. She felt betrayed by me, tricked into a state where her future was in the hands of others. Twice wed, twice a widow, commoners would say. Not a maiden anymore. The treasuries of Highgarden are vast; they can buy her a third husband, yet not a king. Never again a king.

The good will forsook her, and a dark doom hung on the horizon. What if she was the one who brought death to Renly and Aegon, the tales shall go. Aegon had no power to lift the cloak of despair, so he just left, not wishing to see if she would be on the trial ground, to hearten him as a wife.

Piece by piece, Myles Mooton and Daemon Sand clad him in armor, strengthening rondels, fastening pauldrons with gaping dragon heads, checking all buckles on the charcoal breastplate. A familiar heft was on him now when the surcoat finally slipped over the dark armor. Snugly black cloth, with a three-headed dragon, red as blood.

Knotting Margaery's favor to a belt, he was ready, as were his champions. Five knights of the Kingsguard, showing neither dread nor remorse, with five white oaken shields, blank, unwritten fealty to him.

"Bite him well, Your Grace," Ser Daemon beamed, holding a spear, its smooth wood ending in a clenched red hand from which the sharp, thin blade sprang.

"No poison?" Aegon wavered. The fight should be fair; those seven men on the other side should only face what they behold.

Daemon caressed his spear, handling it as a woman. Dornish blood seethed even north of the mountains, and many evenings, Ser Daemon spent wandering the Street of silk, finding company and taking pleasure on both sides, as rumors say. "A pleasure is to see fruit go blue, ripe. But not today, as you bid me, Your Grace."

"Your fruit is bitter, good ser," Duck snickered. "I saw it after the battle under the sept, many blue Lannister heads."

"Rolly, you've kept me alive for many moons; don't fail me today," Aegon teased the bearded knight. He was donning wholly new armor, as did Ser Barristan and Ser Rymen Rykker, courtesy of blacksmiths at the Street of Steel. The plate was gilded with the same dragon trappings, though not as much as the rose full armor of Ser Loras, nor as light as Ser Daemon's armor. Dornishmen favored mobility over protection.

"Your Grace, my mother always said it is only proper for men to die by their age. If so, you shall go many a moon after me," the Duck grinned, giving him flawed teeth yet full of warmth and years of loyalty.

"Then, Ser Rymen, is the last to go," Aegon laid a hand on the junior knight. The boy looked eased, almost merry, like many green boys do before the battle, before their first terror.

Striking the boy lightly on the arm, ser Daemon smiled, "and since last night, a true man. Savoring his first woman or whatever he fancied."

"A woman... sorry, Your Grace," Ser Rymen flushed, admitting a thing some kings would have chastised him for. Aegon was almost pleased Ser Daemon took the boy on his nightly escapades.

"No offense taken, ser", he reassured the boy.

"Such activities shall remain unspoken," Ser Barristan chided the men as the Lord Commander, "if His Grace granted you leave to act upon your lusts, that doesn't give you license to stain your cloak by speaking of it."

The Bastard of Godsgrace was tickled by the chiding. "Our good Ser Rymen made them scream so much, they come now just by glimpsing white." Everyone laughed, even Ser Loras in his mourning sorrow graced everyone with a chuckle.

When Jon joined them, they rode down Aegon's Hill through almost barren streets, then breaching the Street of Looms, left the city at the Iron Gate. The day was young, cold, with sea mist giving dampness to the air. Yet a large crowd had assembled at the Tourney grounds, just outside the city walls, by the Rosby road. When Aegon beheld the muddy ground before the Dragon Gate, he realized the Alchemists were done unearthing wildfire pots. The cold night had hardened the mud.

Grass reclaimed a tourney field, which hadn't seen a proper competition in a year, not since Robert Baratheon staged a costly tourney in honor of Sansa's father, Lord Eddard. Thousands came to see the trial, and every spot by the tourney ground was packed with people who wanted to witness the battle. On a wooden platform, noble and wealthy guests waited.

Sansa was there, Margaery wasn't. So were the Lannisters, all of them, Tywin Lannister, his dwarf son, and the queen daughter; brother Kevan was there to witness his own son fighting. Curiously, Aegon weighed Tyrion Lannister, did he wish me for a victor. My victory grants him Casterly Rock, but does he love his family so much that he'd spurn his own gain? Rarely do men do that.

Young Rymen found his father and lookalike brother and exchanged a few words. The brother, who would only watch, showed plain concern, none of which was on their father's face.

Seven men stood on the other side: three in white cloaks with gold antler ornaments, not black and red like Targaryen as Aegon's Kingsguard; the two in Lannister armor with lions on gorgets, lion heads on pauldrons, full lions on breastplate, and lion-shaped helm. Gleaming armor, yet still sturdy. Joffrey looked like a mirror image of his cousin Lancel, if not for the black stag on his breastplate, turned to a Lannister Lion. Baratheon in name, lion in blood and mind. In contrast, the plain armor and checkered surcoat of Ser Alyn Stackspear stood out with its common look, while Ser Addam wore an armor befitting a man of a hundred battles, with tree burning on his chest adding to the imagery.

The trial would consist of only melee and end when Joffrey or Aegon perished; no other way. If I slay him fast, there will be less hurt to men fighting for me. The High Septon uttered prayers as the two sides walked toward each other, stopping fifteen yards apart. The last word of holy men was followed by drums. Aegon lowered his visor; the great helm muffled every sound, drums and cheers. Duck to the left, Ser Daemon to the right, three of them as a blade, and four other men as a shield. Doom. Doom. Doom. The drums persisted, then, in an instant, went mute. A war horn summoned the battle. Seven to fight seven. To kill one for the crown.

Blackfyre in hand, Aegon found Joffrey's stag through narrow slit of his helm. Stag and lion gazing at each, one beast to devour another. "Casterly Rock", Joffrey cried surprising many. Lion devours a stag. Aegon was wrong, his advisors were wrong, Joffrey didn't retreat in protective cocoon of better men, but charged directly at Aegon. All of them charged, clash of sword ringing through helm. Blackfyre bit weaker Hearteater, Joffrey's steel, surely leaving mark. No blade can match valyrian steel.

Almost equal, two kings parried each other's swings. Shrewdly, Joffrey used shield more, playing defense, tiring Aegon, letting wounds Aegon had take in. More and more, Hearteater left defense to shield, a lion on quality oak almost lost its gold shape. He is afraid I will dull his steel, or even break it with Blackfyre. Persisting, Aegon desperately sought for opening, but Joffrey gave him none.

Pain came back, his chest throbbing; burning pain mingling with sweat, creating an uneasy feeling under the armor. He made a mistake then, swinging too widely to the right side, and Joffrey punished him hard. The blow to the helm rang bells in every sept in the realm as he tumbled to the green ground, heavy armor dragging him down. The crowd reacted with thunderous gasps.

With the upper hand, Joffrey fiercely began attacking Aegon from above. Instinctively, Aegon raised his shield up, absorbing every strike. Get up, get up, his mind urged, but his body refused to listen, only having the strength to fend off, not to strike back.

Suddenly, Joffrey himself was on the ground as Duck tackled him, granting Aegon time to rise. And he did, slowly but surely. For the deed, Duck paid the toll, as Addam Marbrand slashed his joint and then thrust a sword between armor gaps. A deep breath resounded beneath Aegon's helm as, for the first time, he surveyed the battle ground.

With blood on his legs, Ser Barristan lay motionless as young Ser Rymen took a sword from his Lord Commander and boldly fended off Arys Oakheart and Alyn Stackspear, wielding a sword in each hand. The boy was swift and precise, handling two men as if they were one. At some distance, Balon Swann and Jon engaged in a quick and fierce duel, trading mighty blows to each other. Close to Aegon, Ser Daemon Sand delivered blow after blow to Mandon Moore, who was now sluggish and wounded. As Aegon wondered how Joffrey's Kingsguard would meet its doom, Ser Daemon dealt a mortal blow beneath Moore's helm.

The Knight of the Flowers was also on the ground, restlessly moving with a large dent on his helm. One man stood alone, keeping a long distance - Lancel Lannister, the only man on the field not engaging with anyone. Why, he had fought valiantly at the Lion's Gate, even taking a wound to the head. Did his first battle frighten him so much?

The strap on Joffrey's helm was snapped, causing the helm to reveal a third of the face. Then Aegon saw it, a scar on the right side. It was bloody, but not a new one. Duck hadn't given him that wound; he had only reopened an old one. Joffrey had no scar. Lancel. A damn craven. Every Lannister roar is a falsehood.

With no time to waste, Aegon left Lancel Lannister behind, striding past the immobilized Ser Loras towards Joffrey. The Lannister whelp realized Aegon saw through the ruse and retreated a few steps back. Joffrey lifted his sword then, flaunting the well-forged Lannister steel.

"The Sword of my grandfather," he said, and Aegon recognized the voice from yesterday. "Nameless, but from today, Dragonslayer." Fresh and ready, the Lannister rushed at Aegon, like a lion pouncing at a wounded pray.

Kill Joffrey for me, echoed in Aegon's ears. A pale face and deep blue eyes flooded within his helm, along with the sunlight. A surge of energy blazed through his body, a blend of anger and love fused in the Targaryen flame. Blackfyre clashed with Dragonslayer, once, twice, thrice. Driven by wrath, Aegon's steel strokes were fiercer, steadily besting Joffrey's own blade. The false king lacked the battle instinct of cousin Lancel and exposed his sword too much. With each swing, Blackfyre took another bite. As Joffrey turned back to the rest of the trial, Aegon beheld Rymen Rykker, slashing his sword through Alyn Stackspear. No longer a boy, taken his first life.

The steel song of two blades grew faint, and soon a harsh grating filled the air, followed by the shriek of a dying sword. Aegon felt a surge of fury, and hammered Dragonslayer with Blackfyre, heedless of Joffrey's feeble parries, until at last the Valyrian steel bit inch deep, wrenching Dragonslayer from Joffrey's lion-clawed hand like a fishhook. Terror shone in the plain lion helm as Aegon struck the first blow to the shield of the disarmed foe. Wood splintered under the force of dragonsteel, and the stout oak rimmed with iron burst asunder, falling in pieces.

Aegon raised his sword for the killing stroke, but his eyes were drawn elsewhere. On a patch of dry ground among the verdant field, Ser Balon Swann stood with a bloody blade over the still form of Lord Jon Connington. The sight hit Aegon harder than any blade that day. A heavy hush fell over him, and he ceased his attack on Joffrey.

Leaping on him, Joffrey swept Aegon off his legs. Blackfyre flew far from his grasp, and the two knights rolled together in a tangle of steel. Caught between the weight of heavy armor and his own oaken shield pinning his left arm to the grass, Aegon was trapped. Joffrey's gauntlet closed around his throat, and the Lannister's left knee bore down on his right arm, holding him fast.

"Have no fear, bastard. I will give her your blackened head for a kiss. Every day, until naught but bones remain," Joffrey hissed, trembling as he fumbled for the poniard on his lion belt. "The throne is mine," the quavering and parched voice said from behind the lion helm. "A Lannister always pays his debts."

A dragon is a mightier beast than a stag, than a direwolf, greater than a lion, Jon had told young Aegon long ago, on the rolling hills of Andalos, when they shared the warmth of a nightly flame and the bitter flesh of a wild rabbit. Now, in the claws of the lion, Aegon gazed into the true monster behind the iron of the lion-shaped helm. Aegon's own helm bore no likeness of a dragon, nor did it seem regal. Only two long feathered crests spoke of his house, black and red - fire and blood. The fire of life. The fire of vengeance.

Aegon shifted his left, shield-bound arm, and Joffrey intuitively moved his gauntlet from Aegon's neck to catch the moving hand. A blunder. The dragon is a fiercer beast than a lion. Summoning strength, fighting through the pain, Aegon lifted himself slightly, ramming his helm into Joffrey's lion head. A loud clang echoed new agony as blood gushed from his nostrils, filled his mouth. Some of his teeth might be loose, but Aegon did not care, as his ploy worked, and the lion Joffrey lost his sense, rolling to the left, freeing Aegon from its jaw. The King followed, and now the two knights were reversed, with Aegon on top.

Finding the lion poniard, the one Joffrey had failed to use, Aegon pressed the keen little blade to the helm's eyeslit and pounded furiously on the lion-shaped golden pommel, striking a five or more times until the blade breached the helmet's weakest spot.

When the sharp point touched his eye, Joffrey screamed. "A Lannister always pays his debts," Aegon said through his blood-filled mouth, giving the final thrust, driving the blade into the monster's skull. Black blood spilled from the other lion's eye. Joffrey was dead.

A roar of cheers and applause swept the crowd. On his knees, Aegon saw the fighting cease in other parts of the field. He took off his helm, his face was smeared with blood. Cercei Lannister's wails were lost in the clamor of thousands.

Ser Arys Oakheart, Ser Balon Swann, and even Ser Addam Marbrand all bent the knee, plunging their swords into the earth. Rymen Rykker helped Ser Barristan to his feet, as did Ser Daemon for Ser Loras, taking off his ruined helm. On the ground without a helmet, Lancel Lannister stared at Joffrey's dead body.

Spitting out blood and bits of teeth, Aegon staggered to Jon with shaky legs. "Jon," Aegon called to the man under the helm, but there was no answer. "Griff, please," Aegon wept again, his salty tears mingling with the salt of the blood. With clumsy fingers, Aegon took off Jon's helm. An iron fist clenched his heart as Jon's pale face lay still as a stone, with open yet sightless eyes. Aegon pulled off his gauntlet and closed Jon's eyes, collapsing on the dead body.

Cheers turned to shrieks as dark shapes surrounded him, speaking in a tongue he could not understand. The world around him blurred and dimmed, and the noise faded to silence. He slept, then woke on a cart, bouncing on the rough road, and then slept again. When he opened his eyes for the second time, he saw the looming shadow of the Red Keep before him. The blurry world claimed him once more, and the weight of his armor vanished, replaced by the softness of a feather bed. Voices grew sharper, but Aegon was burning again, caught in a fevered dream, unable to answer the voices he knew were Haldon, Lemore and Varys.

A gentle touch on his face became Margaery, and quiet weeping encircled the bed. Between the two wooden pillars of the canopy bed, Aegon glimpsed a blurry female shape with a chestnut crown.

"Get out," Margaery screamed. "You have no right to be here."

"Your Grace, please," Varys tried to soothe the queen as Margaery's fury turned to nausea. The last thing Aegon felt was the wetness on his bed as Margaery spewed for the second time on his bed. A long sleep then claimed him.

Chapter Text

Broken. Lost. Hollow. Of heart shattered to dust. That was how Aegon looked to Sansa, as the corpse of Lord Connington left for the Great Sept of Baelor, escorted by a dozen of Silent Sisters. Sent, to await the outcome of the looming battle as they all must, then endure the war until the castle of Griffin's Roost returned to the King’s banner, for journey to south, to his ancestral home. Like her father's bones did, though by now the remains of Lord Eddard Stark might lie under the ruins of Winterfell, in the chill of the crypts. She had always feared them, yet, at this very moment she would give anything to just walk through the ancient corridors, among the ghosts of Stark kings. By the grace of the old gods, perhaps I still may.

Far away, war horns sounded. The dragon's own or the stag's, Sansa had no ear for matters of war. From the Rookery's tower at dawn, she strained her eyes to glimpse Stannis's horsemen across the river's mouth, but saw naught. Haldon assured her that the foe was hidden in the Kingswood by the Kingsroad, biding their time for their king's ships to land. The Halfmaester spoke his words with a queer glee, as if she would be vexed if the enemy was not there. Rumours said that skirmishes had already been fought in the woods, with Black Balaq's bowmen harrying the provisions coming from Storm's End. Darker voices claimed that Lord Tarly had already joined his strength with Ser Guyard Morrigen, forging a fearsome host of more than thirty thousand swords waiting beyond the river.

The cortege with the late Hand's remains was guarded by two scores of Golden Company knights and captains, led by Lymond Pease and the Peake brothers: Laswell, the grizzled man, yet still as kind as her father had been, and the much younger Pykewood, a comely knight Jeyne had a fancy for.

Aegon lingered in the yard, his milk-pale Targaryen face, lost its beauty, turning to a hollow shell of sorrow and injury. He looks almost ill, Sansa noted. The ladies of the court wept as the procession departed, but the king's eyes stayed dry, too careworn to shed a tear. Sansa knew he was not a stranger to emotion, but the last few days had drained him.

She followed him as he made his way back to the inner keep, avoiding the throng of the outer bailey. The castle was bristling with steel, with armored men at every turn, and a thousand more upon the walls, preparing for Stannis's assault. Upstream, the royal fleet was ready to bar Stannis, whether he came by sea or by the river. She entered the Great Hall behind Aegon and climbed the long spiral of the serpentine steps to the throne room. Two Kingsguard flanked the king: Rymen Rykker, a mere boy, younger than her, whom men now called 'Shieldless Rymen,' for he had cast away his shield in the trial, and fought with two swords, showing great skill; and Daemon Sand, a Dornishman who would sometimes give Sansa thinly veiled lustful glances. Both white brothers noticed her, but said naught, obediently following their liege.

Only Aegon entered the throne room; the Kingsguard remained outside, at the massive oaken door that was left ajar. They are leaving the way for me, she realized, hastening her pace. Ser Daemon gave her a nod as she passed through the door, and the loud thump of oak left Aegon and Sansa alone in the vast hall, half a world apart.

He turned his head when her soft steps emerged from a concealment of the noise the closing door made. Every step she made echoed in the dim walls of the great chamber as Aegon waited for her motionless, resembling a statue.

"I thought, perhaps, you needed me," she whispered gently. Her heart sank seeing his face up close, marred by bruised islands blemishing his fairness, connected by bridges of half-healed cuts. The silence that followed wounded her even more as he just stood there, soaked in heavy drops of unseen rain.

"I should have wed you," Aegon sighed, breaking free from the chains of his petsonal hell-dungeon. After the trial by combat, he had hardly taken off his armor, and now he must don it again to defend the city. But more than that, the shield before his heart was always raised.

"Words of such are not wise, Your Grace," she breathed, fearful for him. "The Red Keep, I know, the walls have ears. My father scorned that peril and paid dearly. And now..." Aegon lifted an eyebrow, his puzzlement barely showing on his weary face.

"...and now Margaery is with a child, so you fear someone might slay me. Trust me, my Sansa, if she or anyone else plots that deed, they will choose to wait for me to fill her womb with spare." He dropped his eyes to the floor, ashamed by his own crude tongue. Sansa's heart fluttered; she loved this side of him—gentle soul, a tender need to protect her, even from profanities. Nothing like Joffrey. With Joffrey, it was always only about Joffrey.

Unwilling to show any regret and to fan the flames of his resentment, she drew nearer, almost nose to nose with him. "If you had wed me, Lord Tyrell might have stayed in his great castle, and King's Landing would still be in Lannister hands." The twist of fate gnawed at her heart, but other paths lay in a dark abyss that would devour both her dragon and her kin in one fell swoop. So, speaking truly, she continued, "Now, King's Landing is not in a fright, for the might of Dorne is coming, as are the lords of the Reach, and the city walls are crowded with spears."

Though she knew Aegon was privy to it all, mayhaps even more, she longed to bring some light to his face. Lord Connington was like a father to him, a bond closer than any Sansa had ever shared with her own sire. The river cannot flow backwards, and the sun set for all she might have said to her father now.

"The battle scares me not," he said with a faint smile, reaching out a hand. "Dance with me... my lady, as you did many moons ago in the halls of Maidenpool." Taken aback for a moment, she did not answer forthwith; then took the offered hand, laying her other arm on the back of his black doublet.

Movements were  slow this time, unlike the quickness of the first dance they shared together. Relishing every move, Aegon guided her as if playing an easy melody, taking care with each string of the lute. In unison, time itself slowed down around them; Sansa heard their footsteps in harmony echoing through the great hall, a gentle breeze drifting in from a few open mosaic windows that cast light upon the smooth floor.

The calm sweetness of love in her heart soon gave way to a restless fear. The moment must end, like a dream she would wake from, leaving tender joy on the pillow. To prolong it, she posed a query, "Will you fight?"

"I must," was his obvious answer, but she paid no heed, only smelling the musk radiating from his manly form. Most men carried the foul stench of unwashed flesh, wine-stained breath, and weeks of sweat, but not Aegon; he was always clean, and what lingered of his manliness then was a delight. "The king's presence gives men hope. With my sword on the wall, they will be ready to risk more, eager to show their worth."

The notion troubled her, so she gently pressed fingers on the satin of his back. Aegon felt it, bringing his face nearer, almost touching her forehead with his own. Blindly, they moved in space, as the floor of the throne room was large enough to host a thousand men but not large enough for two hearts.

"Haldon told me you are not as well as you pretend to others," she spoke on. "On the walls, you must go, I know, but let other men lead the charge. Many are more than able; Manwoody, Peake, and Pease."

He surprised her again, giving her a brief kiss on the brow. "The Halfmaester tends to be overly gloomy. His words to me were harsher. 'You'll not live to be an old man,' he said, if I keep tormenting my body with so much injury, but the king's peace is the law of the blade."

Closing the gap, she joined their brows, the soft pale skin of the feeble sun of the north touching the even paler skin of Valyrian blood. "And the king should not be reckless; great men err too. Honor put my father in the grave. If he was just an inch more selfish, he and many more men would live."

"If so, Lord Eddard might have saved his friend Robert, and we would never have met," he said. The state of affairs between us would have stayed the same, she knew the bitter truth.

"Father was deeply stricken by the fate of your sister and mother, and by yours, I suppose. For a time, he quarreled with Robert, as the king showed no mind to punish the murderers, including Tywin Lannister. Another illusion of my father; the south is not the north. Politics reigns, here, over justice, and honor is weaker than summer snow."

"What brought them together again? As they fought again recently, I have heard, for Robert wanted my aunt Daenerys dead, clearly not forsaking his old ways" Aegon asked, leading them almost to the shadow of the Iron Throne, a long jagged reflection on the smooth red floor, almost as ugly as the royal seat itself.

"More death," she gasped, changing the course of the dance from the throne, shyly taking the lead from a man whose heartbeat she liked to hear. Far from the Iron Throne, the towering pile of charcoaled swords meant a wide divide between them. "The death of my aunt Lyanna. She was Robert's beloved; songs tell of his shattered heart after her death, a great warrior broken. In a way, your father was the one who dealt the final stroke, destroying Robert's heart without a hammer."

"The girl was a victim of my father, the same as my mother and sister were. Never did I despise Robert for father's death, not at least as Jon did. To die by a foe on the field of battle, with a sword in hand, is no injustice... I am sorry, my lady; your aunt did not deserve such a fate," Aegon said in a low voice. His silent breath brushed against the strands on her cheek.

For a brief moment, the colorful light beams of the stained-glass windows dazzled her, and in that sightless glare, she held onto Aegon tighter. Her soul melted as his strong arms reciprocated embrace, offering her solace in steadiness. At peace again, she continued, "The death of a sister was a sorrowful subject for my father, so he seldom spoke of it. My father was not a man of many words anyhow; the weight of each word burdened him, so he did not squander his tongue in vain. Nevertheless, I always wondered, as so many did, why Prince Rhaegar took her." Prince, not your father, she was careful with words, not to cast any blame upon Aegon. Besides, you were just a babe, tiny and innocent. The thought of Aegon as a sweet babe brought a spark of joy.

"A prophecy," Aegon said softly, his voice shackled by sorrow. Sansa was left puzzled and speechless; she had seen men do foolish or wicked things out of lust or gold and, seldom, as Joffrey did, because pain made them feel strong and brought them joy. "It's an old tale, forgotten by most, as it was hidden from many. It speaks of Aegon, the first of his name, dreaming of a great doom falling upon the realm, cold and dark."

"The Long Night," she interrupted him, as that brief description matched the bedtime stories Old Nan scared children with in Winterfell. Boys and Arya enjoyed those, but Sansa not so much; she favored tales of love and chivalry. Yet, Others and great white spiders as big as hounds might be false, but life was still full of monsters lurking beneath the skin of men. "An old Lady from Winterfell frightened children by telling how Others sleep north of the Wall, soon to awake, to bring everlasting night, riding on the backs of huge spiders." That brought warmth to her heart, sending her back to the early days of childhood, blithe and free from the game of thrones. Aegon put on a small smile too.

"Well, the first Aegon believed in that tale or a similar one, and this is the strange part..." He went on, turning them once more to avoid a clash with the towering pillar. She found joy in his growing openness, speaking freely, freed from the usual stiffness that marked him while around others. "...it seems the dream was the spur for conquest, not a thirst for glory or the need for a new empire to replace the lost home of Valyria. No. A nightmare changed the lives of millions, forging a continent-wide realm, from the cold of the north to the heat of Dorne. The conqueror believed that for the salvation of mankind, a Targaryen must sit upon the throne of Westeros. A part of the dream-fueled prophecy was written down, passed to the next generation of royal blood. From my blood comes the prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire."

A notion puzzled Sansa; a link must have been broken. "How do you know?"

"Little from Jon, even less from Varys, but most of the royal archive here was left untouched. Men like Robert care for standards and banners, not for parchments. Varys dreads prophecies and magic, so he left many things unsaid, but Pycelle, on the other hand, is very helpful and guided me to the right books and scrolls. He's old but still recalls what my father read so many years ago. It's a pity; the maester would be an asset if not for his treacherous nature."

"So your father thought himself to be the prince from prophecy," Sansa said, wondering how Prince Rhaegar must have been mad. How much woe he brought, just because of something he read in century-old paper. Dreamers are as dangerous as warriors.

Aegon nodded. "Initially yes. At least Varys belives so, but as with every prophecy," he mocked the prospect, bringing a smile to her face. The smile pleased him, earning her another kiss on the forehead as a reward. Now, everything seemed like a dream. "...and, like at the beginning of the second moon of this year; a comet appeared in the sky, heralding that my mother was with child. Me. So Father took that as a sign, that a hero was his unborn son because some other prophecy, favored by the followers of the red god's faith, speaks of a bleeding star."

"So many prophecies..." she laughed, and Aegon joined in, washing away some of the sorrow caused by Lord Connington's death.

"Good thing my father did not have an old lady from Winterfell, then he would believe in much more nonsense," Aegon japed, losing much of his usual royal demeanor, becoming almost a boy, her equal.

Sansa wanted to hear the rest of the story. "Prince Rhaegar died believing you are a hero of prophecy?" Playfully, she switched the order of words, giving Aegon attribute.

"No, he changed it again," waves of melancholy swept away the short-lived jest, "he wanted a third child, for the dragon must have three heads. Why, I don't know? My mother was of frail health; pregnancy with Rhaenys left her bedridden for moons, and I almost killed her coming into this world. She will bear children no more; it was plain to everyone." A bolt of anger pierced through Sansa. Did Prince Rhaegar rape Lyanna for a child? Aunt Lyanna was a strong-willed young woman, like Arya; mayhaps she chose death before dishonor, fighting him. Sansa fought the cruel images coming to her mind, keeping her eyes open. Alone and sad, no maid deserves such a fate.

"Is that..." the loud noise of drums cut off Sansa's sentence, reaching the many windows of the throne room from afar. The enemy finally arrived, she guessed, picturing Lord Stannis's ships across Blackwater Bay, ready to land before the walls. The middle Baratheon brother, she had not met, yet it was hard to imagine his looks. Renly and Robert were so different from each other—one grizzled and fat, the other handsome and slim. The first a warrior, the second a courtier. The third might be wholly different.

"Continue, please, my lady," Aegon urged her, loath to let Sansa go. "The drums are ours, marshaling the men on the walls. Stannis already has some thousands camped across the river, on horse, but harmless, as they lack the means to force the river. The battle will begin when the ships arrive or Tarly's men from the Rose Road, whichever comes first."

"Is my aunt taken to bear a third child?" Sansa repeated the question. Forced, she meant to say, though Aegon did not hold his sire in the highest esteem. Yet, one's sire is still a sire.

"Presumably," he said simply. "Why her, and not any other woman, I fail to see? Prophecy speaks of fire and ice; and snows, cold, and ice are of the north, as fire is of Targaryen kin. Was my father so shallow in his reading of words, I know not. Perhaps all of it is just gibberish, a folly made up by fortune peddlers to earn favor from a Lord of Dragonstone. The stature of the chosen did not spare my sister from a gruesome death, nor did it give father the third child he desired so much." A single tear made a voyage across his face, traversing bruised islands and slashed valleys of cuts.

A raven croaked, startling both of them, Sansa more than her pale-faced king. The bird took a place on a chandelier, so steady that the large golden spiral of rings barely moved under its weight.
"We are not alone after all," Aegon said, curiously looking at the black-feathered bird. 'Dark wings, dark words,' crossed Sansa's mind. Rarely is good fortune brought on the wings of a raven. She feared for Aegon's life.

Croaking again, the raven's harsh voice felt like a slap, and she lost sight of her king and the throne room. Instead, she beheld the Godswood ensnared in ice, a crown of green flames and thorns upon Aegon's brow as he sat leaning against the white weirwood, clad in armor not of plate, but of charred coal.

'The blood of the First Men flows stronger than that of dragons,' she heard the words of Haldon the Halfmaester, spoken in her own voice. 'The blood killed my father.'

Arya pounded on the door of the desert tower, weeping for Aegon who descended the stairs. "I've done all that you sought," she uttered through tears, now almost as tall as Sansa, mourning the loss of father and brother. 'But we've lost two brothers, Bran and Rickon,' Sansa couldn't bring herself to say, consumed by grief. The air was sweltering, hotter than when Sansa first ventured beneath the Neck, shedding the cloak of northern summer's coolness. And then, from the gaping entrance guarded by three white sentinels, rising to the tower's battlements, the wail of a child echoed through the premises. "Northern blood runs stronger, Sansa," said the raven, bearing Bran's face. "Sansa, Sansa, Sansa," the raven kept croaking.

"Sansa," Aegon's voice snapped her from sleep. She lay upon his knees, gazing up at his troubled face in bewilderment. "You swooned," he softly said, stroking her cheek with his hand. "Does that bird scare you..."

"Aegon," she breathed shallowly. "My aunt has indeed borne a child to your father." Shock and disbelief painted themselves across his eyes. Before he could say anything, a long horn sounded in the distance, followed by multiple reverberations echoing in all directions. The creak of heavy doors thundered as Ser Daemon Sand burst in. "Your Grace, enemy sails are on the horizon."

Chapter Text

The sibling... the word felt queer, meant for a dream, carving and mending his soul in a strange harmony. Above all, he knew that it was the truth, it had to be, a stubborn ache in his chest would not let him forsake it. Even now, on the battlements, with mist shrouding the river mouth and the sun sinking low in the west before yielding to another night to come. Can I fight? he wondered, in the moment when Sansa uttered the words, the farewell was hard, he yearned to hear more. Hear from her. The stag was prancing through the mist, in full strength, ready to seize the crown, a royal circlet barely placed upon his brow. The hilt of the Blackfyre felt heavier than usual; his sword was defying him, loath to leave its scabbard. Might be Blackfyre knows I am not prepared to face another battle so soon after Jon's death. Now, I stand alone.

"Your grace, are you well? Do you require water?" asked Laswell Peake, too seasoned a man to not sense a turmoil on Aegon's demeanor. I must stand for my men; they cannot confuse my sorrow for dread.

"This wind is opening my wounds, never a welcome thing," Aegon fibbed. A befitting reply to a man whose life is of steel and war. You cannot fight for decades in the Golden Company, as Peake did, and not bear wounds that smart. The man made a serjeant ere Aegon's nameday. Wisely so, Aegon put Peake in command of the Mud Gate, where Baratheon's hammer will strike fiercest.

Stannis filled the bay with nigh half a thousand of his ships, most smaller trade galleys, carracks, and cogs. A wooden shaft on a spear to bear men-at-arms until a sharp spearhead breaches entrance at the river. A tip laden with almost eighty warships, large and stout; half of which Stannis taken from his elder brother when he served as Master of Ships, and the other half a boon from Free Cities. A score of foes Aegon did not even know he had. Foes of my friend are my foes as well, and Illyrio never ceased to remind me of his bounteous friendship. If Velaryons and Celtigars stood by the side of the stag, he would have more than a hundred. Alas the trident and claw are in my grasp, ready to smite the foes rear. Lord Stannis was not the only one who received gifts; Aegon got forty warships moored at King's Landing and two scores of trading ships Tyrion Lannister impounded in the interest of Joffrey's crown.

The dragon borrowed more than just ships from the dwarf, the entire plan to defend King's Landing perched on small legs. First, with the doom of wildfire, Aegon shall annihilate Baratheon's spearhead; then, the fleet commanded by Lord Velaryon will strike and shatter the shaft. The fleet led by Driftmark's Seahorse departed three nights ago for Duskendale, under the cloak of a moonless night and howling storm. Lord Rykker pledged three warships of his own— the only three he had— old and weary, but still fit for war.

"Ships in the river," warned the voice from the watchtowers. Yet, from the merlons of the southern wall, only white mist glided across the dark currents of the Blackwater.

From the belly of the mist, warhorns spoke first, followed by drums, an eerie and steady rhythm. Aegon never fancied drums, especially not these, clear and ordered, hinting at an enemy ready for battle, well-trained and armed. Stannis Baratheon had such a renown, a seasoned commander with enough battles under his girdle. Firm in mind and body, as hard as iron.

Twelve shadows emerged in a straight battle line, from the wide river mouth. The stag emblazoned in flame gleamed on sails and stern; fire on canvas came to life, casting light on the dark river trapped in fog and the late day. The work of the Red Priestess, it was known to him, the most perilous tool in Baratheon's host.

Once, he shared a bed with one servant of R'hllor in Pentos, in the sorrowful years after Eira's death, when he had somewhat lost himself, drowning in books, work, and occasionally, in women. Dyed blue hair did not deceive her, she instantly knew Aegon was not a son of rich cheesemonger Illyrio Mopatis but a prince from a distant land. A better prize, worthy to ensnare, just so, if only Aegon were so simple to prey upon

"Serjeant, let them know we are not slumbering," Aegon ordered to serjeant Malo. A creak of battle engines brought catapults and scorpions to life.

"Catapults!" roared the men, and voices reverberated through the long wall as officers far away relayed the order all the way to the Walls of the Red Keep. Catapults hurled great stones at the first line of the ships. Sadly, most stones missed their marks, but the game began, at least a seemingly harmless, innocent part of it. The tempting part, the moment lovers shed each other's clothes, a gentle touch of intrigue before passions take over. It looked splendid, as line after line of Baratheon ships came into sight. Drums and horns chanting, stones flying across the skies, scorpion bolts darting the air like shooting stars. Ships answered with force of their own, flinging stones over to the gravel beach, stronger ones grazing against thick walls.

Not a man has perished yet, just a display of might from both sides, testing each strength points and weakness. If only those sailors knew, a fiery beast lurks beneath their hulls, deep down resting amid seagrass. South of the river, a thousand armored horsemen cast off shyness, leaving the security of Kingswood. Hopefully, soon, there'll be none to pluck them out, not a ship, not a small boat.

"Ahhhhh," a voice cracked as Aegon lost his first man, crushed by a boulder, somewhere down the wall, likely from the Fury. The Maiden had just shown her pearl to an eager lover. The tip of Stannis's spear, a sea leviathan so huge and full of oars, it kills with its indomitable appearance. By chance Aegon shall seize it by the horns, with the paint-chipped Lady of the Silk, a ship so old it's not deserving of the wood that built her.

And then, gliding down the current came Aegon's seven, a vanguard made of the worst ships in the royal fleet of King's Landing, speeding downstream to face the foe. Sailing to perish, manned by a skeleton crew of clueless men. The men I am sending to die, some of them with families, sons to be reared, daughters to wed. One hundred twenty-eight of them, some old, some young. It must be done. Can golden dragons replace a sire, Aegon did not know, but he was certain families would get their due, for a sacrifice... A falsehood to myself, it's not a sacrifice when men do not know they are dying. Oarless, seven ships were borne by a swift river, hastening towards the first battle line.

"Better to raise the chain," Laswell Peake was worried prey might elude the trap. A little bit more, or so much will be for naught.

"No," Aegon said patiently, "we need as many as we can get in. Seven battle lines at least." Luck be it, the wildfire just might consume five scores of Baratheon ships. The chain would seal the escape route, seven of Aegon's ships laden to the brim with wildfire will inflame the first two battle lines, and submerged barrels complete the inferno. The forging of the chain was Tyrion Lannister's idea; to add wildfire reinforced by rigging ropes was Aegon's. From shore to shore, ropes held lines of sand-filled barrels, each having a heart of wildfire pot. Hallyne cautioned him the strength of the river might set them off early, yet he took the gamble, and payday was at hand. Unawares, a dozen enemy ships crossed the underwater threat.

"Hardly so, Stannie is more than a lord of war, but a master of ships. He knows the first blood is at the river, too costly," Aegon replied. "He means to land with that host, not to brave a river battle". Land, breach the mud gate feeblest of them all, and face me, rattle me out of the city my forefathers raised.

"The river is unworthy of the honor to slay him," Ser Loras said adamantly, his gentle voice glinting with hidden fury, ready to erupt more fiercely than wildfire. The White Flower stands defiant in the shadow of doom.
From Varys, Aegon learned Stannis is a bold man, an upright king, too stubborn not to lead by deed. He'll come.

A runner came from the King's Gate, "Your Grace, Captain Balaq stands ready and waiting. Enemy riders are thronging across the river, a thousand and more awaiting the boats."

"Well. Let them bear witness to our triumph," spoke the Bastard of the Godsgrace. The bulk of Stannis's men sailed with him from Dragonstone, but Aegon kept one eye on the Kingswood, on the host Guyard Morrigen marshaled.

Ere long, another runner came, from a different way. "If it please your Grace..." The lad's words were silenced when boiling pitch struck the merlons, drenching a score of the Golden Company men-at-arms. Two tumbled over the wall into the city, the rest shrieked while writhing on the ground. Warships were assailing the battlements with scorpions and catapults. Aegon's forces were not idle; ordered rows of ships were breaking under the dreadful bolts from the walls.

"Go on," Aegon urged the green runner back to his senses, lifting him to his feet. A sheen of sweat covered the boy's brow. "What are the tidings from Captain Pease?" The hour has come; the Blackwater must be shut by now.

"The chain is raised, your Grace," he answered meekly, "seven enemy galleys crashed into it, sinking. More damaged." Glad words, Aego rejoiced, the chain will hold them off.

"It's time," said Daemon as seven royal galleys drew near two hundred yards from Stannis's first rank. In Aegon's ears, bells were ringing; victory was nigh. Stannis's ships bit the hook, moving to ramming speed; archers stood poised on decks of ships. The black iron head on the Fury, in the shape of the bounding stag, aimed at the Lady of the Silk. Just a bit more, and the green monster shall swallow its wooden quarry. Agonizingly, time crawled too slowly in the sand glass. Did Aegon the Conqueror feel thus as he awaited Gardner forces to fill the field of withered grass?

All of a sudden, from the deck of the Fury, a glittering arrow took flight, long and lean, sparkling in colors of a rainbow. So far from the walls, yet it seemed so bright, a flame in the form of an arrow, elegantly shimmering through the thin fog. No, a shock drove the air from his chest before the flame landed on the deck of the Lady of the Silk, breaking all his schemes. Someone must have betrayed their secrets. How could it be that Varys failed in his duty so badly?

"Gods be merciful," Laswell Peak breathed, in a grunt, as the fiery arrow fell onto the partly unfurled sails of the Lady of the Silk. The old ship blazed faster than anything Aegon had ever beheld. It did not only merely burn; it melted, devouring the ship inward by the venom of the green liquid freight.

The green blast blinded all but Aegon; his lilac Targaryen eyes peered into the void. Daemon slid gauntlet fingers over his halfhelm; Laswell averted his face; Ser Loras dropped to the ground, not as nimbly as his renown. The flash robbed many of their sight, as eyes were turned away, people cried in agony wrought upon their eyes. Aegon felt no pain, nor were his eyes tired of gazing into the flames.

Boooooooom, a deafening sound replaced the light a heartbeat later. The rumbling noise roused anyone who might have yet been slumbering in King's Landing.
Timbers and shattering wood served as the spark, kindling the fire on the remaining six ships like a broken necklace; all seven ships burst in a row. Boom. Boom. boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

A bridge of fire clove the river in twain, forming a flawless line, towering high, dwarfing even the walls of the Red Keep. The wall of green fire was tame, sparing all of Stannis's ships as they dropped anchor before it. It's her, the red witch, Aegon felt, her magic feeds on fire, and I gave her the grandest pyre she could ever dream of.

Swoosh. Swoosh. Murky river water was lashing the green wall on the other side, too feeble to break it, sending jets of steam towards the city walls.
In a thunderbeat, men blinded by the green blaze now shrieked as steam seared them alive in their plate armor and mail shirts. Helpless, Aegon could only watch the horror. When the steam reached his spot upon the battlements, he was the lone men standing. Targaryen skin withstands heat. My army is Targaryen only in a banner.

Furiously, he lifted the visor, gazing at the green wall-bridge, a wicked thing ablaze with the same unquenchable malice. Like in an emerald glass, he spied her red eyes in it, searing through the darkness itself. Two rubies on a face as pale as his, gorgeous in the grace of a woman, crowned by copper-red hair. She was startled; she did not reckon anyone could peer at the world with shade of her own eyes. Melisandre of Asshai, thrall of the Lord of Light, R'hllor. Lilac stare of Targaryen shattered flickering ruby, lifting the veils of the mummer's show.

"I see you," Aegon murmured, his voice blending into the hissing death of scalding steam and the madness of pleas for help. "I see your true face, not a comely one, but old, marred by ages." The blood-red ruby on a golden chain became his hand as Aegon's words strangled her. Utterly amazed, she was wholly enchanted, losing herself as their two minds linked across vast spaces.

"Aegon," the man said to a Dornish woman nursing a newborn babe in a grand wooden bed. "What finer name for a king?" The name resounded, turning into a sob, as the face of his mother, Elia, came into sight.

"Will you make a song for him?" Elia softly asked, paying heed to the sleeping babe rather than the fanciful musings of her husband.

"He has a song," Aegon's father answered, sure as the coming of dawn. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire." The fallen Targaryen Prince lifted his head as he spoke, and his eyes met Aegon's; it seemed as if he glimpsed his son standing on the battlements, witnessing his army perish in the scorching steam on the southern wall of King's Landing. Sorrow came over Aegon, and Melisandre was stunned and mute. The joining of minds brought them closer, and Aegon sensed despair in her heart. She was wrong; she had mistaken Stannis for a savior he was not.

"There must be one more," Rhaegar said, though whether he was speaking to Aegon or the princess Elia in the bed he could not tell. "The dragon has three heads." He went to the window seat, picked up a harp, and ran his fingers softly over its silvery strings. Bitter sorrow filled the room as his mother and father and his child-self vanished into green gleam reflected in the River.

"Free my men," Aegon shouted at Melisandre, emptiness of loss stoking his wrath; as the red priestess lost her power before his voice, falling prey to her own doubt. Melisandre collapsed on the deck of the ship she shared with her false king, releasing the hold she had on the wall of the green flame. In a moment, the vast green inferno crumbled upon itself, sending a formidable green avalanche on Stannis's fleet. The wall of fire crashed on the fleet, sending flames, far and wide. On the southern shore, trees of Kingswood caught fire in a dozen different places. The last time such a thing happened a quarter of the wood was lost.

The looming heat pierced the cold river water, licking the barrels hidden deep below, and ships nearer to the great chain boom at last went up in flames. The flaming beast was so colossal that there were scarcely any screams, as a thousand men burnt quicker than parchment. Fire leapt from the river, sliding towards the fleet moored at sea.

Wildfire is a power no one should meddle with, and once more, the green foe turned on Aegon, as some barrels loosed by the blast drifted away beneath the iron chain, bursting there, creating the largest scorpion bolt known to men. The chain snapped and crimson links flew towards the Mud Gate, falling short by twenty yards. Yet, the iron was hard, fueled by the green flame; it smashed through the wall like a long sword forged for the Great Titan of Braavos. By the Mud Gate, the wall was weakest, half as thick, so the sword of chain links passed through, slicing a breach fifteen feet wide and toppling houses behind the wall.

"What have I done!" Aegon wished to command men to seal the breach, but he was the sole one on feet. Shy of two thousand Golden Company men-at-arms guarded the wall from the Red Keep, all the way to the King's Gate. Most were on the ground, injured or dead from the steam blast, their faces crimson, full of blisters.

"Sire, are you hurt?" called Laswell Peake, still in fine shape, protected by his gold-gilded armor, sheltered behind the watchtower.

"I am... Ser Loras, Ser Daemon, Myles," Aegon tried to reach the white cloaked guardians, yet no voice answered his call, as the steam turned into a faint mist filled with half-silenced cries from wounded men.

Time was running short, safety slipping  through his fingers, Aegon swiftly rushed towards Ser Laswell. "Take as many Gold Cloaks from the second line, gather all the helping hands you can muster, and remove the wounded from the walls." There were too many wounded; it would overwhelm the healers and septas at the aid station, yet there was no other choice.

Turning in a circle, he tried to find another man, urgently needing a runner. Then his eyes spotted Ser Daemon, revealing a half-blistered face. "Can you ride?" the king asked.

"I will if I have to," the Dornishman answered in a raspy voice.

"Good," Aegon placed his hand on the knight's shoulder. "Ride to the Old Gate, order Ser Denys to bring his company here to the breach. Have him dispatch runners to other serjeants—Lorimas, Ser Humphrey, Ser Duncan. I need Golden Company men at the breach." A few companies of well-trained men must suffice, along with a company of crossbowmen.

"Sire," Myles Mooton broke in on Aegon, cutting through the fog like a blade, fairing better than ser Daemon.

Aegon paid him no heed, for a moment, giving his last words to Ser Daemon. "Let the City Watch hold the north and east. We have more pressing matters hereobout."

"Myles, make haste to the Lion's Gate. Bid Lord Manwoody to scramble half his strength and send them here," just as Aegon finished the order for his second runner, Daemon Sand spurred his black-maned Sand Steed, racing to deliver the message.

"As you will it," said the young Mooton, making for the wall steps to his own mount.

Soon the word came along the wall: hundreds died of the steam blast, twice as many maimed, but hundreds still had steel in hand. More than I dared to dream.

The breach in the wall gaped wide, a yawning chasm where Stannis meant to break the Mud Gate. Aegon descended the steps, inhaling the hot air and the smoke. Two massive carts blocked the way through the breach, but he feared it was not enough. For a proper defense, he needed his army here. Above and below, stones were heaped into carts, to seal every crack.

The streets jamed, choked with the folk of King's Landing and the Gold Cloaks carrying wounded men to the safety of the inner city. The crowd was thickened by the men who came to defend the breach, so Laswell Peake raised his soft voice, 'Wounded by the Street of Steel, clear the Muddy Way.'

The Gold Cloaks of the City Watch were no match for the Golden Company; they lacked discipline and order. But they could keep the peace in the city, and so they did, making both roads passable for their use.

The swift current of the Blackwater swept the shattered wreckage of Stannis's ships, aflame and smoking, towards the sea, bringing doom to hundred more vessels that lurked in the shadow of the Red Keep.

Denys Strong was the first to heed his summons, with a hundred men in golden mail and plate pacing behind his white destrier.
"The bastard is landing ships north of the Iron Gate, thousands of men. We should ride out, face them in battle." Strong's great grey mustaches quivered with his fury. He holds me responsible for the wildfire disaster; he is not wrong. Nonetheless, all the true warships of the current Lord of Dragonstone were no more, his merchant galleys and pirates too meager a power to challenge my small fleet. Lord Velaryon is a loyal and valiant man; he will come.

"We are short of men, horses... but so is he. Not only sailors perished on those ships but knights and soldiers. I am not a fool to abandon the walls for a whim of short courage," said Aegon, his words stinging the serjeant, who turned his back to his king, spurring his mount towards the ranks of incoming men. I only need to outlast Stannis. Now, thousands of his troops are stranded on the other side of the Blackwater. Those he has, he must land far away and trudge the miles to the Breach.

The darkness of the night enveloped the city, bringing a cold breeze that cleared the foul smell of burning. The wall stirred again with hundreds of archers on the parapets and nearly a thousand men before the half-sealed breach. In the cover of darkness, columns of Stannis's soldiers moved from the sea to the river, betrayed by glimmers of torches. From a tourney ground east of the city to another in the north, by the water's edge. Thousands of soldiers and over a hundred heavy barges on their backs. Stannis, with great toil, seeks to join his two armies split by the riverbed.

With spiced wine in hand, Aegon watched from the watchtower as the dance of lights and shadows played out in the dark night. The Green Fire towers on the river cast their long tongues over the city, while their black silhouettes stained the southern wall of King's Landing. The Dragon banner was lost in the night, snapping proudly on the wall. At this moment, Aegon had his two white shadows: Ser Loras had recovered from a slight wound, while Ser Daemon's face was hidden in bandages. All the charm of the Dornishman lay under cloth drenched in black blood.

"Wondrous, is it not," a voice said behind him, and Aegon barely recognized the man who spoke, with grime on his face, clad in rough, muddy cloth. The crisp sound of swords being drawn greeted the words when the Kingsguard drew their steel.

"Varys," Aegon gestured to his guards that there was no danger from the man before them.

"Death," Varys went on, "Much like the last time this city was besieged. But more marvelous now, festive as a fair, with smoke rising and the show of emerald flames." Poetic, perhaps, but not the same; the foe would not sneak through small doors this time.

"We've had only a few desertions among the Gold Cloaks, you've weeded out the rotten apples," Aegon shifted the topic, the sour taste of impending death leaving an unpleasant sensation on his tongue.

"Lord Pease has; he named new officers and sacked the unworthy ones. Drilled the men. Gold Cloaks have not been in better shape in years. I did my part, put up a few road signs for good Lord." The tattered new garb the spider wore could capably deceive anyone. An appearance appalling to look at, cloaked in a mask of stench.

"Tell me the state of the enemy. I summoned you for it, have I not?" A faint bitterness tinged Aegon's voice. In the distance, enemy voices grew louder, nearer to the riverbank. The ferrying of dismounted troops from the south must have started.

"Grave or not. Lord Velaryon launched his attack an hour ago, striking hard. Or so I belive, its challenging to tell who is winning, with thick clouds of smoke, and now the night. The Blackwater is not alone in bearing burning ships. Pirate galleys and small Myrish ones are all the defense Stannis can rely on, poor defenders if any. Ships are fleeing; the merchants he bought are not warriors, their steel is for gold, not for a vow. Cotton and spices are what they know to unload, not landing soldiers in rough waters, in the pitch-dark night. Many have smashed below the sea wall, but..."

"but Stannis disembarked most of his men," Aegon completed Varys's thought and the spider confirmed it with a nod of his hooded head. "I suppose it would have been too easy if we burned all his warriors on the Blackwater. I saw the great battering ram devoured, fire claimed his finest men."

"It did..." Varys did not dare to disagree with his king, "but oft, a wounded beast fights fiercest, charging without fear. The witch could not shield the fleet from the green horror. The river bears the broken pieces of ships to the sea, adding more woe to the masters of merchant galleys. Drifting death in full splendor." Aegon said nothing of his encounter with the witch, her deep red eyes, once bright with certainty, extinguished soon after by doubt.

"One more thing, Lord Varys, did you know I have a sibling, a bastard my father fathered with a Stark maid?" The answer had to be yes; if anyone knew, it would be Lord Varys, too shrewd to let the truth slip beyond his ears. Varys then stiffened his back, a faint shock piercing through the bandages of Ser Daemon Sand, a sharp dart of an uncomfortable silence shot from the half-closed visor of the Knight of the Flowers. Margaery would not be pleased with this, a rival she loathed more than me.

"A brother. The boy Lord Stark passed off as his own bastard. He now serves in the Night's Watch as a steward to the Lord Commander. A decent lad, skilled with a sword, raised with northern lordlings. And a small correction, Your Grace, not a bastard." His father followed the path of the Conqueror, Aegon realized at once, taking a second wife—a custom strange even to Targaryens. A smile tugged at his cracked lips, as gods do play humorous games. Just to think, the boy Sansa grew up believing was her half-brother, is in truth mine.

However, the smile was not for Varys. "You are a valuable man, Lord Varys, too valuable to squander. But keeping secrets... too often I picture your head on a spike, for all of King's Landing to behold, and the crows to enjoy on the eunuch flesh."

Not frightened, Varys flashed a yellow smile of his own, "Lord Stark told no one, not even his beloved wife. He wanted his sister's boy safe, of course. My motives are not so tender. The lad may be as noble as tales from the frozen wilderness of the North claim, or he may be a new Maegor, eager to usurp Your Grace, or later his nephew. Taking the black is a sworn oath not easily breakable; let your brother stay where he is."

"Yes, for the realm. Always for the good of the realm. Some things burst precisely because there are secrets. If Stannis had shared with his brother the truth of incest, he might have been the heir apparent."

"Or die a traitor," Varys did not share that view. "Men would rather die for a delusion than face the hard truth. Deep down, Robert knew, felt it in his bones, but lie is more soothing, easier to bear than disgrace. Alas, I say, even if he trusted his brother, or if the late Hand Stark had time to spread the word, Stannis would not be the heir for long. The manhood of Robert Baratheon is insatiable, stronger than his hammer. A hearty wife could have given him an heir and seven spares." Ser Daemon chuckled, but the pain forced him to restrain himself, while Ser Loras looked almost affronted by the words. Downstream, men screamed as burning pitch caught some of Stannis's men in the dark. "Shamefully, most catapults aimed at the river, not the tourney grounds," Varys remarked as if engines of death were a useful tool for mankind.
  
Black smoke shrouded the riverbank as the banners of the foe came into sight. Like lightning in a stormy night, green flames leapt, flashing at the soldiers' march, hidden in darkness. The Stag in fiery heart, Estermont turtle of the Isle, Morrigen crow, Bar Emon swordfish, Caron nightingales, Errol haystack... Aegon's heart sank when the green flash showed the griffin banner of House Connington.

"Here they come," Ser Daemon declared as dozens of boats emerged, each tilted down, shielding a score of men, shields lifted against arrow points.

"Give them hell," Aegon curtly commanded to ser Laswell and his serjeants. Flaming shafts flew through smoke, raining fire on several boats. Men below fought to free themselves of the burning load; fleeing flames only to face a barrage of arrows.

Blackfyre in hand, Aegon went down the steps once more, standing before the shield wall of Golden Company men-at-arms. A golden arc faced the yawning maw, soon to spew out a poisonous scream of war. Drums roared beyond the walls, horns urged men to hasten to the breach.

The first bold soul to reach the cart was greeted with a crossbow bolt, dropping in a soft sigh, becoming one more hurdle for the attackers. Then, from the half-light, a flaming torch appeared, setting wooden carts on fire. Quietly, Aegon's men waited for the fire to unlock the gates of hell for the enemy, helpless to do more.

"Hasten, bring more rocks!" bellowed Laswell Peake, leading the Gold Cloaks, as men of the City Watch flung stones between crenels at the Baratheons below. The clash of arrows rumbled along the full length of the wall as defenders traded shafts with attackers. Painted in shades of green, the battle appeared like richly colored art from the Free Cities, gracing the ornate wall of some magister. Cries of pain resounded, cries of glory evaporated, dispersing as fear into the streets of King's Landing. Boiling pitch spilled over brought a loud chorus of screams. A fleeting hope glimmered for a short moment as Aegon stood among the groans of his men—his Golden Company, his Dornishmen, his Crownlanders—in whose hearts he trusted, with whom he fought shoulder to shoulder before.

The battering ram splintered the half-charred cart in two, hurling slivers of blackened wood into the air still thick with steam and smoke. The second blow, stronger, more keen, cleared the way for the brave men—brave foes eager to flee the perils outside.

"They shall not pass," Aegon lifted Blackfyre high. A royal Valyrian steel does not shine with R'hllor magic like the one Stannis brandishes, but it slices deeper, slices with the force of dragon fire, of ancient spells woven long ago. "Hooah, hooah, hooah," the war cries of the Golden Company blended with embers fleeing burning carts, losing the battle with fire.

"For the King," Ser Daemon carried a new call of loyalty, which echoed over the lines of soldiers. "For the king, for the king," others chanted the fervent words, joining them with other war cries: "Dorne, Dorne, King's Landing."

The voices of the brave were hushed as scores of men stormed through the breach, clad in linen skirts, shirts of jade plates, and bronze helmets. Slave soldiers, bound to Stannis by the will of Illyrio's foes—the ones Varys warned him about.

"Storm's End, Storm's End," hollowed the soldiers behind them. The first line of enemies fell under Aegon's crossbowmen, scattered on roofs and balconies of nearby houses. More of them died, the rest would face a harder way in, Aegon tried not to revel in so much death, yet victory always rests on the corpses of the foe.

Lines of soldiers clashed, covering the first cobblestones of Muddy Way in a dance of death and steel, spilling blood on heaps of mud and dirt on the ground. As it tends to be in every battle, time slowed down, and Aegon swung his dragon steel at the first foe—a lean man of copper skin from Old Ghis, with a reddish mustache peeking out of a slit in his helm. To his credit, he did not even cry out, just collapsed to the ground as Blackfyre opened his flesh.

Hemmed in between the stone wall behind them and the shield wall in front of them, the invaders fought savagely. From the battlements above, arrows poured down on them as archers changed sides, firing shafts on both sides of the wall. Some dashed up the steps, only to meet spears barring passage on the wall. The flood of arrows and stones filled many hearts with dread as slaves turned back, hoping to flee the disaster, but the way was blocked by more and more foot soldiers streaming in.

By Aegon's left, Ser Loras rumbled through foes, slashing, stabbing, beheading like a madman. "Where is he!" the Knight of Flowers roared, a stark shift from his usual soft voice, well-nigh unbecoming. Odd or not, the man he sought was summoned by Tyrell's ire.

Stannis Baratheon possessed a kingly bearing, a crown of flames crowning his basinet, wrought from antler links. His armor was formidable, but his sword caught the eye—an ominous thing glowing red, as if just forged on a smith's anvil, hammered with the rage of the stag. As per the teachings of his new faith, the Baratheon king had no Kingsguard of his own; instead, a host of knights shielded him, following the king's banner.

Aegon sprang forth, bent on engaging in the duel to reclaim the seat of Dragonstone. An ebony slave briefly crossed his path, only for a flicker, as the dark edge of Blackfyre severed the alien arm from shoulder to chest. Stannis's sword showed a strength akin to it, piercing the desirous heart of a Dornishman. Pushing on, Aegon was not in the mood to bestow glory to anyone today. His heart under his black armor thumped as hard as catapults on the walls, hurling rocks upon ranks of men before the outer wall.

A tremor of pain coursed through him, from the heart to the tips of gauntlet-clenched fingers, reminding him that he was not the same as before. The knight in red and white then faced him, two griffins clashing atop the great helm. Aegon raised a dragon-embellished oaken shield, absorbing the blow, yet Connington's sword bit a few splinters from the shield—given to Aegon by Jon. This knight must be his cousin, Red Ronnet, scorned by Jon, a man of knightly renown.

In a second strike, Red Ronnet unleashed all the fierce might of a man intent on slaying a king. Blackfyre bore the brunt of it, recoiling and dropping the chance to fight back; terrified to land its edge upon the griffin shield or the surcoat of red and white, which, in Aegon's mind, only belonged to one men. I cannot attack him, my soul... The strength of the sword knocked his shield to the side. The sword had a red hilt, with two griffins serving as crossguards. "I cannot... fight back," Aegon whispered in the solitude of his helm.

The world froze as the Knight of the Griffin Roost lifted his sword, keen to end the line of Dragon Kings in the name of his Baratheon lord. The thought suddenly struck Aegon: if he were to die by Ronnet's hand, by good custom, Ronnet would have the right to issue a plea to the king—for Lordly stature and lands lost to the rebellion. An act of greed, a selfishness common to any man but Jon Connington, parted two men from each other. A veil of falsehood fell from his eyes as Aegon saw Red Ronnet for what he was: merely a landed knight, not a worthy shadow of Jon Connington.

A griffin-ornated sword drew nigh, opening its jaws to bite the charcoal of dragon armor. "Do not throw your soul for sorrow, as I did," Jon Connington's counsel rang deep within Aegon's heart. Blackfyre took flight, battering down the enemy sword, and as light as leathery wings of a dragon soaring up, it tore through the well-made armor. With a deep cry, the fine armor plummeted to the ground, dragging down the knight inside.

The clang of swords buzzed as the wrath of war reached the hour of the owl. Darkness hid blood, masked sweat and fear, but the shield wall of the Golden Company and men of Dorne held fast. While the griffin knight rummaged in pain, two slaves closed in on Aegon, as a knight clad in white came before him, slicing through weak jade armor like a cake.

"Ser Barristan," Aegon recognized the man. The old man had no place here; he took a wound for my pride, he must not give his life for it.

"Too long I've waited to fight for a king of my liking," smiled Ser Barristan, moving quicker, parrying attacks with a pale white shield, striking harder than men half his age.

"The Knight of flowers, the knight of flowers," the men cheered as Ser Loras Tyrell gracefully came into sight, crossing a good steel forged in the heart of Highgarden, with the sword glimmering in red. Three knights guarded Stannis; Ser Loras made three corpses of them, beneath the shining silver armor, soaked in the green hue of raging wildfire, amidst the yellow torches of the city walls, and the colors of the men he killed—a purple-mounted knight of House Morrigen, gold trumpets on blue of House Wensington, red gyrons of House Follard—a rainbow of death tinted the gorgeous armor Ser Loras wore, a rainbow thirsting for revenge for a lost lover.

"Renly!" Ser Loras's screamed for all to hear, the wrath lifting his voice high to the stars veiled by clouds of smoke. The memory of Eira elicited a tear, as Aegon witnessed the Knight of Flowers unleashing all the rage of the world upon Stannis Baratheon. The unfolding duel invigorated the defenders with bravery as a swarm of men pushed the enemy towards the breach. Now or never, Aegon knew, not letting his eyes waver from Ser Loras.

The last time Ser Loras cried Renly's name, the keen edge of his sword pierced a weak spot in Stannis's armor, striking a mortal blow. Lord Stannis dropped gracelessly as the redness of his sword dimmed along with the hundred hearts of his men. Despair gripped the kingless army as slaves and knights alike broke ranks, fleeing from their ordered formation.

"The King is dead," quivering voices spread the news to the men outside the walls, those still hoping for a chance to show their valor in battle. "Stannis is dead."

Guyard Morrigen tried to restore order among the falling ranks, spurring the running men to fight on. Eager to flee the snare of the walls, his own men turned on him, dooming his fate in the chaos of battle.

The defeat became a rout. Baratheon soldiers scattered on every corner, running blindly, too terrified to hold their ground. They dropped their weapons, dying on the spear points or falling to the earth. The foe heedlessly ignored all rules of warfare, losing discipline left and right.

"Drive them to the river!" Aegon yelled command as the last of the enemies left the inner wall, fleeing madly like a fox hunted by a pack of wolves. A fierce charge of defenders on foot ensued, roused and maddened by the scent of victory. Aegon, not in the same rush, crossed the breach, dispatching a Baratheon man-at-arms. Most of his men had already outpaced him, a perilous situation in his mind, as the enemy might still muster a reason to strike back—many beyond the wall had not felt the storm of battle.

Nothing of that sort came to pass, as fear is a beast that runs fast; many turned left toward where the fire still ravaged the bank of the Blackwater, under the looming shadow of the Red Keep. Those most desperate, hounded by the lash of panic, found false salvation in the river itself, only for the swift current to drag them into the wildfire.

Some clusters of foes lingered behind, unable to escape anywhere.

"Ser Denys," Aegon spotted the serjeant, "Round them up; enough blood is shed today."

A cold grip seized Aegon's soul as he met eyes with the Red Priestess once more amid the flickering tongues of wildfire. Red eyes gauged him deeply, filled with dread of what they beheld. Lonely eyes, vanquished in the realization of how the truth they followed had deceived them.

"You are wrong," Aegon sighed, "...and not alone in fearing the future to come."

Fatigue wrapped Aegon as he noticed droplets of rain on his armor. The autumn showed them mercy.

Chapter Text

The day still shone young and fresh when their banners joined, south of Tumbleton, two hosts each mighty, and each built upon yesterdays' enmities.
Five riders approached, moving before long columns of men and wagons. Lord Franklyn Fowler, resplendent in blue armor, with long blue hawk feathers streaming from his great helm. Step behind him rode Blackmont lad, Perros, as the lord's new squire.

The Old hawk rode abreast to Baelor Hightower, whose standard bore his brother Humfrey, sporting thin chestnut beard on a face too square to be handsome. Baelor Breakwind in flesh and name, Oberyn hid a mocking grin, the last thing I need is to ruffle him. Out of proud habit, ser Baelor swiftly doffed his burgonet, letting a wavy hair catch the wind. A face too fair not to show, though, Oberyn marked a few grey strands staining the chestnut locks.

"Ser Baelor, long time no see", Oberyn called from afar, beholding the same comeliness Elia once fell for. Time had been kinder to him than to most men, he had not changed a whit, the white tower shields well. Until Oberyn's jest shattered Elia's maiden eyes, leaving the renown of Baelor Brightsmile to ridicule. The prince always had a gift for words, oft at the right moment, or wrong as Doran might chide. Elia never ceased to mock young Baelor after, he recalled, a loosened wind ruined a marriage offer. Neither of them was young any more and Elia... Elia would still breathe if she wed him, delighting in singers in his lofty tower, gazing at the world from the height she deserved.

"Ser Oberyn, the pleasure is mine", Baelor kept his courtesy, only for a glance, turning a noble head to his liege Willas Tyrell. "Nephew, you have my condolences. The Reach lost a valiant champion in ser Garlan. I hunted with him, feasted with him, my heart grieves to know I shall not again. Sobs are heard all over the Oldtown".

"Kind words, ser Baelor. My brother was better suited to lead this great host than most men. Let us honor him by winning." Sir Willas did not neglect Lord Franklyn, "Lord Fowler, it is great honor to meet your lordship, in your person."

Making a small bow, Lord Fowler returned his sympathies, "Never met the man, but good voice of his lance and blade preceded him. May he rest in all seven heavens."

The affair went smoother than Oberyn hoped, if the hour was not so dire, they would linger here, in the vast spreading camp, savoring the joys of soldiers' life.   Eating good food, drinking good wine, fucking well desired women.

"Khmm, do you Westerosi Lords must make everything into a pageant, we are behindhand. By now, Tarly must be riding through the Kingswood", snarled Mertyn Otreyes, still with one foot of his charger on the Rose road. Upon his body, each knight of the Golden Company bore the wealth of service, gold and silver, cloaks in rich hues, yet when in the war sellswords kept unyielding discipline. Oberyn had little to relish in their part of the camp, too neat, too quiet. Nights were redolent with well-cooked food and dance, in the Reacher part, and ardent lust to savor the fruits of life in the Dornish one. Courtesans, fools, singers, cooks made well over a third of the camp. Now and then, swords left scabbard to reclaim whores stolen, casks of wine smashed and insults going so deep to the time Targaryen lords still bored themselves on the jagged crags of Dragonstone; whining for a home lost, dreaming of a new kingdom.

The Camp was to Oberyn's liking, bountiful to belly, melodious to ear and splendid to cock, but Elia's boy awaited him, hale and hearty. He must not be late, not this time. Cords deep in his heart leapt, when Willas told him, The king is awake. Then, the king is wed and last, the queen is with child. As rigid as Mertyn Otreyes was, he was right, Tarly must not reach the gates of King's Landing. And he would not.

Baelor, gazed at the men in gold armor and orange cloak with bewilderment, "Forgive me good ser, your name eludes me".

"I am no ser," Otreyes retorted, drawing a grin from Lord Franklyn.

"Captain Otreyes of the Golden Company", Gulian Qorgyle courteously introduced Otreyes, stepping in "and his officers ser Franklyn Flowers and ser Marq Mandrake". The Qorgyle heir was growing on Oberyn, having a diplomatic tongue to say things Oberyn's own tongue was too biting for.

"Well met good sers," said Lord Fowler, "I concur with Captain Otreyes, better to march. I would still like to cross swords with Tarly, on the field, before King's Landing". Or before Andros Yronwood, just to prick rivalry with a bit of snake's venom. This one loathed Yronwood, almost as much as Yronwood loathed me.

"Better so, my Lords. A rider came yestermorn, the vanguard of Stannis Baratheon is already before the King's Landing," Willas cautioned. King's Landing was too grand a city to fall in a day or a moon's turn. If not for the populace, too vast to suffer hunger or plague, the Red Keep might stand for years. Nonetheless, Oberyn reckoned on elements of warfare most men did not. Stannis had lived in the capital for years, as dour and unhappy as men come, some might deem it fit to help him get in. Or mayhaps, he himself knew secret ways in and out.

Gulian went on to marshal two hosts conveying into one great army, almost sixty thousand strong. Large army fared as a pig walking on a rope, no road was wide enough nor swift enough.

At last, Willas and Oberyn were left alone, riding towards Oberyn's tent.

"You have a past quarrel with Ser Bealor," Willas queries, posing a half-question. The eldest Tyrell had a keen mind, inferring things most lacked wit to see.

"Not nearly as grave as my past with you. Once, he farted softly in front of me and my late sister, so I named him Baelor Breakwind. The stench of scorn still hangs between us."

Willas laughed so heartily, men at arms guarding the camp's edge peered at them, looking for trouble that was not there.
"Noble name, for a noble knight. It might be queer, as my mother stems from the House, but I never cared for these Hightowers, too secretive, too secluded. Sometimes I think they raised the High Tower just to be far off..."

"During my days at the Citadel, Lord Gunther deigned to leave his big looming Cock, and visited me. Any other lord would have summoned me just to flaunt their power, but not this one..."

"Mayhaps, he esteemed the brother of a Dornish prince...,"

"Or deemed I serve as a spy or seek mischief. Lords do not like me around, they tend to presume I wish to hatch some scheme, steal their paramours or seek vengeance. The Beacon of the south seemed different, he cast the spotlight on me, posed a few questions. All of them trifling, about my lodgings, is the food to my liking, then as a hunter, he loosed a she-hound to sniff me." Today Oberyn laughed, though even he felt chills in the presence of the Mad Maid. Brown eyes spied on him, probing deep down within his soul. The dragonglass candle never left her slender fingers, and she kept one eye ever on it.

"Aunt Malora," Willas answered at once, clearly acquainted with Hightower's daughter. "A hundred harvests gone since I last saw her. Strange woman, most lords conceal daughters of such, yet grandfather favored her the most." Tyrell recalled a queer day from his past. "She skulked behind bushes, as mad folk do, plainly visible, but somehow thinking we could not see her. For a while Garlan and I paid her no heed, playing the game of knights with wooden staves. Stirred by some glee, she emerged from her hiding place, 'Keep the staff close little boy', she spoke through dry voices, yet still maidenly and soft, 'it will follow you to the final day, when own shadows turn on men'".

"I consider myself, the men alive, too fast to bother of mistakes I do, many a man and woman, I've riled leaving them to boil in fury. The Past is too slow to haunt my dreams, but you do... Some mornings, I wish you had just knocked me flat on my arse that day..."
All but Elia, he left unsaid.

"That makes two of us," Willas showed some of the lordly pride he so oft hid behind the guise of calm demeanor.

Alas, they reached Oberyn's tent, one of the few ones still standing. Relentlessly, soldiers and servants prepared for the impending swift march. Wagons were laden, the men on foot stood in ranks, by the river the Golden Company men already waited by the horse lines. Otreyes is hard as nail, too impatient to be entrusted with a plan.

When he unflapped the tent entrance, Darkstar and Deziel Dalt already awaited, both clad in new armor. In Florent plate, Gerold Dayne looked unfamiliar, concealing his face beneath silverish hair. Dalt had a flawless look, a charred black surcoat on rusted armor lacking a few pieces here and there. He would easily pass for a hedge knight or an outrider, or a sellsword from Essos.

"Hmm, you mean to go covert, to slay the Tarly", Willas in a flash put all pieces of the plan on the board. When the war is done, Oberyn had to show him Cyvasse. A perfect man for the perfect game.

Oberyn returned a thin smile, "Aye, and Perman the Purple, Bryan Fossoway, Jon Fossoway and every commander in the army if I must"

"We may as well kill them all, every man in the camp," remarked Gerold Dayne. Oberyn knew Darkstar was game for madness of this sort or more. Ideal man for a task, and quick to boast to everyone how he deserved the Dawn. Still, Oberyn could not fault him, as his blood ran hotter when he was Dayne's age, and still does.

"Just a few," Deziel amended, "when toppling the tower, pluck only a few stones and let the song of weight do the rest. Headless commander never led an army".

"Clever men," Willas praised the words. "I suppose I have a part to play in this ruse of yours."

Nodding, Oberyn unfurled the map, hurling his snake hilt dagger onto a spot, "Delay the march till the night. Breakwind and Fowler seemed to have forged a friendship, they are keen to attack. Horseman Otreyes has fire on his hooves. I am the last man to say, we need to be patient, but..."

"Like a viper in the grass", grinned Deziel Dalt, fastening cheap mail to his chin. Dayne could pass as a reacher, two of us could not. Though, we are used to cover our faces. Dornish wore so much cloth mask in the arid desert, it wouldn't be odd if they were born with it.

A point on the map gleamed under the emerald snake eye, where the tree line met the Blackwater "Bring the army here"

"That is three days of march, surely Tarly will slip by then", concern faintly tinged Willas's voice.

"Not if he is dead. That plain is the last fitting position before the Rose road plunges into the Kingswood. Tarly will rest his army there for a night or two, he is shrewd enough to know we are too far. But not too far for three men alone riding Sand steeds. By the late night I will be there ready to put my blade to good use".

"Headless army takes time to move. It is a rare knight who heeds command from a dead commander", Deziel slid his sword in an old scabbard. A golden bee on the pommel caught the light coming through the holes of the tent.

"Well then, I will hold the army here for a while. Does Qorgyle know?", Willas asked, traces of amusement shined on his bearded face.

"You will tell him...", Oberyn replied, shedding his shirt. Gulian was a good man to lead the field of battle, less so for dishonorable murder. Donning a mail shirt he chose a similar garb as Dez, rough and unorthodox, but most importantly light to bear, leaving much room for the body to breathe.

He swathed his face with brown bandages, placing a rusty halfhelm on his head. Glimpsing at himself in a small mirror, he saw only his lithe figure, the rest was shrouded in a veil of mystery. He plucked a dagger from the map, then drew a thin line across his palm, filling the furrow with blood. Willas's eyes trailed the scene uneasily, as if he did not foresee that from Oberyn. A faint smile was carved on the face of Gerold Dayne, while Oberyn daubed fresh blood on the bandages.

"If I were Tywin Lannister, I would fear you to the grave...," Willas muttered, gauging Oberyn. Aye, Oberyn agreed, pushing aside thoughts of tormenting the old lion.

"When a man has pride, you season it with humiliation. No... he will perish only when those golden lips confess the truth. Not a heartbeat sooner," he chuckled softly, with no mirth.

Saddled horses waited for them outside the tent. Oberyn's Black Devil, in the center, with a fiery red mane. They sped through the mire, racing towards the verdant fields, fleeing from the clamor of a thousand voices to the babble of the mighty Mander.

Turning eastward they spurred through fields of red autumn tulips, racing towards the sun, still brightening the world in unwavering light. The lush fields around them became a smear, swapping long fields, low hills and groves that speckled the fertile land of the Reach.

The sun fled behind them when they spotted the first traces of the other host on the move. And something that stoked fire of Oberyn's suspicion.

"They met a marching snag here, a clash of several lines," Deziel Dalt observed, pointing to the spot where several lesser roads joined with the Rose Road, on uneven ground. The furrowed earth showed that it cost them some time to escape the marching mire.

"One might well say, too bungling for Tarly," Oberyn smirked.

"He is no saint, so what if he bested Robert. Every fool prattles about how Tarly is a grand commander, no one mentions that Robert was tired with three battles, before he faced Tarly," Dayne growled the argument with a lilting voice.

"Spoken wisely,” Dez sarcastically threw in, whereupon Dayne turned his head in annoyance.

Regardless, Oberyn voiced his doubts, "Or mayhaps this is not Tarly, mayhaps Tarly lies in a fever bed or is even dead. The beast we are tracking seems not to bite as hard ... Well, we shall see when we arrive."

"You mean that...," the sound of hooves in the distance cut off Dez's words. Swiftly, all three of them vanished behind the nearby crowns.
Four riders emerged on the horizon, without banners and clear markings. Outriders, Oberyn had no doubts, likely to measure the advance of the foe who was chasing them. With this, things looked better, Tarly had to be nearer than he thought.

Without a word, he gestured with a hand to his two fellows, to bide their time until the enemy passed, and then strike. A blink of an eye later, they flew into the fray. With a lifted spear, Oberyn skewered the first soldier under the arm. Blood spurted, stringing red roses on the dark mail. Taken aback, the outriders had no time to rally before the peril beset them. Gerold Dayne locked blades with a burly outrider, with broad brawny shoulders. Below the road, Dalt chased after one in flight, driving him into the deep muck.

The fourth outrider, with a high-held spear, charged towards Oberyn, aiming at his breast. Drawing a dagger from his belt, the prince waited for the horseman to come close and then, struck him in the face with precise force. The corpse tumbled from the swift steed. Plunging the sword into his throat, Dayne finally rid himself of the massive foe.

Stuck in the muck, the last outrider squirmed, spurring the horse to free itself from the snare. Soon they hemmed him in from all sides, making flight hopeless.

"Where is your camp now?" Oberyn demanded. "Speak and we will spare your life. I will know if you lie."

"You swear?" the voice of a commoner came out.

"On my honor,"

"Near Kingswood, by Yellow Stone," The outrider confirmed Oberyn's guess. Casting the sword into the mire, he yielded.

"Bind him," Oberyn commanded and Dayne swiftly coiled a rope around the outrider, pinning his arms.

"But you vowed," he wailed.

"And I keep my vow, we let you live," Oberyn chuckled.

They freed the trapped horse, and turned the rider back to the horse's head.

"Good fortune," Oberyn winked at him, spurring the horse into a gallop, towards Willas's camp. If he is fortunate, and does not stray, does not tumble from the saddle, mayhaps by dawn he will met the vanguard.

Knowing that the camp was near, they swapped the mounts, leaving the sand steeds hidden in the shadow of the trees. They had luck, else they would have to walk the last stretch of the road or risk leaving the sand steeds too close to the camp. The Spoils of war served them well.

The black night dimmed the world around them, and after a few hours of riding they glimpsed the lights of the campfires gleaming on the horizon, like stars in the dark sky.

Encampment by the Kingswood had some order to it, just not the martial Tarly order. Perimeter marked with a shallow ditch and palisade, sentries armed with spear, crossbow and blades paced on it. Besides, Oberyn could discern the clumsy nature, watchers absent or not vigilant, the blindspots in defense a decent foe could exploit to his advantage.

"Clumsy," Ser Gerold Dayne passed by a withered apple tree, giving a scorn to an enemy.

"Clumsy is good, if the foe is doing it." Oberyn tied the horse to a newly fell tree on the ground. The mare promptly began to graze on the dewy grass.

The blaze of fires glittered between tents and supply wagons. Utter perfection, scarce a man to dread an intruder, Oberyn thought, beholding the maze of narrow paths crammed with men sleeping around camp fires, after drinking first hours of the night.
Before Lord pavilion of some red Fossoway, a group of four sentries, savored cups of wine over a larger camp pyre. Gerold went around to slip into the tent, Oberyn and Dalt diverted the guards.

"Can we share fire," Deziel asked, poorly feigning a Volantene accent, only to end a quiet murmur of talk. Soldier in Fossoway surcoat, sporting long whiskers on unshaven face gauged both of them, eyeing bandages on Oberyn's face.

"Aye, but wine we do not share," he chuckled and the rest of them followed. Young boy, not older than thirteen sitting by an old shield with webber spider; one eyed Fossoway sentry, in threadbare surcoat, with color faded so much, you could not tell if apple is red or green. The last man might be a hedge knight, by lack of standard patch or decent mail. "These are Collin", he put hand on the webber boy, "one eyed fellow here is Pack, and smiling lad is Victer. I go by Serge". Hedge knight Victer smiled hearing his own name, showing shattered white teeth, once comely smile, ruined by a mace blow.

"Well met, My name is Dez," Deziel Dalt spoke the truth, "Dez of Volantis," the lie followed. "The comely friend of mine is Kassion, the war took his tongue I fear. Not sure, just, which war."

"Did not know we had sellsword company among our ranks?" Serge stroked his whiskers, masking distrust in words with a gesture.

"I am my own man," Dez said in a firm cold voice. "Few years past came to Oldtown, wandered around, serving merchants, lord household: Bulwer, Costayne, till Renly's camp. Too bored to stay at the same place for long."

"Have you fought in the Disputed Lands?" Collin asked in a faint voice.

"Any worthy sellsword has," Dez appeared affronted by query. "Oddly enough, once served in the Golden Company."

All faces around the fire were grave, scent of sweet wine wafted around the heat. Too sweet, too feeble for my taste. "Truly, why leave. Is there a better payroll?", Serge doubted Dez's words.

"Head still on my shoulders, for one. The Golden Company is unlike any other, their sword has only one edge, turned toward foe or their faithless contractor. Every man enlisted must fight, and fight well to live. They train every day, drill new tactics, push you to learn more skill than a hundred men need. Most other companies do not give a fig, you show on doorstep with a blade, you are in. If in battle, they keep distance, close enough to not lose reward if their payer wins, far enough to flee at first trouble. More often than not, instead of fleeing, they turn cloaks. The Golden Company never forsook a contract. Golden shields fight, golden shields prevail."

Dread crept under those words as men came to grasp, sooner than not, it was them on the other side of that edge. Well done Dalt, the dread is the strongest wine.
"Every folk be knowin' that," one-eyed Pack cried out raising his voice so much, Serge motioned him to quiet it down. "Sellswords broke 'em Lannisters."

"Nay, Dornish did. Lion of the Rock was to break the dragon king and his host, when Dornish charge turned the day. Treacherous Dornishmen, cravens I say, always striking a man from behind", Serge spat into the flame. Be careful old man.

"Lannisters a'e no bette'. Gods we'e half-asleep that day, at Redwood, by honest mercy they should have smote each other like those twin Kingsguard from 'em tales. Lions and dragons, bitten to death." Pack gnawed a hard saltbeef, somewhat defying the order of his captain.

"Gods or god?", Dalt rebutted, "Lord Stannis prays to the Red God".

"One, seven... All the same lot, they are. Old, new, fire—bugger 'em! I aint here for gods; only 'cause Loras fancied Renly's rear or cock. Then some other wench laid hands on Renly, and he right away croaked. So my noble lords of Cider Hall hopped onto a different boat. A year turned since King Robert kicked the bucket, the cunts still can't figure who should be the king."

"Quiet", Serge warned, "Lord Stannis is the one true king, champion of the one true god".

"Beg your pardon, septon, didn't reckon it was you," Pack japed sparking the laugh from the rest of them.

"Speak once more and he won't be the only one tongueless here," Serge pointed his finger at Oberyn, making Pack scowl, dropping his head. "The same holds for the rest of you."

From the corner of his eye, Oberyn glimpsed a shadow, Dayne was creeping behind the tent. The deed was done. He waved his hand to Dalt to follow.

"See you lads, thanks for the fire," Dalt rose and bid farewell to the company.

"Take care...," young Collin was the only one who bothered to reply courteously. The others sent them off in silence.

Now it was Oberyn's turn to dispatch the commander. He slid between large crates, dodging the guards in front of the tent. With swift motions of a dagger, he parted the thick cloth, biting a small chunk of red apple, slipping inside like a serpent.

Cold breeze swept in the tent along with him, snuffing out seven of eight candles. The last candle flickered like a wheat branch in storm defying the cold.
Frosty air roused the slumber of Tanton Fossoway, cocooned in thick layers of soft furs.

"Cersei! Play for me. To hell with the damn pirate," the lad's words turned into a puff of cold air. Smiling, Oberyn loomed as the Stranger above the knight's head, a sharp knife in hand. The final sweet dream.

"What?", the lordling mumbled as Oberyn's hand clamped on his mouth, stifling a scream in his throat. Death was swift, one clean cut of the dagger. The scent of fresh blood replaced the rich aroma of melting candle wax.

Quietly, he left the pavilion, nearing the dark corner, where the others awaited him.

"I saw to it that Tarly's guards got well-spiced wine," Dalt whispered.

"Well done, then we have a rendezvous with the great lord," Oberyn replied, wiping the blood from the blade.

Randyll Tarly's pavilion was twice as large, ringed by guards on all sides and well lit. Three Dornishmen, like wraiths, slipped by the drugged guards, who seemed drunk, clutching their spears tightly, not to fall from their feet.

"I did not think you would come before The hour of the nightingale," an old woman's voice said when they entered. From his Tourney days, Oberyn knew Lady Oakheart, now, clad in scanty silk, with a glittering ruby that blazed from the golden necklace.
Tarly has some hunger for women. Older women.

Oakheart shrieked, and Dalt jumped and palm her mouth, toppling her on the cushions.

"Lady Arwyn, please be cooperative. Our aim is to hurt Lord Tarly, not you..." Oberyn calmed her. Unless, we have to.

"Her banners turned cloak, as well," Darkstar reminded him, pointing the tip of his blade, along the length of the room, at the hapless lady.

Still trying to restrain her, Dalt glanced at Oberyn, "I hope none heard her. How she shrieked, hardly so."

"If the guards do not stir, none else will," Oberyn said convincingly. "We must bide our time for Tarly to come."

The pavilion was made of two tents joined into one, forming a vast hall, so spacious that lesser lords could not claim the same, in their small stone keeps. Silk, cashmere, velvet were strewn everywhere; golden goblets lay on the floor, and Tarly's armor hung next to a huge looking glass.

"Ser," Dayne hailed him from the other end of the pavilion, eyeing a large chest that was faintly trembling. Opening the chest, Darkstar was astonished to behold another likeness of Lady Oakheart, with blue bruises, parched and weary face, tousled hair, but clearly recognizable.

"Am I blind or the leaf bitch has a twin?", hissed Dayne, glancing at two elderly women, one in silk and roses, the other gagged, with skin dry from too much darkness.

"Your eyes do not deceive you," Deziel stated in a voice akin to a healer, assuring a delirious man, the mad imagery was true.

Gagged Lady Oakheart muffed and grunted beneath the cloth. "The Nice Lady wants to speak, unbind her," Oberyn said.

Dayne removed the hindrance to voice, and Lady of Leaves first drew a deep breath, as if just emerged from a long dive below waters amid coral reefs by Lemonwood.
"Rip the necklace!", she bellowed in fury, "Rip the necklace!"

The necklace, why? The words left even Oberyn baffled, until the sharp ruby caught his eyes again. Nimbly he slashed the golden chain with the edge of his blade, so finely he did not spill the blood. Quick as lightning flash the first Lady Oakheart vanished, and a woman before them, barely grown to womanhood. Instead of grays she wore long blond locks, in place of wrinkled one, her face was straight as a banner on a strong wind.

"Let me go," she screamed in a high pitched scream, "Erren shall slay you all, you'll see"

"Pinch me, am I dreaming," Deziel Dalt had eyes wide open, scanning both women.

For once, Gerold Dayne looked at a loss for words, a flicker of fear in his eyes.
"Sorcery of some sort," Dayne muttered eager to withdraw fingers from women he deemed as witches. Stannis does have red priests of R'hllor in service. They use potions and powders to deceive believers, this is much more, beyond mere tricks for sight.

Himself seeking answers, Oberyn once more eyed captive Lady Oakheart.
"I cannot tell you what it is, but the enemy wields vile magic. When Randyll came from Storm's End, he acted queer, proposing alliance for Stannis Baratheon. The way he walked and spoke, nothing seemed as the stern man I knew. Nor is Randyll so soft of heart to break an oath to Tyrells. I spurned him, so they coerced me. A pinch of blood, a strand of hair, turning Florent's wench into me."

"Tarly is also replaced," Oberyn continued.

"Aye. I am not certain, only a feeling in my old bones, but Erren Florent took Tarly's face. You must not kill him, not before my men and Tarly's see the truth. Bring my son here, and a few of Tarly's own; Cronin, Hunt, Denison."

"Good thing, we did not slay your son, my Lady," Oberyn said pensively. Entering this tent, the world grew more splendid and queer. I once craved for that. Now he did not know what to make of it.

"Oh, fret not Prince Oberyn, I'll kill that knave myself," the Lady drank wine, as if she had never before touched a cup.

Dayne and Dalt went to seek people, heeding Lady Oakheart's directions, calling them to a large gathering.

Suddenly, noises began outside, someone was shouting at the guards.
"Are you mad," the voice bellowed, then dashing inside. Erren Florent wore the same ruby on his doublet, anxiously looking at his lover bound to the post.

"Rhelna, what's happening...", he froze when he beheld Lady Oakheart in the corner, then Oberyn struck him in the head from behind, casting him into unconsciousness.

Lady Oakheart hastened to the young beauty, restoring the necklace to her neck. Again, the maiden in a snapp of fingers reclaimed another thirty years of life.

"I was not sure if this would work. Unfortunately, I am no witch, but it is worth a try ... it will be easier to explain," she said in a soft voice.

"I do not condemn," Oberyn smiled thoughtfully.

Half an hour later, a dozen men entered the tent and all looked bewildered at the sight of two women of the same likeness.

"Mother," the balding Oakheart uttered oddly, looking at the two bound bodies and his mother.

"What is the meaning of this?", one of the Tarly men roared, drawing swords to liberate his lord, only to be hushed when Oberyn removed the necklace, unveiling the face of Erren Florent.

"The only meaning I have to say to all of you is that you are damned fools," Lady Oakheart chided the men in a thin voice, expounding the situation again. A restless murmur arose among the group.

Darwin Oakheart was wholly absent-minded, looking at the blond-haired girl as at a demon.

"There is only an hour before dawn, we must seize the camp. Eight hundred blades shall do," Oberyn ordered.

"We will not take orders from a Dornishman," one Tarly knight said.

"Yes, you will," Lady Oakheart retorted sharply.

When the sun rose, the camp was in their hands, all Florents and Fossoways were taken and disarmed.
Tarly's bannermen wanted to hang the young Florent, who wore his face, but Oberyn knew that not all grieved for their lord, as much as they were beguiled and made fools.

Two days later, Willas's host arrived, bringing tidings that the battle for King's Landing was over. 

Chapter Text

A tingle of dread gripped Sansa as wildfire spread a green carpet over the river, hurling fiery emerald tears at the city walls. A blinding blaze dazzled her eyes, a dance of light and shadow, a grand mummer spectacle that swallowed King's Landing whole, turning darkness of the night into light of the day in a heartbeat. She saw a wall crumble, bricks leaping high as sparrows, vanishing in a foul mist. Aegon was there, fighting... his wounds..., she turned her head to the interior of the maester's tower. Heat shimmered even up to the high balcony where she watched the horror, followed by a snowstorm of soft ash, tiny grey flakes drifting like summer snowflakes. The worst came last, the acrid stench of burning, a harsh assault on her nose; wood, stone and flesh mingling in her nostrils. People were burning down there, drowning in the scorching tide of the river, in winds of steam.

"Your fear is unfounded, my lady, the odds of victory are in our favor. The situation may have deviated from the original plan, but fortune has not forsaken us," the voice of Haldon the halfmaester soothed her. She wished she could believe him, see the world with his calm, save for butterflies raging in her stomach, denying her any respite. The rest of the night she spent alone, tossing and turning on the bed, as shouts reached her chamber, cries from afar, the clashing rang of steel. If only I could sleep, wake to the relief of victory, if one comes. For a brief moment, she considered going to Haldon once more, to plea for a drop or two of milk of the poppy. Be brave, you must be brave, she consoled herself, softly humming the tune of Jonquil and Florian the fool.

"A fool in iron motley, no knight of noble birth," she repeated the same verse three times, the rest of the words eluded her, lost in the chorus of steel, that claimed the city of King's Landing, creeping ever closer. Lord Stannis is coming, stern and unforgiving, a dark thought overshadowed the joy of the sweet dancing song.

"He longed to be her faithful knight,...", Sansa swallowed a lump of fear, looking at the golden embroidery on the canopy above the bed. The curtains hid the windows, yet the smell of burning and the ash on the wind seeped through the cracks, giving her a headache. The air was stale, heavy with stench, it melted into sour taste to her tongue. Please gods, she prayed to the heart tree, give him strength, give us dawn, give us light. Please gods, old and new, she united north and south within herself. As she uttered the last word of her prayer, the skies broke in thunder, answering her plea with a downpour, a cover of sound to hide the battle.

"...disguised as a fool," she misspoke a verse, in relief, as cheers erupted all over the Red Keep. A living joy resounded from every corner, a scream that could only herald victory. Sansa ran out of her chamber to see it, fleeing to a space full of song and jubilee.

"What are the news, how fares the king," she asked a small cupbearer who was happily skipping through the corridor.

The boy grinned through crooked teeth, "A victory, m'lady, it is a victory. Stannis is dead, slain by ser Loras in single combat". Once, another girl might have smiled at such tales. Mangled corpses, blood spilling over grass, cries of men too young to meet the Stranger; Images of the Redwood hill came to her, a grim sight of pain, a wound on the soul, the place never to heal.

Dawn came without a wink of sleep, thick black smoke billowed to the south, where the wildfire defied the rain, hiding the Kingswood in a wall of ever-moving darkness. Layers of ash covered the roofs of King's Landing, tinting the red tiles in a grey hue, giving a false impression of winter, from a distance. The air was unpleasant, of ash melted by rain, keeping most folk inside their homes. The first thing on her mind was to find Aegon, to assure herself he was alright.

Sansa made her way through throngs of men in ash-smudged armor clogging the halls, "Where is his Grace?", she asked Serjeant Mole.

"I know not, m'lady," a toad-faced man replied, a bloody rivulet running from his brow, over reddish skin, peeling off like orange. Most of the soldiers bore burns like that, parched and painful, broken.

"He went to see the queen, m'lady," a coarse voice somewhere in the distance muttered, bringing Sansa back to the ground. Once more, she had flown into the skies too fast, floating amid her dreamful thoughts. That's what you get for thinking too much, she scolded herself, opting to return to her chamber, trying to fall aleep to the sound of rain.

Three days passed and she barely glimpsed Aegon, he spent most of his time out of the Red Keep, overseeing the removal of corpses and the rebuilding of the wall. After eating her midday meal, to cheer herself up, to escape from troubles, Sansa put on a new gown, ivory-colored with red weirwood leaves covering the fine material. She had added new adornments herself, changing it to suit her own taste, bringing a touch of the North to it. Otherwise, the day seemed dour and grey, birds had stopped chirping, a shadow of smoke forbade the autumn sun to grace the skies. Sansa avoided the balcony, not to spoil her beautiful dress, the ash would leave a smudge all over it. Gently, she lifted the garment, turning in a circle, letting the flared skirt move, rise and fall, like a living rose, greeting a newborn day. Before the looking glass, Sansa saw the woman she always wanted to become, the shining mirror transported her to a divine tale of love, fulfilled dreams, a land absent of suffering. A knock on the door shattered the image for a moment, but Sansa smiled even more, somehow no issue could spoil the delight she felt.

"Pardon," she called softly.

"It's I, gorgeous," septa Lemore replied from the other side of the door.

"Come in," Sansa beamed, earnestly cherishing the moments shared with Lemore. The door opened, bringing in the septa with white robes, lacking the hair covering other septas usually wore, to shield their chastity from unwanted looks. Lemore simply carried a carefree nature as a second robe, something Sansa loved more and more.

The septa appraised Sansa, winking at the ceremonial dress, a spark of joy in dreadful days. "Someone looks dazzling today. Are we having a tourney to celebrate victory, or a great feast, or a mummer's show?"

"No," she said with confidence, "I want to feel beautiful. Being beautiful makes me free."

The septa eyed her cheekily, "Is that all? You look so beautiful, you may outshine all the flowers in the Red Keep, and I mean all."

"My intent is simply of personal nature, no ulterior motives," Sansa smiled, and the reflection mirrored her smile of pearly whites.

"I have no doubt of it," Lemore raised an eyebrow, "Though, I am glad you are doing well, you deserve it. The king is knighting a few brave souls in the great hall. Are you coming?"

"No, so many pageants tire me." A wedding came to mind, and a coronation after that, a prison made of extravagance, a looming reminder of what she lost. After some time, the pain faded, leaving only a shell of regret.

"You speak my mind. Though, Aegon wants to see you. Apparently, a very important matter," Lemore shrugged as if to say she knew no more than what she said.

Night fell as she stood before the white oaken doors of his solar, with two large holes scraped from the white paint. Stags of Baratheon had held their place there, as they had throughout the palace, antlers, hammers, the might of the hunter adorning many a wall and pillar, or tapestries or bare stone. The castle was barren of them now, given to the fires or put below the keep, in a dark hall where no man walked, sharing eternity with the dragon skulls, which Aegon refused to return to the throne room.

"Let the past be the past," he told Varys as the eunuch proposed resurrecting an old tradition. "Formidable as they are, no Targaryen king ever mounted the sky on dragon bones."

Somehow, the negative answer pleased the spider even more, putting a swift end to the discussion. "Just a moment, my lady. I'll inform the king, you are here," Shieldless Rymen of the Kingsguard told her, closing the heavy door to the hall. "You may proceed," the door was now opened to her.

"Your Grace, you wanted to see me," she greeted Aegon, seated at his long table in his work chamber, alone inside a ring of braziers, working on some parchments. The king's seal, crimson of head, kissed the paper many times.

"Yes, please, sit," he pulled out a chair for her. "Do you wish refreshment?"

"Water would be nice," she replied, a bit nervous. Aegon took a lone flagon from the table, pouring out a full goblet.

"A few hours ago, I received a letter from Dragonstone, from Lord Alester Florent, who served as Stannis's Hand. Well, the news is quite welcome, he offers a peace proposal, in the name of Stannis's daughter, Shireen. She is to relinquish all claims to the throne in exchange for amnesty for all who fought under Stannis's banner and the restoration of the Baratheon claim to Storm's End. Of course, the crown expects more concessions, land wise, from Baratheons utmost. Varys thinks I should cede all of the Kingswood they hold," Aegon chuckled, not sharing the same hunger for land as his counselors. "I am not so radical, though the price will not be easy to stomach. Some of my councilors believe we should reject it, but I am not here to sate their appetites for titles or more bloodshed."

"Pardon me, Your Grace, why am I to know this?" she asked, unsure of where this was going, as she was usually left out of political discussions. Formality hurt him, so he withdrew a bit, trying to find a distraction in the papers lying on the table.

"Cause your brother is the only current claimant to the crown of his own, the only one still alive, that is. Rumors say, for some time, Balon Greyjoy perished, so I have commanded Lord Redwyne to muster a fleet to retake the Iron Islands, but time is slipping as winter seas are upon us," Aegon said, his voice taking a sad note, of the possibility of a new military campaign. "I wanted you here, as I have decided to do something I should have done long ago. Send you home."

The word petrified her in deep silence. I don't want to go, to abandon you, one part of her heart said, as a burst of happiness claimed the other part, rejoicing at the chance of seeing her mother and Robb again. "I am to bring my brother into the fold. Beg him to bend the knee to the Iron Throne. Is that what you are asking of me?" Strength for strong words left her, am I only a tool, a means to an end. She knew this was not his idea. Was Margaery behind this, or the Small Council?

"Well, beg is not a word I would use, but yes, plea with him to reconsider defiance, so we can end this war before the first snow. And I'll be more generous than I ought to be, he can keep the lands he currently holds, if the Tullys do not object; in that case, the crown shall claim the southern riverlands under its direct rule. Or we can return to the prewar borders, with minor adjustments. Sansa, you know me, I am the last to fan the flames, and I'm in the minority."

Sansa shrugged, knowing that if the war continued, Robb was surrounded on all sides, Tyrion Lannister was to rule the west, her aunt Lysa had bent the knee a few moons past, the rest of the south was firmly in Aegon's grasp or worse, in the Tyrells', and the Greyjoys still held Moat Cailin as far as she knew. The lands by the Trident were fertile, second only to the Reach, but the war had left them desolate, with weak defenses. "For the sake of my brother I'll go, though the northerners are a proud kind, they would rather go down with the steel bent, than the knee bent. My pleas may find deaf ears. Many of them." Growing up, she had ignored the lordly talk of her father, of this house or that, who hated whom, which house was close to another. Winterfell was the only world she knew, rarely going to the winter town, or the river mills not far away. The north came to her, Cley Cerwyn, Benfred Tallhart for the most part, sometimes Karstark sons. Other men who came, grizzled and bearded, frightened her, so she avoided them.

Aegon nodded, wordless for more to speak, just gazing at her, tides of sentiment stirring beneath their eyes. Certain vows wanted to break through the hard surface, yet drowned in the depths of the dark. This was it, she realized, the last days with him, perhaps the last ever. King Robert had called Father his dearest friend, and only made the procession to the North once, with a clear intent. Elsewise, the friends might have died leagues apart.

"If the war is our fate, no harm shall befall your kin, I swear it to you...," he finally said, ending a long silence.

"I know," she murmured softly, as tears filled her eyes. She was not meant to weep, yet she failed, shedding a few drops harder than iron. He drew near to her, offering a handkerchief, a three-headed dragon in silver, a direwolf snarling as a third head. He had kept it all this time, a token of thanks, of a broken pledge, a seed that never rose to kiss the sun, never to blossom. A different rose had stolen its place.

"It is not an end, if we choose it so," he offered her a hand, she touched milky rough fingers, feeling a fiery spark shooting back to her heart. Together, hand in hand, they walked to the door. "Ser Rymen, escort Lady Sansa back to her chamber."

"As you command, Your Grace," the boy knight replied, tucking his raven locks beneath the visor.

Later that night, she learned that she was to depart on the morrow's eve, with a guard of eighty men to escort her, led by Thunderex, who had returned from Maidenpool. To tender Robb's iron crown, Aegon was also sending Ice, the sword of Sansa's father, his bane rather, and freeing another northman from captivity, Donnel Locke.

By the light of early dawn, Jeyne came to her even before the breaking of the fast, "I came as soon as I heard, I cannot believe you are leaving."

"Yes, it seems like a lifetime since we left Winterfell," Sansa said wistfully, remembering the thrill they had shared, the south was where the songs came true, knights in shining armor, ladies of the court. Jeyne got smitten in love with Lord Beric Dondarrion, now a famed outlaw, who had cheated death seven times as the tales went. She might have dreamed of a gallant outlaw knight daring rescue of a maiden from the clutches of wicked lions, if not for finding love among the golden sellswords. The truth be told, Lord Beric was already betrothed to the sister of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, one of the greatest knights that ever lived. Ser Pykewood Peake was no outlaw, nor a one to match the great champions of arms, but a good man, a rare quality these days.

House Peake had lost two castles for rebelling against the Targaryens in the old days, both now restored, at least on paper by Aegon's decree. Pykewood was to take possession of Dunstonbury, an ancient castle on the banks of the Mander, once belonging to the Manderlys, the loyal Stark bannermen. The younger Peake brother would be raised to a lord, and the match would make Jeyne a lady, of a great seat, something a mere daughter of a steward, of a minor house, with little wealth of their own could only dream of.

"Well, I spoke to Pyke, we are to take our vows today, here in the royal sept," Jeyne said proudly.

"Today?" Sansa was at a loss for words.

"You are the only friend or family for that matter that I have, and the Lady of Winterfell. I thought, only if you want, to give me away. You are a Stark of Winterfell, it is your right,"

Sansa embraced her friend, "Of course I will," gushing light of bliss.

The sun cleaved the sky in two, as she donned her new gown by Jeyne's side on the altar of the royal sept, sharing space between the guardian beard of the Father and the serene smile of the Mother. "With this kiss I pledge my love," Jeyne whispered the sacred vow of the ritual as an orange cloak fell on her gentle shoulders. Of the three castles of House Peake, two kept their ancient black color, but the third now glittered in gold, a prudent reminder of how the castle returned to the Peake's hold. A bit nervous, Pykewood kissed his new bride, to the cheers of two score officers of the Golden Company. An hour later, a small feast was arranged, a pale shadow of what had occurred at the royal wedding, yet Sansa enjoyed the four courses much more, especially the lemon cakes.

"Lemons grow by the Mander, throughout the summer, and sometimes in the autumn, I'll never forget to send you some to Winterfell," Jeyne told her when they parted, by the end of the festivities. As a gift, Sansa left her all the gowns she had in King's Landing, two of them were of similar cut, so the cloth should fit. A great lady should wear great wardrobe.

She felt a bit gloomy as she entered her chamber again, so many farewells were taking a strain on her nerves, she was returning to her home, her first and true one, but this had also become her home, not the foul days with Joffrey, but the blessed days of freedom that followed. If only this day would end, the road would make it easier.

The hours of the late day passed slowly, crawling like days, chaining her to the bed in a strange mood as if in a dream, wondering if she would wake, only to find it all false. Wake in the Red Keep in the weeks after Joffrey's coronation, and the murder of her father; wake in Maidenpool, in the sweet days of the newborn autumn, as a pleasant breeze swept through the streets of the little port-town; wake in the days on the road to the first battle she beheld, the dreadful odour of death; wake on the march to King's Landing again, as she held her breath if Aegon would survive his wounds.

The bitterness of being, only ceased when a girl servant came to give her a note: the horses were ready, and the column could depart whenever she wished. A little bit longer, she told herself, the North before her was rising wide as snow-covered mountains, long as the great Trident, but the past had shrunk as a melting ice cube.

The point of departure almost came when Haldon visited her, carrying a bundle of parchments, neatly rolled in five cylinders, linked by leather cords in a knot. "My lady, may your journey be safe and well," he began.

"Thank you, Haldon, are those for me?" she did not expect any papers.

The halfmaester nodded, undoing the knots in a swift move, precisely placing the parchments on the table in a arranged stack, "The king deemed it imperative for you to have these." At speed, Sansa read the messages inked on the brownish parchment.

"...An elimination of Stark host in full; a cooperation of flayed man. Haldon, what are these?" she snapped at the maester, whose plain-shaven face did not flinch. A conspiracy against the Starks woven in four messages, mention of a wedding bathed in crimson, skins on the river wall.

"The first message was seized from the personal belongings of Tywin Lannister, in the immediate aftermath of His Grace's victory," Haldon pointed at the oldest letter, "the rest we received at our own leisure, after contacting the Freys of the Crossing, feigning interest in the plan Lord Walder proposed to Tywin Lannister, an act of betrayal meant to annihilate the forces of your brother, including the murder of both Stark and Tully family members. The final letter was sent by Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, it seems he is an active participant in the plot to overthrow the Starks in the North. Per his suggestion, Bolton would defect to the Crown in exchange for amnesty and wardenship, in the same manner the Freys wish to claim the title from your mother's family."

A cold fear punched Sansa in the stomach, she had not felt this powerless since Joffrey screamed, "Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!" Dark thoughts bloomed instantly, who knew of this, was Aegon ready to harm her family to such extent. She could not believe it. His heart was pure, devoid of any malice, he could never command anything of the sort. "Why would Aegon partake in correspondence with these traitors?"

"He did not," Haldon brought her relief, "It was the late Hand Connington who gave the order, though for what it's worth, he only knew of Lord Frey's wish to change his allegiance, not of the vile conduct they plan to carry out. All further correspondence, after initial contact, was made with the intent to uncover the full scope of the plot, including all major participants involved."

"Robb must see these letters, as soon as may be. Send a raven," Sansa breathed in haste, longing for the letters to reach her brother.

Taking the letters in hand again, the halfmaester deftly returned them to their previous scrolled state. "The matter at dispute is delicate, and I counselled His Grace to proceed with necessary caution. Lord Stark may not interpret our gesture as a kindness, but as a ploy to sow discord between him and his bannermen." Sansa understood the wisdom of his words. The Northmen were blunt and straightforward in their dealings, and scorned the subtle intrigues of the south. The Iron Throne, under Joffrey, had shown them nothing but treachery and deceit, even forcing Sansa to pen a letter to Winterfell, demanding her brother's fealty. As they contemplate the world, Aegon was no different, and I am the only one who could bridge the gap between the foes. "Honest men is a beacon in the snowstorm," she recalled Father's saying.

"Tell me all that you know," she asked him, still reeling from the revelation.

"Threads are in place, the trap is set, the Freys deserted from Stark ranks after your brother wed a Westerling maid, in contradiction with the terms of the agreement for safe crossing over the Trident. A marriage pact is proposed to your uncle, Lord Edmure Tully, and at the wedding feast Lord Stark and his bannermen are to be massacred. Lord Bolton, who commands the bulk of Stark's foot, is to send them into futile assaults further south, without significant strategic sense, only to be crushed by our host".

Sansa shuddered, picturing all of it in her mind's eye, the bloody Stark men, clad in their furs, hacked and hewn on the green fields of the south, dying so far from home. The visage of death mirrored the corpses of Lannisters, still haunting her dreams at times, the sharp stench filling her nostrils, so vile, it soured her meals for days. We must make haste, Thunderex will obey my will, by a fortnight or less we could reach Riverrun. But the heavy rains, the roads must be mired by now. In the last few days, rain is often a gift from the heavens, as the sun.

"Bring me parchment and ink, maester," she pleaded in gentle words.

Out of the bowels of his clean robes, Haldon produced a small vial of ink, a snow-white quill sharp as a knife and a thin sheet of parchment, still fresh in yellow hue, "I had a feeling you might want it," he smiled.

Aegon granted Sansa leave to write to her kin, just days before they marched swiftly from Maidenpool. At first, Sansa thought no answer would ever come, as moons came and went, until a rider from Maidenpool reached King's Landing on the eve of the last battle, bearing a brief letter from her mother, stitched with words of love, more than of news. "Our spirits are high, as they must be in these dark times," Lady Catelyn wrote in the wake of her sons' deaths. Later, the dark times turned to cruel times, by the slaying of Rickon and Bran.

"Arya lives," Sansa wrote back to Riverrun, in her melancholic reply, "she is too fierce to fall." I will be gone again, on the road, even before Mother writes again.

With a steady hand, now, she penned one final sentence, ending with "Wait for me..."

"The letter is to be sent promptly, the autumn rains are harsh, so it will take longer than usual," Haldon said. "I have all the materials ready, I will seal it properly."

According to his words, the letters were safely hidden in one of the wagons. Sansa fetched them, spurring her mare to Thunderex who donned a new golden surcoat at the head of the guard.

"Leave the wagons behind, or better yet, abandon them, we must ride as fast as we can," she commanded him.

"My Lady, all your belongings are in the wagons, and the provisions for the journey. If we forsake them, our days will be meager of fare," the Summer Islander objected.

"All I need is here," she lifted the leather bag with all the parchments and Haldon's personal notes on the Frey-Bolton plot. "Divide the force in two, leave some to watch the wagons, the rest of us ride with haste. Food can be carried by the horses."

The ebony serjeant obeyed her command with some reluctance, leaving twenty riders to guard the wagons, and taking another ten horses riderless to carry the food rations, just enough for the journey. Arranged in a long column, they waited as the bronze gates of the Red Keep rose. Instinctively, Sansa turned her head to the balcony of Aegon's own chamber. He was there, waving down, bidding her farewell. A moment later, Margaery appeared from the chamber, looking at her stiffly. From such a distance, Sansa could not tell if the Queen was relieved that Sansa was leaving or angry for some unknown reason. Perhaps both, with her it was so hard to tell what she wanted, almost as hard as to know if the autumn day would be rainy or just grey.

"Serjeant," she signaled with her hand.

Thunderex bellowed in his foreign accent, "Onward". And the line of Targaryen banners galloped through the wet streets of King's Landing, through mud and rain mixed with ash. The smell of battle lingered even stronger near the walls, until they passed through the Old Gate, onto the Kingsroad. Sansa rode in the middle of the column, with Donnel by her side, in the safest part of the file.

Seven days later they had scarcely covered a third of the way, still trudging through the woods where the Kingsroad curved around the right bank of the God's Eye. Rains fell ceaselessly as if to chastise them, turning the muddy road under their hooves into a knee-deep sludge of water and earth, a misery for horses, more so for riders. They had already lost half a dozen mounts, and each day would lose one more. She wept seeing the helpless beasts by the road, as soldiers eased their suffering, slaughtering them for a meal. Some were simply abandoned in the deep mire, for the wolves to claim them and clear the road. Losses became so dire that a score of men were left behind to await the wagons, as sharing mounts seemed hopeless. Even Thunderex, dwarfing Sansa, struggled with the mud.

To cheer her up, Donnel Locke tried to console her, as things might not be so bad, "Mud is bad m'lady, but bearable, deep snows are impossible." A child of the long summer, she had never seen such snows, she barely knew snow at all. Summer snow fell now and then, only to melt faster than it came, mostly making the same mud in the courtyards of Winterfell. Still, she loved playing with snow, building castles, imagining ladies living inside and their noble husbands.

She gave the northman a courtly smile, but was not in the mood for talk, choosing instead to brood in the dampness of the drizzle, dreading the sky might burst again sending watery shafts upon them. Her only solace was that the road led them into the woods, a shield from the winds and a decent cover from the heavy rain. Last time she saw these woods, she traveled on a wagon with Septa Mordane and Arya, in the opposite direction, and she remembered all the bumps on the hard road, the grass so dry it crackled on a gentle breeze. As then, she did not stray from the road, though she wished to see the great lake or even catch a glimpse of Harrenhal. Jory had said the castle could be seen from miles away, but the sparse trees concealed both the lake and the castle. Maps were familiar to her now, she knew the road was too far from both. 

On the twelfth day, the damp cold finally caught her, under the wet hood, as a strange tickle played in her throat, only to grow into a tender heat claiming her whole brow. Fighting with sleepiness, she tried to stay on the horse, wobbling right to left, barely keeping hold of the reins. Lightheaded and weak, she would have fallen if not for Donnel Locke riding just beside her, keeping one hand always on her back.

"Don't give up, m'lady, we are at Castle Darry soon," the man tried to keep her spirits up. Soon in truth was almost three days as the outline of the castle became visible from afar, through her feverish eyes. A bulky shadow of Thunderex from time to time came from the head of the column to check on her. Fever took her completely as they passed through the charred walls of the castle, so she fell asleep on the horse, dreaming of a hot day by the Trident. Before her eyes the image seemed clear as the day she last graced Castle Darry, a perfect little place, only a finger of the size of the Red Keep or Winterfell, but big enough to be important and beautiful. In the dream she was alone in the halls, barefoot enjoying the softness of Myrish carpets, in a thin maiden's dress dancing, until she went out to feel the light of summer. The monstrous wheelhouse of Cersei Lannister was there, as were baggage trains, filled with fruits, meat, wine, mead, cakes, to quench the mighty appetite of King Robert for feast and hunt, as a hawking wagon and another one serving as a kennel were also lodged on the meadow in front of the castle. All of it empty, abandoned, she tried to find a soul, Arya or Father perhaps, but no one was there.

Then, a soft grey blur darted in between the wagons, and Sansa's heart leapt, recognising the clean fur, the beautiful twitching ears. So she wept, tears of joy or tears of never healed pain, it was too hard to say, but she truly wept. The shape became a crystal clear image.

"Come, girl, I am here, I am here," Sansa called Lady softly. The direwolf came to her gracefully, not fast or clumsy as her brothers and sister who ran wild through Winterfell. Lady was quiet and gentle, kind to everyone not only Sansa. And, now, grown, so huge, she was as tall as Sansa or taller, shedding the soft features of youth for the sharp ones of maturity that every creature acquires. Yet the ears were the same, twitching, glad to see Sansa. By habit Sansa scratched them, drawing a soft purr from Lady, and a tender lick of the rough tongue on her upturned palm.

Suddenly the direwolf snorted, pawed and gnawed, her movements loud and in an instant Sansa opened her eyes, finding herself in a small solar, on a soft feather bed, a luxury she had not slept in for a fortnight or more.

A half-bald wrinkled figure stood over her, and Sansa gasped, "However unpleasant I might be, I am no threat to you. Now drink this," a small cup was soon in her hand. The remedy tasted bitter mingled with the light sweetness of honey. "You are at Darry, Lady Sansa, your health is well, a mere chill caused by unnecessary long travel if I may say". The chain revealed the man as a maester in a black robe, and more links than Luwin had. "One might say almost as mad as keeping a direwolf as a pet", the man went on chuckling. Sansa wanted to retort and put him in his place, but her throat hurt too much.

Voice returned back to her when Locke and Thunderex came to see her, both men joined in shared worry. "We are to continue by the morrow," she rasped sentence.

"Lady Sansa, we are men of war, and this pace is wearing us down as well. Let us stay for at least three more days. No hurry is worth your health," the ebony serjeant said.

Locke sided with Thunderex in his appeal, "Heed the big lad, m'lady, a cold sickness fells a man as easy as an axe."

"I am well, when I eat, strength will come back to me," she lied. Quite the opposite, pain ran through her muscles, and she still felt dizzy and feverish. The potions given by the Darry maester helped but little.

"No," Thunderex shook his head, "We stay here, until you are fit to ride. The king gave me the charge to protect you, first and foremost, and then to bring you to your destination."

Seeing no point in arguing, she spent the next day confined to bed, recuperating in a small chamber with a smaller window letting in weak sun rays. The counsel of her protectors seemed wise as she felt much better, regaining the health she had on the day they left the capital. Young Lord Lyman waited for her recovery to hold a feast in honor of the small guard, three and forty of Sansa's own, and two score of Golden Company men from Harrenhal led by Captain Lothson.

"Lady Sansa, it is nice to have you again under Darry's roof," the boy seemed pleasant enough. "Please open the feast," he handed her a golden fork, which she plunged into the pigeon pie, taking a bite. The dish was too salty, stinging her parched lips, yet Sansa smiled at the young lord.

"It is wonderful, my lord," she returned the courtesy. Wonderful and too small for every man to have a share. Though other dishes were plentiful, filling two long tables of the narrow hall. Within these walls King Robert ordered the death of Lady, for a crime she did not commit. Harming Joffrey was a good deed, Nymeria should have killed him. The world would be a better place for that. The new tapestries did not elude her eye, a beautiful art on linen, alive with colors, and rich embroideries.

"Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters," Lord Darry slid a hand on her back, making unwanted caresses. Sansa felt uneasy but let him have his way. Three dragons filled the sky, above the first three heads of the dragon. Scanning the other images Darry went on, "Jaehaerys the Conciliator and his noble wife Queen Alysanne, and on the left, in warrior's armor, is Daeron the Young Dragon under the blazing Dornish sun." He stopped at Daeron, though Sansa recognized more in the likeness of Daeron the Good, his sons Baelor and Maekar, then came Aegon the Unlikely and what could only be his famed Kingsguard Ser Duncan, after two friends servants mismatched chronology putting another pair of a King and a Kingsguard, brothers Aegon and Aemon. The last tapestry was torn, with the left side missing, clumsily sewn to the previous one. Her deep blue eyes lost themselves in the young Targaryen face, whose features she knew. The young crowned silver-haired head looked exactly like Aegon.

"That one is damaged," Sansa pointed a finger to the displeased grin of her host.

"It is His Grace, King Aerys, my father lost three brothers fighting under Rhaegar's banner, not far from here at the Ruby Ford. I cut off the other half cause of the traitor Tywin Lannister, his hound killed my father, seized our home, put many to death. I am glad King Aegon avenged us, shattering all the Lannister scum, if only I was there at Redwood, I would proudly raise my banner by his side," the boy muttered in a mix of pride and anger, finally taking his sneaking hand off her back. If you were there you might have died, if Aegon had not challenged the Lannisters from the west, Clegane, Lorch and others would have raided closer to the Trident, further north as they could.

A lone singer playing a flute invited the guests to dance to the tune of The Bear and the Maiden Fair. He must have been new to his craft, as his fingers were only slightly better than his voice, as he mostly shouted the verses rather than singing them. The feast was half done, so most guests were in the mood of drunken revelry, taking bewildered serving girls into their arms. Donnel joined them, grabbing a plump washerwoman, spinning her in a frenzy of wine. The northmen was in truth still a captive, forbidden to wear a weapon or armor for that matter, but he had every liberty, making friends with the golden sellswords, so much so that no one would suspect his prisoner status.

"My Lady, may I ask for a dance," Lyman offered his soft boyish hand, she was three years his elder, and she felt it then. He had seen some war, a doom befalling his house and losing his father, sharing a similar fate as Sansa had. It was clear to her, he wanted more, to impress her, maybe even suggest a marriage pact. After the rebellion, the Darrys suffered as the Conningtons, the Mootons and other loyalists who stayed true to the crown instead of following their liege lords. Now, their lands and wealth were expected to be restored by Aegon's return, raising them back to their old glory.

"Forgive me, my lord, my health bids me to decline," she made an excuse. Being rejected did not please him, so in a sour mood Lord Darry sat down, brooding over a cup of Arbor gold.

"Even while the Usurper Robert and your father feasted in this hall, my sire stayed loyal to the dragons, as he did for the last two decades. Those tapestries were waiting to see the light again. He dreamed of Prince Viserys coming from Essos, claiming the throne of his father. The gods are cruel, taking him on the brink of such a thing happening," he said, with a distant look.

Sansa remained silent as the things she wanted to say did not make for a pleasant tale, opposing the folly of idealizing the world in a way that it was not. How many men followed Aegon simply because they had to by the command of their lord, how many chased a false dream of glory only to find horror on the battlefield, how many, as the Darrys, sought to reclaim land lost to the wrong choice. The more she thought about it, hardly anyone was behind him because he acted as a king should act.

Captain Lothson came back to his seat with a face shining of sweat, sipping another cup of wine, then a second to wash down the first. "Captain, have you seen battle with the men of Lord Bolton?" Sansa asked the man.

The wine left idiotic plain look on his face, so he needed a few moments to grasp her question, shaking a head to clear his mind. "Nay, m'lady, mostly skirmishes, now and then, a few loose arrows. Some men died though, nothing of note. The Leech Lord keeps his men at Stoney Sept, since Forley Prester fled it, escaping to the west; we have ours at Harrenhal and a few garrisons in nearby holds. Outlaws are a bigger problem, the lightning lord, and even some Lannisters still lurking in the woods. They snatched our captain-general," he bellowed in laughter, spilling drink all over the table. Lord Darry shot a disgusted look at the sellsword. Meanwhile, Sansa felt grateful, as there was still hope, a greater war in the Riverlands might be avoided.

As the health returned to her, Darry felt too crowded, so she finally asked Thunderex to move out. The serjeant obliged her wish, so they set out, passing through a small village, mostly deserted or its inhabitants gone to hide from unwelcome guests. The first day of their renewed journey they rode directly towards the sunset.

"Here is the River road, m'lady," Donnel Locke said obvious.

"Indeed," Sansa played along, feigning obliviousness, though she knew they had left the Kingsroad many hours ago. Surprisingly, the ride was more pleasant in the heart of the Riverlands, through green fields, a few rolling hills and the strong murmur of the Red Fork of the Trident. The ground was a bit firmer, easing the travel somewhat, though mud still ruled more road than not.

"Halt," a voice rang out from the head of the column, as a massive trunk blocked the road. To their right rose a steep hill, to their left a thick tangle of bushes and vines. Slowly the column began to climb the slope, the riders cautiously moving to avoid injuring their mounts.

Donnel Locke eyed the treeline above them nervously, a looming row of dark green sentinels watching over the road. "Donnel, what do you see?" she asked.

"Trouble, m'lady, that tree did not fall by itself. It lies too far from the top. It may be the work of brigands, these lands are ripe for their dishonorable deeds," he had barely finished his words when the first arrow flew from the high ground, then a second and a third, and soon a shower of shafts rained down on them, as relentless as the drizzle that had followed them from King's Landing.

A third of the column had already crossed to the other side, leaving them outnumbered. "Shields around the lady, shields around the lady," Thunderax bellowed, spurring his horse towards Sansa. In a ring of gold she was safe, as arrows hissed and clanged against the golden armor and mail. She saw a men of the Golden Company falling dead in the mud, with two shafts in the bloody helm, another one flung from a dying horse into deep layer of thorny bushes.

Auuuuuu, auuuuuu, auuuuuuu, the horn sounded in the distance, a familiar and dreadful call. Sansa had heard it across the hills as the Lannister host marched on the Redwood. As before, the distant sound was followed by the loud thunder of hooves. Between the sentinels on the crest she could see hundreds of shapes, half-hidden by the mist, many of them in red, some mounted, charging towards the eastern side of the hill where the slope was gentler.

"Move Lady Sansa to the left," Thunderax ordered, and five men guarding Sansa shifted closer to the trunk that barred the road. "Spears up," the serjeant shouted, as twenty-five men lifted their spears and shields. With a fierce neighing of horses, the two cavalries met, and Sansa could only watch in horror as wood splintered and men screamed in pain. Leaping from his horse, Donnel Locke snatched a fallen shield and spear, and quickly mounted again.

"They are holding, m'lady, they are holding," Locke said in a trembling voice, as the battle raged only a few dozen yards from Sansa. Through the gaps between her protectors, she saw a few Golden Company riders strike down their foes. From the other side of the trunk, more riders tried to join the fray, but arrows still flew from above, hitting some. Horses stumbled and fell with their riders on the uneven ground. She heard bones breaking.

And then came a rustling of leaves, Sansa's heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would burst, pumping strength into the great beast that was her fear. "Down, down there!" Donnel Locke shouted as dark shapes moved in the thick cover below the road. A click echoed in the air, before a crossbow bolt pierced through the golden halfhelm of the nearest Sansa's guard. Two more dropped from point-blank shots, before the foe abandoned their cover and charged.

A bloated brute in a lion halfhelm and a Golden Company surcoat hurled a spear, killing a fourth man. Sansa screamed and the men laughed, revealing a noseless face. The last golden sellsword rode down two attackers, both in scraps of Lannister red armor, with one less than desirable. Locke was still holding his ground, moving in front of Sansa, a second before a bolt grazed him, sending a sharp pain in her thigh. Whimpering from the pain, she looked down and saw a river of blood flowing down her leg.

"No, you fucking fools, she is to be unharmed. The girl is to be unharmed," the noseless one cursed.

"M'lady, stay strong, I'm here," Locke told her, putting his body and horse between her and the enemy. I am not in pain, she wanted to tell him, but only managed a barely audible groan. Her chest was on fire, as fear mingled with a strange excitement; she felt as if her head was boiling, turning the world around her into a chaotic mess of incomprehensible ordeal. Is this how warriors feel in battle?

She wished for a splash of cold water to clear her mind, as her body stopped obeying her, the sounds around her faded into a long buzz. Instead, a warmth of red splashed stained her face, as the head of Donnel Locke flew far away from his body. The sight shattered the petrified facade that trapped Sansa, and she screamed from the depths of her lungs.

"Shut up, you bitch!", a cursing voice came from below, and she felt the worst pain ever as sharp nails dug into the flesh of her wounded leg. Falling from her horse, she landed in the mud.

"Let me go!" she struggled against the unknown assailant, hitting him with her feeble arms, and he released her for a brief moment, so she crawled through the mud, fleeing to nowhere.

Another pair of arms seized her so hard she thought the monster would tear them from their sockets. A guttural roar pierced her ears, as the stench of foul breath hit her. Opening her eyes, Sansa's heart exploded as she saw sharp teeth beneath the lion halfhelm descending upon her neck. The monster's bite took all the air from her chest. I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe, her mind screamed to the body. Blood was on her tongue, filling her mouth like an empty cup. Whatever she tried, it failed. No air came in, no scream came out. The beast bit down again, spilling blood all over his monstrous helm.

"Nooooo, you fool, what have you done?" a coarse voice snarled somewhere behind.

Mother, Father, Robb, Arya, Rickon, Jon... Aegon, she thought of faces dear, as darkness closed in on the light.

She did not feel the third bite, only the coming of nothingness...

Chapter Text

Arya dreamt of Nymeria and blood seeping from the auburn sky when the Hound snatched her from the cave; bringing throbbing pain to her brow as brawny hands lifted her as easily as a sack of wheat. She screamed, disturbing half the men of the Brotherhood, but the Hound's great charger was swifter than sound. The full moon illuminated the entrance, and Arya saw no rescue emerging from it. Not again, a desperate thought blazed within her.

At first, she writhed a bit, to no avail; his left hand was too strong a noose around her chest. The cold touch of rusted armor brought shivers through her clothes, biting like fangs on his war helm.

"We must go back," she yelled at the dog helm, but no voice came from the closed jaw, only moonlight playing a game of shadows on the iron surface, making the ugly helm even more sinister. Harwin had told her she was soon to go home, to Mother and Robb; all arrangements had been made. "I'll kill you," she furiously battered the mailed hand, only to feel the sting of pain itching her skin.

"If you could, I'd be more scared of the big shit I took last morning. Shut your mouth, it's easier for both of us," the Hound barked. "Cravens took my coin, Little Bird. Either I fight through their damned lot for the return of my purse, or I turn you into a purse."

Turn me into a purse, Arya was confused for a moment, only to grasp the Hound's words, "You're planning to sell me out." Three masks dissolved from Arya's face; she was no longer the orphan boy Arry, nor a weasel from the kitchens, but Arya Stark, the daughter of late Lord Eddard. The Lannisters had wanted her since she escaped King's Landing with Yoren, and at Harrenhal, she came dead close to capture. One death still remains to me, one name Jaqen owes. Chiswyck, Weese, and... no one. But Jaqen had marched out with the rest of the Lannister forces before she could name a third. It should have been Tywin, or Cersei, or Joffrey. I was so foolish.

"Aye, fool of me to think the ginger was the smarter sister," the Hound rasped an insult, refusing to look Arya in the face, instead gazing at the gloomy woodland road, a dark serpent coiling upon the ground.

"Sansa is auburn, not ginger," Arya spat back without thinking.

"Like if bloody matters. Now be silent; the long road is ahead of us. I'll not allow your shitty whining."

"I am not going back to King's Landing," she was determined. Even dogs sleep, she reminded herself, when he does, I'll hit him with a stone, dent that ugly helm right into his skull. Every man bleeds, every man dies.

"Who the fuck mentioned King's Landing?" The Hound seemed irritated and rested at the same time. Just like in the cave, the Clegane brother had a stupid reply for anything, always thinking himself smarter beyond the dumb brute he was. Arya knew his lot all too well.

"I am not a fool; I know whom you serve, Joffrey. The Lannisters are paying for my head." The words of House Lannister were so well-known that Maester Luwin didn't need a book to teach her about their lineage. A rich house, the richest in the realm. And when the details came later, they proved interesting enough that she quickly absorbed the requested knowledge. The sister is the queen, the elder brother a Kingsguard who slew the king, and the younger a dwarf. After meeting them, Arya would have preferred if they remained mere words on Maester Luwin's slow tongue. Cersei—a name she was destined to cross.

The Hound laughed, making her uncomfortable. His laughs was strange, a mix of rasp and heavy breathing; he must do it so rarely that it pained him. "The Lannisters are more concerned with keeping their own heads now, Little Bird. And Joffrey," the Hound's laughter now turned sweet, "the one-time cunt took a sword for real, he lost; to a crippled king."

The Dragon King won, Arya finally took the full meaning; Joffrey had lost the throne. Half of her list must be gone. "Why are you not dead? A dog should die alongside his master."

Stranger neighed harshly as the Hound wildly pulled the reins, and Arya nearly collided with the horse's head as the beast leaped over a trunk blocking the path. "Shut your snout, or I might just toss you in the river; at least then my head wouldn't ache."

"Do it!" she expelled all the anger from her lungs. She was supposed to go home finally; Harwin had promised her, and the Hound had spoiled everything. The Hound refused to reply, merely raising the visor of his helm. Arya remembered his dog-shaped iron helm, the one he had worn at Winterfell, the one he donned at the Hand's tourney, winning honor from ser Loras.

"Then how will the little wolf see her mummy again?" the Hound rasped, confusing Arya even further.

"Mummy?... where are we going?" her girlish voice demanded of the Hound.

Moonlight pierced through tree canopies, revealing the Hound's ugly face beneath the iron helm. "To Riverrun, if I don't kill you before. Or cursed be, wherever your brother is." The Hound's voice took on a menacing note, turning into a sniveling laugh. "We ought to hurry; the Dragon King might catch your brother first, and lose me a buyer."

Arya's anger flared. "Robb shall slay the dragon. He's never lost a battle."

"And he only needs to lose one. Even those bannerless cunts know that. Half of them are galloping south faster than a loose wind to proclaim for a new king. How convenient that the fire god told them they should choose the king who won the war. You're just stupid enough to see: I'm not the only one selling highborn goods."

Cold tingles passed through Arya, leaving her as afraid and confused as she had been at Harrenhal. Harwin had promised, he was Father's man, a Northman. Would he lie to her?

Waddling in the saddle made her dizzy; she hadn't eaten anything since noon. A slap of haze came out of nowhere, clouding her mind into a dull pain. The night around her swirled, and then she opened a different pair of eyes, wolf ones, to a new sight. The leaf-filled ground beneath her paws became a blur as she rushed through the woods. The moon called to her, and she answered with a call of her own, hundreds of her smaller brothers and sisters following suit, disturbing the peace in the woods. All of a sudden, she caught the scent of her other self and the scent of the Hound. The last time she was this close to that man, Nymeria was thrice smaller, running for her life. Her grey sister was alive back then. The wilderness boomed within her, and she outpaced all the little cousins she had gathered in a pack, rushing to unite the two halves of her being.

The moon was a silver coin in the nightly sky one moment, bursting into a dozen flashes like the sun, in the second. Sudden light woke Arya from her dizzy, wolf-eyed state, and she shifted her gaze to the Hound's face, seeking answers. Fear glinted in the dark eyes hidden behind the dog's jaw, fixed on the score of flaming swords surrounding them.

A tsk, tsk sound came across the clearing where the road rested against cloudless night sky. "The Lord of Light honored you with freedom, Clegane, but you'd rather spoil His design," Arya recognized the voice of Thoros of Myr.

"My fucking sword brought me freedom. I cut down Dondarrion. Which one of you is next? Maybe you, Priest, ought to meet that god of yours you're constantly babbling about, or you, doll," the Hound then turned his gaze to the Greenbeard.

The light of the flaming sword revealed a hint of fear on the Tyroshi man's face. In contrast, Thoros merely shook his head, pulling the reins as his horse writhed agitatedly. "No need for a trial this time. Each man here is a witness; you kidnapped the girl. In the eyes of our Lord, we are duty-bound to deliver justice." Arya barely heard his words over the strong neighing of the horses. The beasts seemed disturbed, all except the Hound's Stranger.

"Spare me your false justice," the Hound frowned upon the men. "Like all cunts, you hide your interests behind the will of gods."

"Let's cut the dog's hands; he stole a girl, if that doesn't make him a thief, nothing does," sneered Lem Lemoncloak.

"Touch my hands, and I'll fucking paint that beard red." The great sword in the Hound's hand was the only thing not aflame. Nevertheless, it looked long and sharp, even in the shroud of darkness—much scarier than the torches in the hands of the Brotherhood.

"You are a thief, Clegane. The girl was not yours to take," Thoros declared plainly, as if accusing the Hound of being tall.

The grip around Arya loosened, metal shrieked as the Hound clenched gauntleted fingers around his sword's hilt. "Aye, I am," Clegane acknowledged. He charged towards Thoros, Stranger moving swiftly over the muddy ground.

"On him together," a voice shouted, a plea for others to scramble united against the large foe. Metal clanged all around Arya, the Hound's wide oaken shield still hung on Stranger's back, he fought without protection. Steel clashed about her, flashes of light whooshed; she barely registered so many silhouettes. Even a man of the Hound's size cannot fight so many opponents, surely not alone, she realized how his defeat was imminent.

Until silence fell out of nowhere, for a moment, all motion ceased, as if the cold summer night had frozen the streamlet in Winter Town solid. Arya remembered licking ice, hiding large chunks in the pockets of Sansa's dress to melt later. Without much thought, her sister knew Arya was to blame, running in tears to their lady mother. The sweet memory lingered on the shifting colors of ice, the serene freedom of crisp air. The ice broke then, crackling, shrieking an unpleasant noise, morphing into the cries of dying men. The shrill sound of death yanked Arya from her dream; death was all around her.

"Wolf!" The cry of fear rose as a high growl, a call of the wild, coming from the forest. A familiar presence stirred butterflies in Arya's belly, a known wild scent cutting through the cloud of wine and stench circling around Sandor Clegane.

"Nymeria," Arya whispered the name of the she-wolf before tumbling to the ground. Horses neighed, rebelling against the desperate commands of their masters, men screamed senselessly, forgetting why they were there. Crawling in the mud, Arya dodged hooves; a flaming sword flashed above her head, stealing her breath. The blade landed a few feet away, the wet mud extinguishing the fire with a loud sizzle. She raised her head to see where the sword had come from, finding Nymeria's wide jaws severing a man's head. Several mutilated corpses already stained the mud red, puddles glistening under the moon's glow.

"Nymeria," Arya called to the wolf, tough still in a rage, the direwolf dashed through the trees, pursuing the fleeing men. Damn, she was so near, and so fast, Arya was proud.

"Hey, over here, come here. Lady Arya," a gentle voice beckoned from behind a stout tree. Rising, Arya vaulted over a broad root to find shelter.

"You," her mad stare fixed on Edric Dayne. Bereft of a sword, Arya grasped a dry branch, lunging at Ned. "The Hound said you intend to sell me." A flicker of fear crossed Ned's features, albeit fleetingly. The staff in the young squire's grip parried Arya's makeshift weapon. The muffled clunks of their wooden skirmish were nearly drowned out by the surrounding tumult of screams. Edric was better than her, far better; he glided like a shadow, too fast, uncatchable, while she floundered as a girl, too clumsy to compete with a squire.

Her branch snapped in two, leaving her clutching only a false hilt. If only Father had allowed me to train with Bran and Jon, no one could match me with a blade. Her training days with Syrio Forel ended too abruptly, before she could master the deadly elegance of the water dance.

"I wish you no harm, my lady. Please, put the branch down," Edric attempted to make his voice deeper.

"To whom am I to be sold? Do not lie to me, I know I am not going to my family."

"It is not my place to answer, Lady Arya. Lord Beric has commanded," the boy's reply was cut short as he dodged the piece of wood Arya hurled at him.

"No lies, you are merely a pet of the Lightning Lord," Arya hurled the insult. A troubling anger crossed Edric's gaze, yet he was not mad at her, but at himself for lying. Brave knights do not lie to maidens.

"To King's Landing," he confessed shamefully, "We are the King's men, and Lord Thoros beheld the face of a new king in the flames. The pale, fair face with violet eyes—the kind the tales say Targaryens possess because in those times, brother lay with sister. Alas, all our men and women are to march south to pledge allegiance to him. The king shall decide your fate."

A sharp pang of realization struck Arya, she had been duped once again. Stepping back, for the first time in ages, she felt the urge to weep, to flee into the night as Nymeria had.

Edric Dayne's shocked eyes gazed through Arya, it took her a moment to realize he was not looking at her. Turning back, she saw Sandor Clegane, drenched in blood, slowly limping, using his great sword as a crutch.

"Was that your bitch?" he asked Arya.

Just thinking of Nymeria gave Arya a surge of strength. "Once you rode in the woods by Darry, wanting to kill her. What about now? Is the same bravery upon you?"

The Hound removed his helm, long burn scars gleamed. "My steel is as sharp as it was then."

"It's all over for you. Nymeria knows you; she is of the North, she remembers. You will not live to see another dawn," Arya froze her face in a damning stare. "Not without my permission."

"Is that so? The Little Bird forgets herself. That wolf is no longer her sweet pup. She's tasted blood, roamed free; she'll never be any man's pet."

"Unlike you," Arya replied simply. "Nymeria was never a pet."

"Damn this," he muttered under his breath, "No amount of coin is worth this trouble." Raising his voice, he called to Stranger. The great charger was the only horse remaining, the sole survivor, the rest fell prey to Nymeria or vanished into the woods, to die soon enough, Arya had no doubt. Stranger obeyed the master's hail, just as Nymeria had once heeded Arya's.

Arya felt strange tingles again, before her gaze locked with the golden eyes of her wolf. The direwolf sneaked upon them, blood smeared across her soft grey fur. Stunned by fear, Edric gasped, while the Hound, weakened by his wounds, struggled to mount his steed, still oblivious to the wolf.

"Do not run, or you will die," Arya warned Edric, as Nymeria crept ever closer, her silhouette as large as Stranger.

The Hound turned, facing Nymeria directly. To his credit, he didn't flinch in the slightest, nor did his horse. No one spoke for a long moment; the entire scene resembled the century-old carvings decorating the main hall of Winterfell. Man and direwolf, armor and wilderness.

"Go on, girl, command the wolf to tear me apart; I'm bloody tired of waiting," Sandor broke the silence.

"Halt," Arya commanded assuredly, "You are taking me home. Refuse, and you die."

"What choice is that? Death now or at Riverrun. Your King brother will find me guilty of serving  Lannisters and behead me. Still, a better blade than fangs."

"You are coming too, as my captive," Arya measured Edric.

"Fuck me, now I have to look after two brats," the Hound muttered a complaint.

Ignoring the comment, Arya slowly approached Nymeria. The she-wolf lowered her head to Arya's height, their sizes having reversed in the year they were apart. Arya was dwarfed by Nymeria.

"Hey, I missed you," Arya whispered, scratching the wolf's head, her fingers passing through the soft fur as though it were long grass. Nymeria was serene, responding with a low purr, lying on the ground. Devoid of fear, without much thought, Arya mounted the wolf, rising as high as the Hound on Stranger. A hint of respect showed on the stone face of Sandor Clegane, while Edric Dayne was in complete awe.

Between the wide trees, the Hound moved towards the road, but Nymeria headed in the opposite direction, carrying Arya.

"Hell, I told you so. The wolf has a will of its own. Riverrun is to the northwest," the Hound cursed.

"Perhaps it wishes to be followed," Edric said, still on foot.

Irritated, the Hound shot him a sharp glance. "Oh really? Do the Dornish now speak the tongue of wolves?"

Arya felt Nymeria's want. "We go where Nymeria leads; Edric shall ride with you," she said, mocking the Hound with a teasing smile.

Whatever Nymeria intended for her to witness was not close at hand. The sun brought light into the woods, and it took them half a day to leave the forest, and another half to enter one even more ancient, Arya could sense. What Nymeria felt also became Arya's feelings; the wolf's knowledge somehow flowed into her. That day, they feasted well; the woods teemed with game, and Nymeria provided for them with ease. The food almost altered the Hound's view of the direwolf, especially when she returned with a rabbit or a fawn. However, he loathed the following night; more than once, Arya heard him grousing as a hundred howls erupted around them, so loud that even Arya found no sleep. It soon became clear that Nymeria was not alone; many dark silhouettes trailed them during the night, many shining eyes in the distance.

"The damn beast has taken control of every wolf in Westeros," the Hound grumbled on their second morning, as some of Nymeria's pack ventured close, one so near that Arya noticed it bore a scar in place of an eye. Yet, the wolves never strayed too close, not even when Nymeria was absent, hunting food for the three of them.

"At least we know they won't eat us," Edric remarked, though his tone betrayed a lack of certainty.

Wherever they went, mud awaited them, the wood always smelled freshly of rain. Travel wasn't hard; Nymeria always found them the easiest paths through.

But even that couldn't calm the Hound. "We're going nowhere; the wolf does as a wolf will."

Arya brushed off his protest. "She knows."

The sun was weak behind clouds when Arya finally sensed they were near; the great white wood appeared in the distance, morphing into a Weirwood.

"You want us here..." Arya's words were cut short as the body below the Weirwood branches came into view.

"There's someone lying there. A woman," Edric stated the obvious.

An unpleasant smell, intermingled with dampness, clung to everything green and brown around them.

"A dead woman," the Hound gave meaning to the stench.

A cold dread captured Arya's heart with each pace closer, tingles appeared within her again, stronger with each beat, soon she felt a strong heat inside, as if her very soul was boiling.

She saw the face, framed by auburn hair...

The moment stretched into eternity, every sound in the woods vanished, the birds ceased their chirping, Nymeria's smaller kin stopped their howling. Edric and the Hound disappeared in a flash, and Arya was adrift in nothingness, in a white void, her heart pounding so fiercely she could almost sense cracks forming within it. Deep blue eyes framed a fair horizon, crowned with an auburn sunset... Arya couldn't endure the pain, her skin was scorching hot as a log consumed by a flaming hearth, yet freezing like the coldest northern night. Dizziness overwhelmed her, she was melting and freezing at the same time, her body losing all notion of time and space.

One moment she saw the corpse of her sister, a noose of dark blood around her neck; with the eyes of Arya Stark; the next, she was Nymeria, but the foul sight remained the same cruel one. Pain thrust her back into Arya's skin, her aching heart forced her out of the girl's skin into Nymeria once more. She couldn't fathom how many times she became Nymeria and how many times she was Arya Stark

She mustered some strength and lifted her gaze to the face carved in the Weirwood, which for a fleeting instant, bore a resemblance to Bran, though aged, much older.

At last Arya Stark let out a scream; she wasn't sure if it was her human voice or Nymeria's wild howl. Only that sound could be heard all the way to Winterfell.