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Chapter Text

Ygritte walked over to the bow of the ship, where Gilly stood weeping, as she had so often. The captain had told them they would dock in Pentos, the following morning. On the passage down from Braavos, they'd encountered at least a score of warships, bearing the banner of the three-headed dragon. She might know little of heraldry, but even she recognised the banner of the Targaryens. Back at Castle Black, and Eastwatch, she'd heard people speak in awe of the Dragon Queen's exploits in the East. Awe, and a great deal of fear. They knew she was the Mad King's Daughter. It seemed that her father had liked burning members of the nobility alive, and she was cut very much from the same cloth. At Meereen, some city thousands of miles away in the East, it was said she'd crucified over a thousand lords, laughing and feasting with her supporters, as they died in agony. In another city, Volantis, she'd slaughtered most of the city's highborn in an arena, having the rest trampled to death by elephants. Supposedly, she had a palace in which the ballroom was paved with the gravestones of her enemies. "The White Flame Who Dances on the Graves of her Enemies", they were calling her. All the kneelers' Kingdoms were wracked with warfare. She knew little of the South, but the grim king, Stannis, had come to the Wall, with a couple of thousand men. She'd been there, when he caught Mance Rayder unawares, smashing the Free Folk, and taking her prisoner. She'd expected to be raped and her throat cut, but it turned out, King Stannis actually forbade such behaviour among his men. She'd never heard of such a thing. Then, Jon Snow had spoken up for her. It seemed his brothers had elected him Lord Commander of the Wall, and the mewling snot needed her to warm his bed. She knew him for a shit, after he'd betrayed both her, and her people. She'd loved him, and they had taken him in, only for him to flee and (she supposed) betray their plans to his fellow Crows. But, she'd decided there were worse fates than to be the Lord Crow's whore, so she'd pretended to forgive him.

Until, she'd made the mistake of getting pregnant by him. That, and the arrival of his sister, the gorgeous Lady of Winterfell, fleeing from the South, had been enough for him to send her away. Oh, he'd told her he was sending her to some Southron city called Oldtown, with Maester Aemon, Sam Tarly, Gilly, and her babe, for their own safety. Even with the wars raging in the South, he'd said that their place of learning, the Citadel it was called, was still treated as neutral territory. But, she'd seen the way he and Lady Sansa Stark had looked at each other, and it wasn't the way that brothers and sisters usually looked at each other.

Bastard.

She'd barely spoken to Gilly on the voyage. She knew she was the daughter of that fucker Craster, who'd then raped another babe into her. It turned out, one of the Crows had opened that cunt's throat, and she'd raised a horn of ale to him, when she found out. But, Gilly kept to her cabin, with her babe, and to her room, in Braavos, hardly saying a word. And she wept, a lot. She put an arm round her.

"You and me, we ain't said much to each other. Why so sad?" Gilly shuddered.

"He took my babe?"

"What, Samwell?" Another spoiled, pampered, lordling.

"No, he's been alright, actually. Jon Fucking Snow."

"What're you talking about? Your babe's in your cabin, below decks." Then, she spilled out the foul story.

"No, the babe's Mance's and Dalla's. He was afraid the Red Witch would sacrifice the boy, so he made me give up mine, and take the other away with me. He said he'd burn my boy, if I didn't agree."

"The fuck he did!" Jon Snow might be a cunt, but she hadn't thought even he would sink that low.

"Yeah, made me put my hand in a flame, so I'd know what it felt like to be burned alive. Then, said he'd do the same to my boy if I didn't give him up." Gilly began crying in earnest, as Ygritte put her arms round her, to comfort her. She'd happily have opened Jon Snow's throat, had he been present, even if she swung for it.

"Why are you on this boat, Ygritte?' the other girl finally asked her.

"I'm carrying his child. He said I and the babe are being sent away to keep us safe. Truth is, he just doesn't want us around no more. It's supposed to be a big deal, that the Crows can't have children. And of course, there's the beautiful Lady Stark. The way she looks at me, you'd think I was a dog turd."

"She's very beautiful", replied Gilly.

That she was. Hair like her own, but oiled and lustrous. Legs that went up to her neck, a full bosom, a pair of piercing blue eyes, and high cheekbones. Probably, the most beautiful woman she'd ever clapped eyes on, but cold as ice.

"She was married to the Lord of Winterfell, some pervert rapist. She fled the bastard, and came to the Wall. She, Snow, Stannis, they're all preparing to fight. They'll make Lady Sansa, the ruler of the North, and she'll accept Stannis as her king. Well, it's all one to me who the ruler is. But, it turns out, Jon and Sansa want to be a lot more than brother and sister."

"The fuck they do!" Among her people, such affairs were viewed with horror. Still, she had to tread carefully with Gilly, after what her father had done to her.

"You know what my father did to me", Gilly said, guessing her thoughts.

"And, I know, you had no choice in it, neither."

"Makes no difference. Men still think I'm a whore. I lost count at Castle Black, how often men would offer me a pair of coppers to suck them off. Others didn't even offer coin. I had to stab one of them. They'd have hanged me for it, save old Maester Aemon spoke up for me." Poor Maester Aemon. He'd said he was a hundred years old. He was perhaps the one man at Castle Black who'd treated Ygritte as a human being, and Gilly, it seemed. Well, Stannis had seemed decent too, but he was a king, and she'd hardly known him. Sadly, the Maester had died in Braavos.

"He talked to me about the Dragon Queen", continued Gilly. "Said, she was his brother's great-granddaughter, and I shouldn't believe half that everyone said about her. She freed thousands of slaves it seems, then she killed their masters". Slavery, that was some fucked-up shit. Owning another person. Even the kneelers hated it. Slavers did raid the free folk on occasion. Those who got caught had the bloody cross cut in them, and their guts hung up in weirwood trees. Not even fuckers like Rattleshirt or Hama Dogshead would actually sell their enemies. Kill them, obviously, but never sell them.

Inspiration struck Ygritte, quite suddenly. "Why don't we jump ship, when we get to, Pentos? I'd like to find out about this Dragon Queen. Lord Snow was kind enough to be give me a few gold and silver coins, so we could live there for a while. One thing I've found out about Southron armies. They always need servants. Maybe, they'd take us on."

"They'd want us to be their whores, like the men at the Wall."

"Well, you've shown that you're handy with a blade. And, I can fight, you know that."

"A city though. A place with thousands of people in it. It frightens me."

"We were being sent to a city, anyway. What difference does it make." The very idea of a city had made her head spin, at first. But, she’d got used to it in Braavos. She hadn’t a clue, though, how so many people could be fed, so far from any hunting ground. But, somehow, there’d always be food in the markets.

"What would Samwell say?"

"Like I give a fuck. He can stay on board if he wants."

"What if Maester Aemon was wrong though? What if she does crucify lords for fun, and wants to burn them like her father did?" Ygritte smiled nastily.

"Then I'd like to watch while she does it!"

Chapter Text

Sansa Stark knew she was damned to the Seven Hells, if they existed. She wasn't sure what equivalent the Old Gods might condemn her to, but no doubt it would be something equally nasty. She’d betrayed her father to Cersei Lannister, so besotted had she been with the loathsome Joffrey. Then, she’d become the partner in crime to the deeply untrustworthy Petyr Baelish. She’d lied to the Vale lords, telling them that her aunt had been murdered by her minstrel, Marillion. The young man had wanted to rape her, but nonetheless, he was innocent of that particular crime. She'd found out, subsequently, that the minstrel had been given to Baelish's secret ally, Ser Lyn Corbray, to be used as a woman - literally. Baelish had told her, laughing, that Corbray made the youth wear a dress and cosmetics, and answer to the name of Ellaria. Well, she'd had no choice in the mater.

Next, it seemed her mentor wanted Lord Robert Arryn out of the way. She'd been pressured into giving him doses of sweetsleep that would eventually prove fatal. She'd persuaded himself, she was just helping him with this fits, but looking back on it, she knew she was hastening his end. But, before the lad finally succumbed, her protector had changed his plans all over again. It seemed that the young heir to Winterfell was in need of a wife, and who better than Sansa Stark? She'd laughed at the idea, after all, the man's father, Roose, had murdered her own brother. Be patient, Baelish had said, this is your passport back to power. Win him to your side, then strike at the father. Petyr had made her pretend to be his daughter, while kissing her passionately, and touching her intimately. She in turn had had to pleasure him, and say the filthy things that aroused him; none filthier than calling herself “Cat”. At the time, she had been relieved to go.

She’d heard nothing from the Vale in ages. Had Sweetrobin been finished off?

She lay in bed, next to her own brother, well, half-brother, but they'd shared a father. He'd taken her the previous evening, every way a man can take a woman, and she'd given herself willingly to him. He was now fast asleep. On top of everything, she was now practising incest, a crime against all the Gods. The Targaryens had done it for centuries, and of course, she knew of the rumours about Queen Cersei and her own brother. But, the Targaryens were no more, and Cersei's government had collapsed. The Gods were not mocked. Had Ramsay Bolton infected her with his own depravity, she wondered?

She shuddered to remember that creature. He'd seemed kind and pleasant enough, until the night of their wedding, when he'd used her violently, while forcing his pet, Reek, to watch. He liked hitting her, whipping her, cutting her with his flaying knife. Sometimes, his revolting paramour, Miranda, would join in. She'd boasted that once Sansa had borne him a child, she'd be sacrificed to the infernal powers. She was to be slowly flayed alive, and disembowelled, before her corpse was hung up in a weirwood grove. Her skin would be displayed in the Great Hall at Winterfell. Ramsay liked skinning young women. She'd finally fled North, with Reek, and her ally, Lady Brienne, and reached had Castle Black, ahead of her husband's pursuers. They were still confined to the ice cells. Half had gone mad, such were the conditions. Execution would have been kinder, but kindness had been scoured from her soul.

Jon stirred, and woke. "We've got the meeting in an hour. Best clean ourselves up. “ Then he frowned, before saying “Did I do right by Ygritte.?” Oh Gods, not again! Guilt gnawed at Jon, endlessly.

”Jon, you know she couldn’t stay here, not with your child. War is coming, whether your brothers want it or not. She’ll be far safer, away from all this. You gave her a decent sum. You can always send her more. Most lords would just throw a woman like that out of the castle gate.” And, she certainly wanted no rival for his affections. The Red Witch was plainly interested in Jon, as was the blonde sorceress Val, with her generous bosom and tight arse. She wondered what he’d seen in Ygritte. She wasn’t ugly by any means, but no great beauty, either.

She rose, put on her gown, and returned to her chamber. A bath of lukewarm water, drawn by a steward awaited her. She washed, then rose and brewed herself a draft of moon tea. One day, she'd bear Jon's children, but not before Winterfell had been regained. Then she dressed, wearing the black uniform of the Nights Watch, cut to a woman's shape. It seemed appropriate for what would take place today. She ate a few biscuits, downed a glass of wine, then walked towards the Shieldhall. It was time to put on the cold face.

She joined King Stannis, Lady Melisandre, and Jon, on a dais, facing the gathering. A mix of Stannis' men, black brothers, and free folk. She spotted Tormund, Val, and Sigorn among them. They had been briefed on what would happen today. Seated in the front row were Jon's opponents, Ser Alliser Thorne, Janos Slynt, Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck, among a group of their supporters. Perhaps a hundred were gathered, eventually.

"The army is ready to march", Jon began without preamble. "Fifteen hundred Southrons, led by King Stannis, and three thousand of the free folk. The Mountain Clans too, have risen against House Bolton, and will converge on Winterfell. I shall accompany the march with a staff, although, I shall not require any else of the Watch to join me. Her Grace, Queen Selyse, and the Princess Shrieen will remain here, with two hundred of their men. " There was a buzz of excitement in the hall.

Ser Alliser rose to his feet, face dark with anger. "So, now, the cat is finally let out of the bag. We know that you've been intriguing with Stannis Baratheon to wage war on the Boltons. Not just a traitor's bastard, but a traitor yourself."

Stannis rose in turn. "It is no treason for a man to fight for his lawful king."

"You know as well as I do, *Lord* Stannis, that the Nights Watch takes no part in the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms. This traitor violates his oaths".

"Allow me to remind you of that oath, Ser Alliser", replied Jon. "

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

"King Stannis is pledged to guard the realms of men. He is my lawful king, and yours."

Time to speak up. "Perhaps this letter will change your mind, Ser Alliser" she said. "It came by raven from Winterfell, three days ago. From Ramsay Bolton himself, styling himself Lord of Winterfell":

"I have your brother Rickon, Bastard. I will have my bride back. If you want your brother back, come and get him. I have him in a cage for all the North to see, proof of your lies. The cage is cold, but I have made him a warm cloak from the skins of the whore and the wolf who were his companions. I want my bride back. I want the false King. I want his wife, his daughter and his red witch. I want the whore Brienne. And I want my Reek. Send them to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your black crows. Keep them from me, and I will cut out your bastard's heart and make you eat it. Ramsay Bolton, Trueborn Lord of Winterfell."

"How do we know your brother didn't write this himself"? asked Ser Alliser. Janos Slynt now spoke in turn, "It makes no difference to the duty of the Watch in any case. Rather, it explains your partiality."

"Is that your last word on the subject?", asked Jon. Slynt nodded grimly. Jon clapped his hands, loudly together. A score of Nights Watchmen entered the hall, swords drawn, led by Jon's friends, Ed Tollet, Pyp, and Grenn. They'd returned to Castle Black, yesterday afternoon, but remained out of sight. They fell on Jon's enemies, ten in all, swiftly disarming them, as others, led by Ser Clayton Suggs, bound their hands behind their backs. "Take them into the Courtyard" commanded Jon. Snow was falling in earnest, as they went outside. "Ed, fetch me a block", commanded her brother. She had never seen Jon execute a man before. The notion intrigued her.

Ed brought a wooden block, and Pyp kicked Slynt's feet from under him, then pushed him forward with his foot.

"My lord", said Jon, "this will go more easily if you do not flinch. If you have any last words, now is the time ...." He raised Longclaw in both hands.

"Spare me, lord, I spoke out of turn", cried Slynt, whimpering with fear. Down swept the blade, and the man's head rolled across the stone flags. Then came Ser Alliser, Marsh, Yarwyck in turn, cursing Jon with their last breath. The other six were beheaded by Ser Clayton, and another Southron knight, Ser Patrek of the Mountain. They were less expert than Jon, and their victims died hard. The whole place stank of blood. She had not flinched from the sight, a true daughter of the North. She noticed King Stannis, nodding with grim approval. She need to eat, and turned back to the dining block. The food at Castle Black was plain, but nourishing, at least. She'd learned to do without creature comforts.

She realised, she had a hunger of a different kind, when she joined Jon in his chambers, later. He seemed depressed, but she felt nothing but excitement.

"You showed yourself a leader of men, Jon. It takes a real man, to do what you just did. And," she smiled wickedly "I've a mind to kneel before the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch." She sensed his arousal, as she knelt, unbuttoning his breeches, before bending to her task.

Chapter Text

"Warriors in the cause of light, Lord Snow." He had ridden with Sansa, and her sworn shield, Brienne, to the top of a small hill which overlooked the Kingsroad. Melisandre had ridden up to join them. Below them marched and rode the army.

"We've made good time, my lady." For the twentieth time, it was on the tip of his tongue to ask her the question that gnawed at him. But, he feared to know the answer. It was true that fortune had favoured the army. They had travelled nearly half way to Winterfell in just three weeks. The weather had been cold, but clear, with few snowfalls. Game and fish had been abundant along the way, and with plenty of coin provided by the Iron Bank, the smallfolk were willing enough to sell them produce. Most armies just took what they needed, and fought a constant running battle with the peasants on the route of march. Some of the free folk had, inevitably, pillaged along the way, but he'd left it to their leaders, Tormund, Val, and Sigorn to punish them. Yes, the march had gone smoothly. Good planning, on his part, and Stannis’, was mostly responsible. That, and something else that worried him.

"Before long, you shall rule your ancestral home, Lady Sansa", said the Red woman to Sansa, who had never looked more beautiful than she did today, hair like beaten copper streaming in the wind, and a lovely pink flush to her face.

"So I must hope and pray, Lady Melisandre."

"Will you return to the Wall, Lord Snow, or rule beside your sister. You are so closely bonded, after all."

Gods, did she know? How had he got to the point where the woman he hungered after was his own sister? She'd needed comfort, she insisted, after the horrors inflicted by the Beast of Bolton. She'd begged him to hold her, as she slept. And then to kiss her. The kisses had been innocent enough between them, to begin with. Right up to the point they'd ceased being innocent. "The only way I could cope with feeling him inside me was to pretend it was you", she'd said finally, the night they became lovers. He'd been horrified - and excited beyond measure. She'd taken his hand, and then slid it between her thighs, wet with her need. She'd rapidly come undone, then later that night, she'd taken him in turn in her mouth. They'd promised each other, at the time, at they would at least refrain from full sex, a vow which they'd kept for about a week. What had surprised him had been her skill in the bedchamber. No doubt the Beast and his paramour had "trained" her. By all the dead, if incest with a beautiful woman is such a crime against the Gods, then why do they make it feel so good?

Stannis would likely wish to burn the pair of them alive, if he knew, so at least his priestess had kept the knowledge to herself, if she was aware of it.

"I took my vows. Still, the Lady of Winterfell commands the Lord of the Nights Watch. For some time, my place will be at Winterfell. I can govern the Wall through deputies, if needs be." That was the truth, but it was also a lie.

"The lords of the North will insist that you take a consort, Lady Sansa", continued the Red Witch. "Have you one in mind?" She had, as it happened; her own brother. Sansa had suggested they wed in secret before the Heart Tree in the Godswood. He was sorely tempted, yet what would Ned and Robb think, if they could witness such a blasphemy? Lady Catelyn's views were easy enough to envisage

Sansa gave nothing away. His sister had become adept at masking her feelings. "I shall cross that bridge when we come to it. It would surely be presumptuous to anticipate the favour of the Gods. First, we must win."

"There is only one God, and you enjoy His favour." She sounded entirely sincere, but then, she always did.

There was shouting, from down below, and they walked their horses forward to see what had caused it. A small column of men approached , from the South West, behind banners which depicted a black bear on a green wood. House Mormont, who had promised them aid.

"Come", commanded Jon, and they rode down the hill to join them. The new comers were led by a large woman in a huge fur cloak, which made her look bigger still. "Well met, Lady Maege" said Jon, dismounting. Stannis rode up to join them, with several of his household knights. Lady Maege knelt in turn to both Stannis and Sansa, pledging fealty to both.

"And in turn, we shall give you justice for your daughter, murdered with treachery." said Stannis. Dacey had been slain at the Twins, along with Robb. The Freys may have broken guest right, but the Boltons had broken their oaths to their king.

"We are agreed Lady Maege, that if Lord Bolton should survive the battle, he shall be handed to you, to be punished as you see fit."

"And his beast of a son?"

"I have my own plans in mind for him, I'm afraid." One night in bed, Sansa had told him exactly what she intended for the Beast. It had seemed to excite her, judging by her later behaviour.

"Come Lady Maege. The day's march is nearly done. Enjoy our hospitality", said the King, and they left him to ponder. The Mormonts numbered perhaps two score cavalry and a couple of hundred foot. Their arrival without incident was another good omen. Yet again, Jon wondered at the price for such support. Gilly's boy, the two year old nicknamed Monster, the spitting image of Mance Rayder’s son.. He had left her with Val, with strict instructions to keep him safe, and to give him to reliable people to look after, before they left the Wall. She'd sworn she would do so. Which is why Ed Tollet's tale, a few nights ago, had so disturbed him. He said one of the sentries had seen Val, Melisandre, Stannis, and a handful of knights ride North of the Wall, on the morning of their departure, to the weirwood grove where he had taken his vows to the Nights Watch. The sentry could not be certain, but he'd thought that Val carried a boy before her, on the saddle of her horse, with a blade like a sickle, strapped to her waist. When the party returned, there had been no sign of the child.

Chapter Text

"Two dragons, thirty moons, one hundred stags. Jon was generous to you, Ygritte", said Sam, after he had finished counting out the money. "That would support a peasant family for a year." Gilly glanced up at Ygritte. The look on her face would have curdled milk.

"And how much did he give you to travel, *Lord* Samwell?" she replied.

"I don't think that's at all relevant." They were having a meal in a tavern, a solid stone building, on the waterfront. It would be three days before the ship continued its voyage. She'd decided, with Ygritte, that she wouldn't be going any further. Sam was torn. He didn't want to defy Jon Snow. On the other hand, she knew he desired her. A man in a navy coat, who they called a customs officer, had approached them as they docked, and he spoke Common. He'd recommended the Inn, and told them the Innkeep would take their coinage. "So long as it's gold or silver, it’s acceptable in any port," the man had said. He and his wife spoke their tongue, too. The Innkeep, a stout no-nonsense man, built like a bear, and with a cudgel at his hip, had taken two of the silver coins called moons, in return for three days' board and lodging. She'd been given a bed to share with Ygritte, in a room with two of the serving maids, and the boy had a cot. Sam had a straw mattress, with a quilt, in the attic. Sam said it was expensive, but the food, a fish stew, with bread and cheese, and the ale, were both very good. The boy, who ate solids now, and sat on her lap, was tucking in, after she had chopped the food up for him.

"Most lords wouldn't do half so much for you as Jon, Ygritte. And, he'll keep your baby safe, Gilly, I can promise you that."

"My babe wasn't his to take, Sam" replied Gilly. Ygritte nodded vigorously. "What if that Red Witch wants to burn him? Or Val? All us Free Folk, we know the Gods she serves. Crom Cruach, Lugh, The Morrigan. Those are dark Gods, Sam."

"They need the blood of men and women ... and children", explained Ygritte, shuddering. "Mostly, they take criminals. But not always."

"And, Jon would refuse any such demand. Come on, do you really see him handing over a child? And, it's not like the boy has king's blood, either."

"I told you Sam", said Ygritte. "Val's Gods, they doesn't need royal blood."

"What's Dark Gods?" said the boy suddenly.

"Something you doesn't need to know, right now", replied Ygritte. "Let's drop this."

They said little more, while they ate. The Innkeep’s wife, who resembled her husband, poured them more ale, and a mug for herself. Gilly suspected the pair were quite kind-hearted in reality. She sat down with them.

”You’re from the Seven Kingdoms, aren’t you? I was born and brought up on Cracklaw Point.”

"The North", replied Sam. "We're Free Folk", said Gilly, nodding to Ygritte.

"I've seen a few of your folk around here. Mostly taken as slaves, and freed by the Queen's ships. "

"North of the Wall, we gut slavers", said Ygritte, and the other woman nodded approvingly.

"There was some slaves here, until the Queen came. Never official, like, but everyone knew what they were. The worst trader was this great, bloated, pig, called Magister Illyrio. If you go out the Braavosi Gate, you'll see what's left of his head, nailed above it. So why're you here?"

"War's coming to the North", replied Sam. "King Stannis, and Lady Sansa Stark, they're leading an army to overthrow Lord Bolton and his son, who murdered her brother. Lord Snow, the Commander at the Wall, sent us away."

"There's war everywhere now. I hear things is terrible in the South. The Queen's men tell a horrid tale. There was a little boy who was King, called Tommen. They burned him and the girl he was married to, alive, and forced his mother and sister to watch." Gilly exclaimed with horror.

"The sister's here, now, the Lady Myrcella. She's one of the Queen's favourites, with her cousin, Lady Joy. I seen them a couple of times, a right pair of golden beauties."

"Myrcella Baratheon? She's an abomination, her parents were brother and sister!" cried Sam. Gilly gave him a swift kick under the table. "I'm sorry", he said blushing.

"I wouldn't be saying such things round here, if I was you", advised the alewife. "The Queen's own parents was brother and sister."

"But, Myrcella's Mother was an awful woman", continued Sam. "Queen Cersei".

"They say she lives in the East, now. Sooner or later, Queen Daenerys will be sailing West to claim her father's throne. She'll set everything to rights."

Gilly spoke up. "Up at the Wall, they say horrible things about her. That she crucified a thousand lords and laughed and feasted while they died in agony. That she murders infants, and bathes in their blood. But, old Maester Aemon, he said they were telling lies about her. Who should I believe?"

"I hope she did crucify the lords", remarked Ygritte. "I'd have done worse." Sam squawked with indignation.

"Well, I don't know about that. People do like to tell lies, but I don't suppose she's conquered all these cities by being all sweetness and light. All I can say, she's been like a breath of fresh air in this city. No one goes hungry round here any more, and there's work for anyone what wants it - in the arsenal, the navy, the army, and times are good for innkeeps and whores, even people selling hot food on street corners, with all those soldiers and sailors around the place. Old Magister Illyrio and those other bastards who ruled the city, they had plenty of gold and jewels and lands, and she took the lot when she cut their heads off. And, she's put it all to good use. An’ killing babies? That *is* a load of crap. Well, I've got to go now. If you want to go out, one of the maids will look after the boy."

They decided to have a look around the city, Gilly staying very close to Ygritte. The size and the crowds frightened her. She just couldn't imagine how so many could live in a place without game or crops. Sam had tried to explain how it worked, but it still didn't make sense. They entered a square, filled with stalls. She understood it to be a market. They'd had markets at Molestown, but nothing on such a scale. She lost count of the number of stalls, selling everything, spices, perfumes, cloth, food, drink, animals, even. The place stank, of any number of costly scents, as well as dung.

"Fuck you!" she heard Ygritte scream. She spun round, to see she'd put her dagger through a man's hand, who held it with the other, howling. "Bastard tried to steal my purse." She sent the man scurrying away with a quick kick to his backside. Passers-by stood around laughing. A man in a mail shirt and a helmet with a crest of feathers said something unintelligible, and Sam replied.

" He said "neat work", in Valyrian" said Sam. "I thanked him." The man spoke again. "He says they're looking for army recruits. He says he's met free folk, and you have the look of a spear-wife Ygritte. He says if you're interested, he'll take you to his Tribune."

"Well, it's what Gilly and I came for here for, sort of" replied Ygritte. They followed him down several wide streets. The Innkeep's wife had been right about the number of soldiers. Everywhere were men (and even the occasional woman) wearing a uniform or chain mail. They had to press into the side of the road, as down it trotted a group of horsemen, dark-skinned and bearded, with cloth wrapped around their heads, and the points of their lances honed like razors. Eventually, they came to another big square, where a man sat under a wide awning, surrounded by soldiers, with a queue of men in front of him. They joined the queue, waiting perhaps half an hour for their turn. Ygritte went first. The man could speak their language.

"My man says you're a wildling spear-wife."

"Begging your pardon, we call ourselves Free Folk. Wildlings is an insult, among the kneelers. The Southron folk." The man frowned, then nodded.

"I apologise for the slur. So many different peoples in the army, it's hard to keep track. It was quite unintentional. So what can you do...?"

"Ygritte. I can track, and hunt, and raid. I can use a bow, a dagger, and a spear. I've killed a dozen men, what I know of." The man nodded.

"Ever stood in a shield wall?"

"No, that's for heavy guys, those that have mail shirts.”

"Show me what you're like with a dagger." He pointed at a target, about fifteen feet away. Ygritte whipped her knife out, then threw, not quite hitting the bull in the middle, but almost. For good measure, the dagger nearly took off the ear of one of the soldiers, who'd been slow to get out of the way. He glared, as his fellows laughed. "Well thrown", said the Tribune. "You'd be no good as heavy infantry, but we can always make use of lights. Like you, they're scouts and raiders. Do you ride a horse?"

"I can", replied Ygritte.

"But, you don't own one?" She shook her head. "Pity, if you did, you'd get better pay. Light infantry then, perhaps light cavalry, if you're interested." Ygritte thanked him.

"You don't look like spear wife material, I have to say."

"My name's Gilly, I'm not a fighter. I can cook, clean, wash clothes, and sew. I thought you might want a servant in the army."

"We do. Problem is, most servants don't get paid. The soldiers' women do all these things. You'd get food and lodging, but that's it, I'm afraid." Gilly's heart sank. But then, "Can you fletch arrows"?, asked the man.

"I can, yes."

"Show me." He called for one of his men to bring an arrow shaft, glue, silk thread, and feathers. It was a task she had to perform for her vile father, and she'd kept at it at the Wall. Deftly, she worked on the feathers, binding and gluing them into the shaft. The Tribune examined it closely. "That will do. We can place you with one of the Master Fletchers. You won't get paid much, but it is an income."

"I'm very grateful."

"I'm Samwell Tarly. Lord Randyll Tarly's my father."

"Don't shit me, son."

"You've heard of him?

"The victor of Ashford? I make a point of finding out what I can about the world's leading commanders. I might end up fighting them one day. And forgive me, but you certainly don't look like the son of Randyll Tarly?"

"But, I joined the Nights Watch."

"So, you're a criminal?"

"No, I volunteered." The man looked sceptical.

"Tell the truth, Sam" said Gilly. "Won't do no good to lie."

"My father hates me. He threatened to kill me if I didn't leave home, and join."

"Your father's a cunt, by all accounts, and that figures. So, can you fight?"

"Badly".

"I see. So, what exactly can you do, that is of use to me?"

"I can read and write. I can do sums."

"Can you keep a set of accounts?"

"Yes, sir."

"You don't call me, sir, unless and until you've joined up. But, if you can keep a set of books, the Quartermaster will have a use for you. You'll be expected to train with weapons, still. One thing. Are you a deserter from the Nights Watch?" Sam nodded. "Okay. It's fair I tell all of you now. If you join, you'll be given a bounty. It's called, "taking the Queen's silver." Once you do that, you're under military discipline, until you're discharged, honourably or dishonourably. If you desert, you'll be publicly flogged. If you desert in the face of the enemy, you'll be hanged. You understand?" They nodded. "Okay, go off and have a drink, and decide if army life is for you. If you decide it is, come back and sign your papers."

Ygritte spoke up. "Gilly has a boy, two years old. And, I'm with child."

"When's it due?"

"Probably five months."

"We've got wet nurses. Not to mention, plenty of army brats. But, don't expect any special treatment, you understand?" Ygritte nodded again.

After another drink, they decided. They'd join up.

Chapter Text

For the first time in his life, Sam found himself doing something he was good at. Working in the army comisariat, over the past fortnight, all his book learning turned out to be immensely useful. Checking accounts, manifests, stock-taking, all these were things he understood. Back at the Wall, this had been the task of the Old Pomegranate, Bowen Marsh, but he just liked to hoard supplies, only putting them to use, grudgingly. Here, they were oiling a military campaign like no other.

“Yours is the most important job in the army. An army marches on its stomach”, said the Quartermaster-General, an Easterner called Red Lamb, as he addressed him and the other workers, a couple of days ago. “Logistics aren’t everything, but they are almost everything. Three times out of four, an army that is fed, clothed, sheltered, equipped will beat an army that neglects these things, however good their soldiers and commanders might be.”

And, wasn’t the truth? The quantities of food and drink that were first stockpiled, then loaded onto transport ships, were simply staggering. Butts of ale, and hogsheads of wine; tons of salted meat, corn, dried legumes, and preserved fruits; chickens by the thousand, who would lay, before finding their way into the pot; jars of honey, pickles, sugar, and costly spices. All to be checked, inspected, approved - or condemned as inadequate. As someone who could tell good food from bad, he’d been ordered to examine the latest consignment of salt pork, Most was good enough but one merchant had attempted an obvious fraud, placing a layer of good meat at the top of several barrels that were mostly rotten. When Sam had pointed this out to the Purser, the merchant had been seized and flogged. The Purser had thanked him, but warned that the merchant would now be his enemy. "He won't try anything openly, but make sure you watch your back."

Munitions, draft animals, cavalry horses, they were the responsibility of others, working for the Quartermaster. 18,000 soldiers were gathered at Pentos, along with 250 transport ships, and 40 warships, he was told. Another army and fleet were in the process of subduing the Stepstones. Further armies were waiting to embark from Tyrosh in the South, and Mantova, a port that lay mid-way between Pentos and Braavos. Perhaps 65,000 soldiers all told, with a similar number of sailors, and vast numbers of camp followers on top.

"Good work" remarked his supervisor, a senior Sergeant, as he checked through the ledgers Sam had been working on. "You can go now." There was a field exercise taking place, outside the walls of the city, so they were given the afternoon off to watch it. As he walked away from the warehouse where he worked, he thought once again about Gilly, and about his own folly. He'd imagined she'd be eager to warm his bed, flattered by the attention of a lord's son, and his helping her to escape Craster's Keep. She'd disabused him of that notion, a few days after they reached safety at Castle Black.

"Just 'cause you gave me that fucking thimble, it doesn't mean you own me. You know what I did Sam? I chucked it in the midden, the moment you left. And you know why? My fucking father would have beaten the crap out of me if he'd found, or worse. He'd think it a whore's payment! One of my sisters, she did fuck a crow! You know what that cunt did? He gave her to the White Walkers."

"I didn't think ..." he'd begun, only to be cut off,

"No, you didn't think. I'm grateful for your help, Sam, I am really. And, I think you're alright, much better than most crows. But, it doesn't mean I want to fuck you."

Nor had she relented subsequently. It was hard, though. The sight of Gilly giving suck to a babe had inflamed his passions. His right hand gave him some relief, but oh, how he wished she would change her mind! He'd once gone to the Molestown brothel, but one look at the whores on offer had extinguished his ardour. The whores in Pentos were a good deal more alluring, although he hadn't yet plucked up the courage to approach any of them. He, Gilly, and Ygritte, had been billeted on a peasant family, who lived outside the walls. It was hardly luxury, but in all honesty, it was better than the Wall. At least he wasn't freezing his bollocks off in this place.

Thousands of spectators had gathered to watch the army. It would be the last field exercise before they embarked. He gasped at the sight of the three dragons circling down, towards a reviewing stand that was crowded with dignitaries. Fire made flesh! That's what they always said. He'd seen them in the books, of course, but that hardly prepared for the reality of actually witnessing fire serpents, beasts of wind and fire. A tiny silver figure descended from the black one, as the crowd roared their approval, before climbing the steps up to the stand.

The dragons were amazing. But, only the first of the wonders that he was to witness. This army was like nothing that existed in the Seven Kingdoms. First, hundreds of Dothraki horse raced at full gallop down the field, the riders loosing two flights of arrows, the shafts hammering into rows of dummies that had been set up for them, before hacking them apart with their blades. Next, it was the turn of a group of the bearded horsemen who wore cloth round their heads. They wore steel breast and back plates, over their uniforms. He was puzzled to see servants sticking rows of white pegs into the ground, wondering what this meant. Then a group of the horsemen appeared, perhaps fifty in all, lances couched, trotting line abreast towards the pegs, then hitting a canter. There was a glitter like stars, as the lance points dipped towards the pegs, and a great roar went up as the vast majority struck home, the lancers holding the pegs aloft with triumph.

After that was the turn of the infantry. Dozens of archery butts were set up, and then the bowmen stepped forward to their marks, loosing perhaps eighteen volleys in the course of just two minute (he couldn't keep count). By the end of it, the targets were thick with arrows that had struck home. Finally, thousands of the heavy infantry, the Imperial Guards, marched onto the field, wheeling and turning like clockwork, spears snapping into position or upright, upon command. They divided in two, and marched to opposite ends of the field, before turning, and marching in great columns, towards each other. Just at the point where Sam was quite convinced they would collide in chaos, one of the columns divided neatly down the middle, each end flowing smoothly down the flanks of its opposite number, before wheeling and turning and joining up in one great division, as the crowds applauded.

But, then he was treated to another wonder, perhaps more remarkable. in its way, than the dragons. Ten targets were set up, in the middle of the field. A group of men came forward in drab overalls, perhaps three hundred yards from the targets, assembling tripods. On to the tripods, the fixed long metal tubes, with tapers at their base. These they lit, stepping back, as each tube roared, emitted flame, and shot from its frame, towards their targets. Three simply vanished into the air, and four more ploughed into the ground, well short. Another turned round in mid air, before exploding. But, two struck home, in balls of orange flame. By the Stranger, but two would be enough. Any military unit would just run, the moment they saw one of these things come towards them.

May the Gods help anyone in the Seven Kingdoms who has to face this army He had been impressed by the army that Jon and Stannis had assembled at Castle Black, but compared to what he had just witnessed, it seemed a pitiful thing.

As he walked away, a messenger approached him. "Samwell Tarly?" enquired the man. "I am. "

"You are summoned to meet the Queen's Grace." His jaw dropped with astonishment. Then the man explained.

"Your companions are summoned also. Her Grace insists upon interviewing anyone who has come from the Seven Kingdoms, to join her forces."

Chapter Text

Sansa watched impassively, as the horsemen rode towards them, bearing white flags. It was surely too much to hope that the enemy were about to surrender, and she doubted whether any terms they offered might prove acceptable. The sigils of the Boltons, Karstarks, Freys, Ryswells were carried by the riders, and this was a surprise, the Three-Headed Dragon of the Targaryens. A light carpet of snow covered the fields in front of Winterfell, where the soldiers of the enemy lay ready to receive them, although the day was clear and sunny. They had made good speed, gaining allies along the way. Three thousands of the Mountain Clans had joined them, and various lesser houses, although Lord Glover had refused. If the Gods granted victory over the enemy, as both the Lady Melisandre and Val had assured her, then the treacherous lord of Deepwood Motte must be put to death. They numbered eight thousand. Yet, the enemy had not proved idle, gathering soldiers and supplies. Perhaps a thousand more men stood facing them, so far as they could judge.

The enemy reached them. She felt her gorge rise, as she saw the Beast ride up, grinning with delight as he clapped eyes upon her. "My beloved wife, come to return to her loving husband. I knew you would see sense. "

"Where is your father, Lord Snow?" enquired Stannis. She saw the creature's face twist with anger, at the reminder of his bastardy, before he mastered himself. "He died, as old men will, at times", he muttered.

"What is the purpose of this meeting?" asked Jon. "We have no intention of agreeing your terms." The Beast began to speak, only to be cut off by another.

"Well met, Lord Stannis, Lord Commander, Lady Sansa", remarked the man. A strikingly comely man, with the silver hair and purple eyes of the Valyrians. "I am Ser Aurane Waters, the natural son of Lord Velaryon. I speak on behalf of the King's Grace, Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name, to whom, Lord Bolton has pledged his fealty", he added, giving a hard stare to the monster. "On behalf of my liege, I am empowered to offer terms." Well, that explained the Targaryen banner.

”Name them, Ser”, said Stannis.

”You, Lady Sansa, and Lord Commander Snow, will accompany me, to White Harbour, and then to the capital, where you shall pledge fealty to the King’s Grace, in return for his pardon. You, Lord Stannis, will be invested with Storms End, and Dragonstone, and shall serve as Master of War. You, Lord Commander, shall return to the Wall, and there, muster an army, for the defence of the Realm. Lady Sansa, you shall return to your husband, Lord Bolton, who shall rule the North as Regent, until Lord Rickon shall come of age.”

”You ask me to return to a man who tortured me for his own pleasure? Who makes cloaks of women’s’ skins. To serve a king who burned a boy and girl alive, while forcing his mother and sister to watch? The Gods know I hate Cersei Lannister, but that was a vile act.”

”Lady Sansa, Tommen Falseborn was a usurper, and an abomination. His false Queen Margaery was a byword for every kind of lewdness and depravity. They …”

”He was a poor boy, and she was my friend!”

”Peace, Lady Sansa,” said Stannis. “These terms are very different to those communicated to us by this Beast.”

”Lord Bolton was angered. But he is pledged to serve the true king, as are his allies of Frey. My liege is generous. A grave threat endangers the Realm, the Eastern Whore.”

Now that was true. In a world of monsters, Daenerys Targaryen was unquestionably the worst. But, she would not forego her vengeance on the Beast, nor House Frey, nor on the murderer of dearest Margaery. The sweet kisses they had shared together, had been the only thing that had kept her sane in the Red Keep.

"You all know this to be correct", continued Ser Aurane. "Ul Dosht", her soldiers call her. In the Ghiscari tongue, that means "The Merciless." She has laid waste half the East, in her wars and persecutions. She crucified the noblity of Meereen, and trampled those of Volantis with elephants. All the scum of the East she brings with her, eunuchs, Dothraki, sellswords, blackamoors from the Summer Isles and Sothoryos, the refuse of the world. She tortures women and children for her own pleasure..."

"As does your King", remarked Jon.

"Put aside your grievances, and unite in the face of this evil. As the saying goes, we can hang together, or we shall assuredly, hang separately." Sansa had to admit, that at least as far as Jon and Stannis were concerned, the terms were generous. She would kill herself, however, rather than return to this monster. She held her breath, as Stannis spoke;

"These are my terms, Ser. You, the lords who serve you, other than this Lord Snow, and the members of House Frey, and your soldiers shall pledge fealty to me, as their king, in return for my royal pardon. Lord Rickon shall be released from captivity, and Lady Sansa shall serve as Regent of the North, until he shall come of age. Lord Snow, Ser Symond Frey, Ser Aenys, Ser Hosteen, shall surrender to my judgement for the crimes that they have committed. I do not blame the soldiers who serve them, the Smallfolk have little choice in these matters, but criminals shall not go unpunished at my hands."

"My liege could not possibly accept such terms. Please, Lord Stannis, see reason. Your record as a military commander is the very reason why you are so suited to fight Daenerys Targaryen. And yours," he added, nodding to Jon.

"Begone, Ser. You have three hours to accept my terms. Take them, or prepare to fight."

"You leave us no option, but to fight. Thousands of good men will perish due to your stubbornness. I shall not show you any mercy in the future."

"Nor I you, Ser. Leave us now."

Ser Aurane turned his horse and the others prepared to depart. Only the Beast lingered for a moment, before remarking "We shall release your brother, before the fight, as a gesture of our goodwill." Then he turned, and rode away with the rest. What had he meant by that? Nothing good, Sansa was sure.

Chapter Text

"Are you saying that I stink?", complained Ygritte, to the man named Modestus. He called himself a chamberlain, whatever that meant. They had been brought to the Manse that the Queen was living in.

"Of course not, but etiquette - good manners - require visitors to the Court to be bathed, and appropriately clad, before presentation to the Queen's Grace. We have silk robes which have been prepared for you." The Manse was beautiful, she had to admit, with the floors made of multi-coloured stone and glass, depicting flowers, birds, and animals. Coloured papers, called paintings, hung on the walls, and they were impressive, too. She'd never been in a place like this. They’d only met servants so far, yet they were dressed better than anybody had been at Castle Black.

"Please, Ygritte", said Sam, "This does no harm."

"He's right, for once". said Gilly. She nodded and they were led to a bathhouse, where she and Gilly were then separated from Sam. And, there was something delightful about relaxing in steam, and having her neck and shoulders massaged by a maidservant. She had made use of the baths at the Wall, but they were purely functional, whereas these were dazzling, walls decorated with the same coloured glass and stone. A great dome of translucent blue glass covered the bathing pool. She and Gilly plunged in stark naked. She couldn't help but notice what an attractive woman Craster's daughter was. The thought of what that cunt had done to her, made her gorge rise. Well, both cunts really; Craster and Jon Snow. Eventually, they were led to an adjacent chamber, where they dried off, before being clad in silk, and soft slippers. It felt good, compared to her usual old furs, or the rough army uniform. They waited for Sam to join them, before four attendants, holding wands, led them to the audience chamber with the Queen.

Another joined them. "When you enter the presence of the Queen's Grace, you advance ten paces, then kneel on your right knee. Then you rise, advance another ten paces, and kneel again."

"Fuck that! I don't kneel to no one!" Sam went bright red, his look of horror matching that of the servant. Thankfully, the chamberlain rejoined them, before the man could react in outrage.

"Peace, Andrastos", said the chamberlain, smoothly. "I know somewhat of these wild - ah, Free Folk. Among them, it is considered a grave insult to make someone kneel, as if you deem that person a slave. Men and women of many races serve her Grace, and allowance must be made for different customs. How would you show respect, among your own people?" he asked her. Ygritte thought then replied "I could bow my head. Would that do?" In her eyes, respect was something you earned, rather than being given automatically, but she in turn must allow for different customs.

"That will suffice. Follow me. Remember to address the Queen always, as "Your Grace." He led them to a pair of polished wooden doors, on which he knocked. The doors swung open, and they entered the Great Hall, where Daenerys Targaryen held Court. "Your Graces, I present Master Samwell Tarly, eldest son of Lord Randyll Tarly, of Horn Hill, and the Free Folk, Ygritte and Gilly, all newly entered your Grace's Service." They stepped forward and bowed their heads, and then Ygritte looked up at the Queen. Gods, she took your breath away! She was a tiny women, with hair that mixed silver and gold, and a face that could only be described as perfect. She wore a gown of purple, with a headdress that flashed with costly jewels. She was seated on an ebony throne, next to a much older man, a Dothraki who could only be her husband. A flock of courtiers stood on either side of them.

"I bid you welcome" began the Queen, "and I thank you for entering our service. I wish to learn how matters stand in the Seven Kingdoms. You are, I believe, from the North."

"We are, your Grace", said Sam. "Stannis Baratheon has claimed to be the King. He plans to conquer the North, with the aid of Jon Snow, and Lady Sansa Stark."

"The Pretender, we know of. Tell me of the other two."

"Lord Jon Snow is the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, the Bastard son of Eddard Stark. Lady Sansa is his daughter."

"Eddard Stark, one of the men who betrayed my father. Are his children my enemies, also?" Sam went bright red, then attempted a reply, but Ygritte interrupted.

"They hate your Grace. They call you a monster, a whore, they say you crucify your enemies, and drink the blood of children." There was a murmur among the courtiers. "Do you want me to be honest?"

"I insist upon it."

"Stannis aint so bad. We tried to seize the Wall. We were led by Mance Rayder, and Stannis took us by surprise. But, he was decent to his prisoners. I thought I'd be raped, and get my throat cut, but I was spared."

"Others have told me, that Stannis possesses some honour", replied the Queen. "What of Lord Snow?"

"I was his whore." There was a loud murmur. "He came among us, pretending to be a deserter. I... I loved him. Then, he betrayed me. Then, when I was Stannis' prisoner, he claimed me. Said he was rescuing me. He wanted me to warm his bed. Then, I found I had his child. So, he kicked me out. And, he wanted to fuck his sister!" There was more murmuring at that.

"Ygritte, that's not fair", protested Sam. "He sent you away, for your safety and the child's, and gave you a lot of money."

"It were a whore's payment, Sam. I hate that cunt!" Modestus broke in that point.

"Please, that language is not fitting."

"I disagree" remarked Daenery's husband. "We require honest speech here."

"There is a story behind all of this, I can see", said the Queen. "But, first, bring refreshment for our guests." As if on cue, servants appeared bearing wine in silver goblets, and sweetmeats.

"These taste like nothing on earth", said Ygritte, truthfully.

"Persimmon wine, it is delicious. I would like to talk to you more of this Jon Snow, and of Lady Stark", said the Queen, "but first tell me, what brought you to the Wall."

"White Walkers, your Grace. Demons of the Ice. We were fleeing them. They raise the dead. They are terrible!" she added, with feeling.

"Creatures of legend. But, I have met others of your people, who speak of them."

"It's true your Grace", said Gilly, suddenly. "My father, he worshipped them. He gave up his sons to them. " There were cries of disgust.

"We would scarce believe it", remarked the Dothraki. "Yet, my dear Queen entered a fire with three stones, and emerged with three dragons. The world changes."

"It seems we must contend with monsters of legend, as well as monsters of flesh and blood" said Daenerys. "I am well aware, what the world thinks of me. I have done things that ... I regret. But, the Iron Throne is itself occupied by a monster. A man who burned a boy, and a girl, and laughed at the sight, making the boy's mother and sister watch. The sister is present in this room", she turned her head towards a golden-haired beauty, of perhaps sixteen years, whose head was bowed. "I shall avenge the wrong that was done her, and restore her to her rightful seat. The mother is ... one of my dearest companions." Ygritte couldn't help noticing the smiles that were exchanged among some of the courtiers. She wondered what that meant.

"Well, the hour is growing late, and no doubt, you have duties to return to", continued the Queen. She nodded again to Modestus, who nodded in turn to one of his attendants. The man came over to them, bearing a small purse, out of which he counted six gold coins, giving them two each. "I wish to speak to you in future. Perhaps, in a more private setting. You may leave."

"Walk backwards. Never turn your back on royalty", muttered the Chamberlain. Another absurdity, yet Ygritte did as she was bidden. Sam obeyed smoothly, but he was a kneeler. He'd tongue Daenerys' cunt, and suck her husband's cock, if he was ordered to do so. Outside the chamber, the man continued. "The robes and slippers you wear, they are gifts likewise, from the Queen's Grace. Treat them with respect."

"We will, your .... sire?" replied Sam. There was something odd about the chamberlain, and his attendants. They had smooth, beardless, faces, plump, almost like women, something was ... missing? The chamberlain sighed.

"You sense something wrong, don't you? Yes, we are eunuchs. The Queen's Grace has outlawed the practice in all of her Realms, but we were emasculated, before she came to rule here. We are despised, but we are loyal, to her, and to each other. We are strong, and brave, as much as men who have never been cut. You have seen the Imperial Guards. Many of them are men who were likewise subjected to this crime. Rest assured, we shall not rest until those who would practise such enormities are dead and buried."

Chapter Text

Jon stood before the Heart Tree, in the Godswood, shivering slightly in the cold air. On his right, stood Sansa, looking lovely as always. Nothing that was about to occur was undeserved, he knew, but even so, it would be pretty hard to witness. At least for him. Sansa, he knew, was looking forward to it. Perhaps this would bring an end to the nightmares, which still plagued her. On his left, stood King Stannis and the Lady Melisandre. Ser Hosteen Frey, Lord Karstark, and others among the prisoners, had already been burned alive, in honour of the Red God. That too, had been hard to witness. The stench of burned flesh still lingered over the castle. Val had insisted that her own Gods must be given their due as well, for bringing victory in battle, two days ago, and Sansa and the leaders of the free folk had agreed. Pointedly, Sansa’s sworn shield, Brienne had refused to attend. The Faith, which she followed, condemned such ceremonies.

Someone started to beat a drum, slowly, doom-boom, doom-boom, doom-boom, signifying that the ceremony was about start. A pair of young women entered the wood, one carrying a small brazier, the other a sickle, and a pair of knives. Two poles had already been hammered into the ground, before the Weirwood. It must be century at least, since such a rite had been performed here. It was easy to imagine his father’s reaction to the sight, or Robb’s. Human sacrifice had been outlawed in the North, under the rule of Lord Edwyle, although he was quite sure it still took place, in out of the way places.

The crowd began to jeer as the prisoners were led before them. They limped, seemingly finding it difficult to walk. Both had been shaved bald, and their faces were badly bruised, with blood around their mouths. He realised that their tongues had been removed, the night before. No doubt, they'd been tortured, as well. Ramsay Bolton and his vile mistress, Myranda. The Beast had been stripped naked, the girl at least had been allowed to wear sackcloth, to preserve her modesty for a time. The guards bound them to the poles. Jon hardened his heart, remembering poor Rickon. The enemy had released him before the fight, as promised, sending him on the back of a pony. But first, they had cut off his head, replacing it with that of his direwolf, Summer.

A mistake, as it had turned out. Their army had fought with rage, and had routed the enemy.

”By the Dead!” exclaimed his sister. Val had appeared, clad only in an elaborate feathered headdress, a short, embroidered skirt, and a pair of knee length boots. Her pale hair was unbound, spread across her shoulders, her tits firm and luscious. How she stood this cold, Jon couldn’t imagine. Her eyes were fringed with kohl, her body painted with gold, orange and red. He felt his cock twitch, as she knelt on the ground, a few feet in front of him, to pray. The short skirt barely covered her gorgeous arse. Then she rose, approaching Myranda, who began to keen wildly. One of the young women handed her the sickle, the other lit the brazier. Many of the free folk began to chant.

Val cut away the sacking, exposing her victim’s left breast, then chopped down hard, repeatedly, as Myranda howled. She handed the sickle back to her attendant, before reaching forward, and then pulled out the woman’s heart. She held it aloft, as blood ran down her arm, the crowd cheering. What was horrid was Myranda was still alive, by some awful magic, shuddering and moaning, struggling in her bonds, even as her heart continued beating. Val dropped the organ into the brazier, emitting a thick red smoke, as it sizzled. Myranda slumped forward, thankfully now dead. The guards cut her loose, before stringing her up in the branches of the weirwood.

Val turned her attention to the Beast, who had managed to emit a constant high-pitched scream, despite the loss of his tongue. He’d shat himself, Jon noted, his legs now stained brown. He glared at them, face contorted, like a cornered animal, as he tried desperately to free himself. Sansa took Jon’s hand, whispering “now for the gelding.”

Val bent down before Ramsay, skirt riding up over her buttocks. Gods, she isn't wearing small clothes.  She's doing this for me! With a short knife, she cut off her victim’s manhood, his cries by now, scarcely human. She handed it to one of the acolytes, who placed it in the brazier with the heart, emitting the same red smoke.

”You want her in our bed, don’t you?” said Sansa softly. The thought of Sansa with Val! His sister had told him, the Beast had forced her to pleasure Myranda with her tongue, and fingers, while he watched. Fail to bring her to climax, and Sansa would be whipped. Or cut, if Ramsay was in the mood. The mental picture of Sansa and the dark priestess, set head to toe, mouths on each others’ cunts, eager for one another, was obscenely erotic. He shook his head, still.

Val rose, then went to work in earnest, removing eyes, ears, nose, and lips, all of which were burned. Then, she took a longer knife, carving lumps of flesh from his chest, thighs, and stomach. By now, he resembled a butcher’s carcass more than a man. He still lived, just about, making horrible, animal noises, at each cut. Blood poured down his body, and he ought surely have died by now, yet the seior was keeping him alive and conscious, through some dark art.  His suffering came to an end, finally, as she sliced open his stomach, pulling out long strings of blue gut, with which her acolytes decorated the lower branches. Like a tree at Yule, he thought, inappropriately.  The process had taken perhaps a bit more than half an hour. For her victim, it must have seemed like an eternity.

What was left of Ramsay was untied, then strung up next to Myranda’s corpse. And there they would stay, until nothing was left but some rattling bones. Val turned to them, now drenched in blood, and there was nothing alluring about her, any longer. Gods, what dark Powers had they been sacrificing to?

He glanced at Stannis and Melisandre. Both looked slightly sickened, but trying to hide it. Sansa, however, was smiling, as she turned to Jon and murmured. “I want us to wed, on this very spot.”

Chapter Text

"That spearwife had a foul mouth", remarked Daenerys, laughing, as she lay in bed with Jelme. They had finished making love, something which brought her a good deal more pleasure than her couplings with Drogo or Hizdahr ever had. "But, I'll need to meet her again. Gilly, too. I want to know more about that Jon Snow, and Lady Stark."

"Why leave any of the Starks alive? You said their father betrayed yours. They are your enemies, whether you wish it, or even whether they wish it."

"So were the Lannisters. Worse, in fact. My good-sister and her children were murdered on the orders of Lord Tywin. Yet, I forgave Cersei, Myrcella, and Joy."

"You forgave Cersei, because you hungered for her beautiful body. You allowed lust to cloud your judgement. Luckily for you, it turned out well. It might not have done." She would remember these words, much later.

”You’ve enjoyed that beautiful body, too.”

”Yes, but I would never trust her. One hint of betrayal, and I would have her throat slit. You would hesitate to do so, give her second chances.” It was true, she would. It was half a year since they'd last met. At Cersei's request, she'd taken her flying, on Drogon. The fallen queen had been thrilled, and was most eager to show her gratitude, once they were alone , afterwards. In bed together, the other woman had told her how, as a girl, she used to draw pictures of her and Rhaegar, together on a dragon. If she had to execute Cersei, something within her would die.

”I’ve learned disquieting things about my father. He took joy in tormenting others and burning them. " Ser Barristan Selmy had finally told her of the man's enormities, before he passed, last year. "I cannot say that the rebels were justified; nor can I say they had no cause, either. The Starks are not to blame for the deeds of their father. Let them bend the knee, and they shall be pardoned.”

”Mercy is your weakness. It will be the death of you, one day.” She wasn’t sure about that. Her enemies believed her to be a monster of cruelty, it was true. That had advantages. Battles were often half-won, even before they started, because of the fear she inspired. Nor, had she faced any major revolt, since the events in Volantis. But, she was widely hated, too, by those who had suffered at her hands, or their famiies. She knew the nicknames. Ul-Dosht, Maegor Reborn, The White Flame Who Dances on the Graves of her enemies.

"I suppose I still can't persuade you to cross the water with me" she asked for the hundredth time.

"You know the answer to that." Her husband would serve as Regent of the Bay of Dragons, in her absence, and inherit her Realms, in his own right, should she die. He was also the Khagan of all the Dothraki in Western Essos. Most still occupied wide lands in Volantis, but others had returned to the Dothraki Sea with their plunder. Many served in her armies, under her step-son, Orhan, now wed to Myrcella Lannister, and would form part of her campaign. Volantis itself was ruled by an elected council. Save for some naval bases, on the coast, she had renounced any claim to sovereignty in that territory, following the revolt. The Dothraki acted as the city state's army, in return for their estates and farms, and regular subsidies. Jelme would have his hands full as ruler in the East.

"So it is goodbye then. I hope not, forever. "

"You'll triumph, Daenerys. Have no fear of that. Nor will I object to your taking another consort, so long as he keeps out of *my* affairs. The Conqueror took two wives; you will take two husbands. Now, from all I've heard of the Western lands, most husbands will expect to rule. You must choose a man who has no power, other than yours, yet is also intelligent, strong, and loyal. Such a man is one in a hundred. From what you have said of your people, a younger son, perhaps a bastard, would be best, but not a high lord. You and he would clash."

She would remember that, too, in the future. It was good advice. But good advice may still turn out badly.

A couple of days later, she met the spearwife Ygritte, once again, in a less formal setting than previously, with her friend, called Gilly. They sat in the garden of what had been Illyrio's manse. Jelme and the Tattered Prince, now the city's ruler, had vied for the pleasure of taking off the man's head. She'd promised it to Tatters first, so she let him do the honours. They were sipping tea. Well, she sipped, they gulped it down, stuffing their mouths with cake at the same time. Lady Joy Hill refilled their cups, so well-versed in etiquette, she did not even give the slightest wince at her guests' table manners.

"You hate Jon Snow, don't you?"

"Like poison", replied Ygritte, and Gilly nodded vigorously.

"I understand he treated you dishonourably, Ygritte, but why you?' she asked Gilly.

"That fucker stole my boy. Put my hand in a flame, and said my boy would burn if I didn't give him up. " Joy exclaimed in horror. Daenerys frowned.

"Why would he do such a foul thing?"

"Mance, our leader, he had a child by Dalla, sister of Val, a priestess. She died, after the boy was born. Jon Snow was worried that Melisandre - she's a witch who serves Stannis - would burn that boy. So, he made me swap the boys. They both look alike."

"So, he was prepared to sacrifice your child, to save the other, do I have it right?" They both nodded.

"But, it's not even the Red Witch what frightens me" continued Gilly. "It's Val, her own self. She serves dark Gods. I'm worried she'd kill the boy."

"And of course, if she thought it needful to sacrifice a boy, she'd want to spare her own nephew such a fate", remarked Joy. That was perceptive.

”Can you think of *anything* good to say about Jon Snow?”

”He’s a cunt… but …, he sees the danger, from the White Walkers, I has to give him that”, replied Ygritte, eventually. “Other crows, they’d be happy to see us dead. Jon? He had the sense to let us through the Wall. I don’t know. Other free folk, yes, they like him, admire him, even. Me, I was good enough to warm his bed, till his sister showed up. Then, I got kicked out.

”You think he and his sister are lovers?”

”You just have to see the way the way they look at each other. She slept a lot in his bed. He said he was just “comforting” her, but it wasn’t that, I’d swear it.

”Lady Sansa is a beauty”, said Gilly.

”My parents were brother and sister. I had understood, the North condemned such unions.” Ygritte and Gilly looked away, awkwardly. “Does that disgust you” asked Daenerys, finally.

“Gods no!” said Gilly. “I’m my father’s daughter, by *his* daughter. Then, he raped another child into me.” She heard a sharp intake of breath from Joy, but thankfully, the girl said nothing.

”We aren’t responsible for our fathers’ crimes.”

Ygritte continued, ”Lady Sansa was wed some bastard they call the Beast of Winterfell. His father murdered her brother and mother. I heard he did vile things to her. Cut her with knives, whipped her. She fled to Castle Black, where Jon Snow is commander. He and Stannis were gathering an army to take back Winterfell, when we left. They both support Stannis. As for her, well, she was jealous of me, wanted to take my place in Jon’s bed. She’s welcome to that wanker. From all I’ve heard, she hates you, too, and all your family.”

”And if Stannis and Jon win, she’ll rule the North?” Ygritte nodded

”I hear good things about you two. I suggest you both join my household. There’s plenty of work, both for guards, and for young women who can sew. Your - Mance’s - boy, will be looked after, as will yours, when it’s born,” she nodded to Ygritte. They both thanked her.

What a wretched place the North sounded, she reflected afterwards. Dismal, freezing, riven with hatreds. Maybe leave them to it. But no, whoever emerged on top would covet the rich lands to the South. Perhaps her husband was right, and the Starks had to be removed forever.

Chapter Text

“Maester Aemon spoke well of the Dragon Queen, before he died.”

“He would. She was his brother’s great-granddaughter. They said he was more a peasant than a king. If she landed here, she would turn the small folk against us.”

”How so?” Jon could be obtuse at times. They were alone in her solar, sipping wine together and eating her favourite lemoncakes, as she sat in his lap, facing her lover.

”The small folk hate us, Jon. They almost raped and murdered me at Kings Landing. They raped poor Lollys Stokeworth, many times.” She still dreamed of that awful day, when the starving poor had gone on the rampage, demanding bread, before murdering, robbing, and raping their betters and each other.

”Come on, our father was loved. They might hate the Boltons, but not House Stark."

”Don’t delude yourself. At best, Father was respected. I’ve studied the records, over the past month. Ten thousand two hundred and seventy three households live on our demesne lands. Each household must pay to us one tenth of all they produce or earn. If they wish to grind corn, they must use our mills, at the price we set. They must labour for us, six days in every month. If the head of the household dies, we forfeit his best beast or chattel, before the next in line can inherit. They must pay us a fine, if they wish to leave our lands, or to marry, or to hunt game, or if they wish to use our courts. When Robb summoned young men to war, they had to march, or else be thrown off their farmsteads. Wouldn't you resent people who had such powers over you? What do you think will happen, if she lands on our shores, and offers them a better deal? She offered freedom to the Eastern slaves, and they turned on their masters, with a vengeance.” He was silent, thinking through her words.

”Your people aren’t slaves, Sansa.”

“They aren’t much better off. We hold a wolf by the ears, Jon. This dress I wear,” a wonderful creation of scarlet silk brocade, “would cost a peasant household half a year’s income. Each of these delicious lemon cakes is a day's wage for a labourer." Since she became the Lady of Winterfell, nearly a month ago, she had ordered a cartload of dresses and furs from White Harbour, along with wines, spirits, costly spices, horses, hunting dogs, glass to replace the hothouses, destroyed by the Boltons, oh, and candied lemons for her cakes. The local peasants, and the lesser nobility of the North, would ultimately be footing the bill for this, as they should. But, she was perceptive enough to know they would dislike doing so. She didn’t hate the small folk, like Cersei, nor did she get her kicks from abusing them, as her late and unlamented husband had done. She simply understood that most of the things she enjoyed in life came at their expense, and a firm hand was needed to keep them under control.

"It wasn't like that at the Wall. All men are brothers, there." She felt his cock begin to stir, and positioned herself, so she could feel it against her quim, through the lace smallclothes she favoured. She laughed at that assertion. "What's so funny?"

"Come on Jon, when was the last time anyone who wasn't noble, or at least a knight, was Lord Commander, or First Ranger? The Shadow Tower is commanded by Ser Denys Mallister. Cotter Pyke commands Eastwatch, true, but he's the exception. "

"You think I'm noble?"

"Gods, yes, you're the son of Ned Stark. You have a surname, you were educated with the rest of us, and trained to command." She let out a moan, as she felt his cock enter her, through the thin material. "Do you think I'd let you fuck me, if you were baseborn?", she asked, breathlessly. " Do you think I'd want to wed you, and bear your children?” She leaned forward to fasten her mouth on his, tasting wine and lemons on his tongue.

"You would. Imagine if I were some groom you'd taken a fancy too, and I took you roughly against the wall in the stables, using you like a common whore. How else would a stablehand use a highborn woman?” Oh yes, that thought did excite her!

She heard a loud knock on the door, and then Brienne calling out to her. “Shit!” Then, she got up, composed herself, and walked to the door. The scene in the Godswood had already strained her sworn shield’s loyalty. If she knew she was fucking her own brother, it would snap completely. She opened the door for her.

”Please come in, Brienne,” she said.

”Wolkan received this scroll by raven, from White Harbour, Sansa.” In private, they were on first name terms. Brienne was the daughter of a lord, after all. The scroll bore the King’s seal. He had marched to the city to set up his court. She felt her blood run cold as she read.

”To Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell and Lord Commander Snow, greeting.

It is with great sorrow, I must report the foul murder of His Grace, King Stannis, First of his name. An assassin stabbed him, as he inspected his flagship in the city harbour. The miscreant was taken alive, and then put to the question. He confirmed that he was hired by the traitor, Ser Aurane Waters. Satisfied he had told us all that he knew, the murderer was sawn asunder, on the orders of Lord Manderly. We are in great sorrow.

Ser Davos Seaworth.”

”Waters escaped with a handful”, remarked Jon. “We must be doubly on her guard. But, what now?”

”Let’s talk it through. Please stay, Brienne.” As usual, wheels were turning in her mind, and she saw exactly what must follow. But, first, she must persuade Jon. After an hour or so, they were all agreed. Next, she summoned every man and woman of importance to the Great Hall. Most of the soldiers had dispersed to their homes, but various lords and ladies, and wildling leaders, remained. She sat on the dais, with Jon, icy, composed, as ever. Present were Brienne, Lady Mormont, Lord Cerwyn, Ser Wyllis Manderly, Eddara Tallhart, Mors Umber, The Norrey, The Wull, The Flint, Tormund, Sigorn, Val, Wolkan, and some other lesser leaders.

”My lords and ladies, I have terrible news. His Grace, King Stannis, has been slain treacherously, in White Harbour. The murderer was hired by that false knight, Aurane Waters, and thus served the pretender who calls himself Aegon Targaryen; a beast, who burns children alive.” There were cries of horror and outrage across the Hall. Eventually, she raised her hand for silence.

”We must mourn the King’s Grace, and avenge him. But, the matter at hand, is who now rules the North?”

Brienne spoke first, as they had agreed. “We were sworn to King Stannis. We must uphold the claim of his daughter, the Princess Shireen.”

It was Val who scoffed at that. Sansa had heard her say more than once, that Shireen should be killed, lest her disease spread. “A girl with greyscale? No one would follow such.” There was a general murmur of agreement.

”Poor thing”, said Eddara, “but the priestess is right. Times are desperate, and a diseased girl is no leader in desperate times.”

”Stannis had our oaths, aye. But surely, his cause ended with him,” said Maege Mormont. “King Robb had our oaths, too. His sister sits before us? Why should she she not reign as our Queen?” Sansa’s heart soared, and by all the Gods, it was very tempting, but;

”You do me great honour, my lady, but a soldier must lead the North, in these grave times, and I am no soldier.”

”Agreed, but which soldier?” asked Ser Wyllis.

”Why, if you insist on a Northern soldier, as your king, the Ned’s very son is here”, cried Brienne. “He has proved himself a leader of men, and the blood of the Starks flows true in him.” There was a loud cheer from the wildling leaders and clan chiefs. But, others seemed doubtful.

“I mean no disrespect”, said Cerwyn. “Lord Snow is a most puissant leader. But, he was born out of wedlock, and he has taken oaths to the Watch.”

”All that is by the by, my Lord”, said Sansa. “Necessity is our master, now. I say, my brother should be our king.”

”May I suggest an alternative”, said Jon. The three of them had agreed this, beforehand. “Lord Cerwyn is correct. I am a bastard. I have sworn oaths to hold no lands. I will be no oathbreaker. Let me take the office of Regent and Protector of the Realm, and lead the North in war. The matter of who sits the throne, whether the North remains a part of the Seven Kingdoms, can be deferred to another time.”

“Aye, that makes sense”, said Cerwyn, to general approval.

It did, thought Sansa, as she savoured their triumph. Let Jon prevail in war, and no one would gainsay his kingship. She would reign in fact, if not in name. And if they failed, well it hardly mattered. As for Shireen, she could be wed to some minor lordling, and tucked safely away in an obscure holdfast. And if her mother cut up rough? Well, mothers and daughters met accidents, frequently enough.

Chapter Text

"Who comes before the Gods tonight" intoned Jon. It was a couple of hours before Dawn, and he and Sansa were exchanging vows in the Godswood. In the moonlight, he saw the bodies of Ramsay Bolton and Myranda, swaying gently in the breeze. Birds and animals had torn at their flesh, leaving them as skeletons with rags of skin attached. The Beast's dessicated entrails still decorated the lower branches. Without question, Sansa seemed happier, after having witnessed their brutal sacrifice, but still, she hungered for him. As he did for her. His sister, and soon to be, his wife.

"Sansa of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North, comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” came the reply. She looked like a goddess. Yet, this very performance was a blasphemy, in the eyes of the Old Gods. "We've damned ourselves, beyond redemption, Jon," she'd told him beforehand. "We can at least enjoy the time we have left in this world. And who knows? Even if the Old Gods and the New condemn us, R'hllor, or Val's Gods, they might permit us to love one another." His last hope. That he might save himself by apostasising. But, he would, for her. His thoughts returned to the ceremony.

“I do” said Jon. “Jon Snow, Regent and Protector of the North. I claim her. Who gives her?”

“I give myself.” He turned to his bride. “My lady, will you take me?” She raised her eyes to Jon's, adoringly, before joining hands. They stood before the Heart Tree, for a few minutes, heads bowed, before Jon wrapped a cloak around her shoulders, woven in the Stark colours, black and silver. They walked back to the castle, Sansa radiating excitement.

Upon their return to the Lord’s Bedchamber in the castle, they both undressed rapidly. She lay back on the quilt, instinctively parting her legs for him. The scars that remained on her flesh, where the monster had cut her, in no way spoiled her beauty, save in one place. The Beast had carved his initials, on her lower stomach, the scar still a vivid red. "I'll always be a part of you", he'd laughed, as he did it. Yes, what had been done to him, and his bitch mistress, in the Godswood, had been fair. He bent down, burying his face in Sansa's wet quim, savouring her taste as he always did. She thrust herself against his tongue, crying out in joy. "Now fuck me, Jon", she commanded at last, rolling away, and getting up on all fours. He thrust into her hard, from behind, no longer caring if her cries were ones of pleasure or of pain. At last, he spent himself, and lay panting, on top of her.

"I would never let any other man do what you do with me", she said eventually. He knew that. He got up, and brought a pair of damp cloths back to the bed, so they could clean themselves. She poured them both wine, and they talked awhile. As so often, she came back to her time as Bolton's plaything. "The worst of it Jon, was not even the rapes, and the torture. They were vile, but I could endure those. But, that pair were clever, and they were skilled lovers, when they wanted to be. They toyed with me. Sometimes, they'd show me affection, pretend that they wanted me to enjoy the games they played with me. And, so ... they'd do things that did actually bring me some pleasure. And, I'd hate myself for it, I still hate myself for it. I felt ashamed. Despite it all, he's right. He'll always be a part of me. "

"He's dead and gone, Sansa. They both are. I don't know what Val's gods will do them, after death, but I'd wager, it won't be pleasant." Perhaps, he should ask the priestess. It was past time to confront her about that other thing, too.

"Good," was all she said in reply. "I told you, when he was inside me, I'd pretend it was you. When *she* was doing things to me, or making me to things to her, I'd pretend it was Margaery. I loved that young woman. With her, it never went beyond sharing kisses, and lying together on her bed, but I wish it had done."

"You'll never forget her, will you?" Sansa shook her head. The Ned had had a sept built for his wife, when they married. The Boltons had murdered her septon, but when the new one had arrived from White Harbour, Sansa had promised him a substantial sum to perform daily prayers for the souls of Margaery Tyrell, her ladies, and even Tommen, the boy king. He heard a sob catch at the back of her throat. He put his arms around her.

"I just hate to think of them all, at the end. Father was stuck in the Black Cells, and I had to watch as they cut his head off. They were stuck there for days, and then taken out to be burned, in front of a jeering crowd. I wish, sometimes, I'd been there with them, during those days."

"They would have burned you as well, Sansa." She nodded.

"Promise me, Jon, one thing. One day, you'll make that creature who calls himself Aegon Targaryen, and Varys, and Jon Connington, and Arianne Martell, and her bitch cousins, you'll make them all ride poles, and die by inches! Even if we have to ally, for a time, with Daenerys Targaryen."

”I promise.” Given Sansa’s disdain for the Eastern Queen, her loathing for the enemy in Kings Landing must burn bright! Jon left Sansa to go to sleep, and returned to his own chambers. There *were* reasons for him to visit his sister's bedchamber, even late at night, but still, he must tread carefully. It was far too early - if it were ever to be possible - to proclaim their relationship, openly.

He rose late, the next day, and summoned Val to meet him in his solar. The Lady Melisandre had returned in the night too, and she joined them. She looked shattered. Her prophecies had failed her. Stannis, Azhor Ahai reborn, in her eyes, had been struck down by a common murderer.

"I am not welcome in White Harbour", she informed him. "The King's men blame me. They say I failed to protect him, and frankly, how can I blame them? "

"You know what has taken place here?" Jon replied. "The North will not rally to Princess Shireen, at least not yet." Ravens and messages from strongholds across the North had confirmed widespread approval to Jon's taking the Regency and Protectorship. "Will Stannis' men accept this?"

"Ser Davos? He loves the Princess. He would fight to the death for her. Others? Well, a sickly girl has few champions". Val nodded, before remarking;

"Yet, perhaps another use could be found for the Princess?" Jon felt his blood run chill.

"Her mother would be agreeable", remarked the Red Woman, casually. "So long as it is done according to the rites of our faith. She has long wished me to give her daughter to the flames. She believes the child an abomination, a punishment from God. But, King Stannis refused to countenance it.” The Red Priestess shook her head sadly. “Had the girl burned, doubtless the King would still live today.”

Her own mother!

"You're talking of burning her?" asked Sansa. "I had rather see her wed to some minor lord, and kept out of harm's way."

"The war is hardly over", said Val. "The sacrifice of a Princess would be a rare gift to the gods, and ensure their favour in the battles to come.

"You'd cut her to pieces, like the Beast and his mistress?' asked Jon, incredulous.

"Of course not. They were criminals, she is an innocent. I would simply open her throat before a weirwood. It would be a mercy all round. Life holds nothing for her. No man would wed a girl with greyscale.”

"I heard tell you did the same with another boy, before we marched. Was that the child of Gilly?"

"Not at all, I promised you to keep him safe. He remains well cared for, at the Wall."

"Who was he then?"

"The unwanted brat of a Molestown whore. The mother died, and the bawd sold him, for a purse of silver." She looked serene, untroubled. "Rest assured, he died swiftly and painlessly. And, my gods granted you their favour."

"This ends now. To sacrifice a criminal, that is one thing. But, children? No." He scowled at both women.

"Do this again, and I shall hang you both. Understand?"

"Of course, your Grace", said Melisandre. "Yet in time, you may come to change your mind." She and Val rose, curtsied, and left the room.

Chapter Text

The boy couldn't help it. Green with sea-sickness, he spewed over Gilly's lap, as the ship rolled in the heavy waves. Not for the first time, stuck as she was, in the transport ship's stinking hold, with dozens of other servants and several tons of stores, she questioned the wisdom of her decision to jump ship at Pentos. She wiped off the vomit, as best she could.

"I's sorry", mumbled the boy, retching again, this time onto the deck. She wanted to clout him, but really, it wouldn't be fair. She had an idea too, that if she looked after him, the Gods might just protect her own son from Val and the Red Witch. And if they didn't. Well, she wouldn't take revenge on this child, but nothing would stand between her and and the killer. And, between her and Jon Snow. That is, if Ygritte didn't get to him first.

There was a great crash against the bows of the ship, and the vessel shuddered, as people cried out. Outside, she knew, a fight was raging. She'd been told they were heading for an island called Dragonstone, wherever that was, and the enemy were trying to defend it. Theirs was a transport, not a warship, but even so, they were in great danger. Ygritte, she knew, was on board one of the warships, and as for Sam, she had not a clue. She'd prayed to the Gods to spare Ygritte during the fight. She was afraid, but also calm. She'd survived her father, the flight to the Wall, and the unwanted attentions of the Crows. She'd even survived a planned hanging. She'd survive this fight, too. Another grudge to chalk up against the Lord Crow. No doubt, he'd have watched her swing, if old Maester Aemon hadn't stepped in. Aemon, a kind-hearted old man, who had taught her some of the history of the kneelers' country, just as an equally kind-hearted young princess had taught her how to read. She'd held back any mention of this skill, from all but her superior, the eunuch named Andrastos. She suspected that the other servants might resent her for it, see it as getting above herself. "You're right", he told her. "I'll find a use for your talent, never fear, but don't make them jealous of you." Just as at the Wall, some of the others thought her a whore, and had tried to take advantage of her, back in Pentos. She'd had to threaten a couple of them with her dirk. Unlike at Castle Black, Andrastos had dismissed them from service.

She was interrupted by someone screaming "fire!" Oh Gods, the terror of everyone on board ship! No one wanted to drown, but given a choice between that and burning alive, she'd take the risk, and plunge into the sea. She dragged the boy to his feet, as people began to panic, fighting with each other to reach the two ladders that led onto the deck. She reached for her knife. Thankfully, a pair of burly sailors stepped out of the press, cutlasses drawn. "Women and children up onto the deck first! Form a queue." bawled one, a massive tatooed brute, with shaven head. "No running, no fighting, and you'll all get out. Jump the queue, and I'll gut you!" The pair were even more frightening than the fire. She waited her turn, even as the hold began filling up with smoke, but eventually she got up the ladder and looked out. People were crowded at the ship's bow, the stern now well ablaze. "Wildfire from the enemy", said somebody. Woman and children were clambering down ropes, into two small boats with oarsmen, and she could see another small boat, being rowed towards them, from a cog, perhaps fifty yards away.

The gale was raging, soaking them all, and yet, by some magic, not putting out the fire. Not too far away, ships were locked together in battle, some of them blazing fiercely. She looked up to see dark clouds, grey and ominous, matching the colour of the rough waters, and then she cried out, as for the first time, she saw dragons in flight. Down they raced, oblivious to the storm, black, green, and white, before they withered enemy ships with their flames. A great cheer went up from the crowd on the ship, and she joined in, though she felt a moment's pity for the enemy. The sweet young Queen who’d offered her tea and cakes could be brutal to her enemies, she knew. Then it was her turn, to clamber down the rope. A sailor passed the boy down to her, and then the boat set off. Although the other ship was close by, still it was fearsome to experience the boat bouncing up and down in the choppy waves. But, the oarsmen knew their business, and they reached safety. From the deck of the other ship, she saw the last of the sailors escape the burning ship. All the supplies were lost, but thank all the Gods, it seeemed no one had died.

The boy was brave, not crying, even as he clung to her legs, but so he should be, as the Mance's son. She had no idea what was happening in the fight, until one of the sailors remarked that the enemy had turned and fled. "They've had enough. Can't say I blame them. Wouldn't go up against dragonfire however much you paid me." And, nor would she. After several hours, they came in sight of a harbour, over which towered a vast, black, fortress, and that took her breath away, too. It made Castle Black look like a child's toy, by comparison. The harbour was filled now, with shipping, and she guessed she'd be waiting hours, before they went ashore. She could see men filing out of the castle, bearing white flags. Of the Queen and her dragons, there was no sign.

Her worst fears were confirmed, and it was not till the following morning that she was able to leave the ship. She was filthy, her clothes stained with vomit, her hair coated with salt. Thankfully, there was a cart for the the children, in which she deposited Mance's son, which set off for the castle. After another hour or so, waiting and shivering on the sea front, Andrastos appeared. He looked as tired and filthy as the rest of them. "First things first", he told them. "We had a lucky escape. I expect you'll all want a wash. Well, there are bathhouses up at the castle, and a well-stocked buttery, so make use of both of them. You'll get the rest of the day off, and you'll need it, for tomorrow, we've got to make this palace fit for the Queen's Grace. That means, we make it immaculate." She was curious.

"Ser, did the enemy surrender?"

"Most did. Their commander, a man called Clifford Swann, wanted to fight, he and a handful of others. Fortunately, the rest saw sense, and handed the others over in chains."

"What will happen to them?" It wasn't her business, really, but she wanted to know.

"Her Grace will judge them. She intends to offer clemency, to all but the worst of her enemies, but of course, she shall fine them, and she will require their oaths of fealty. Some men would rather die than give such oaths, such is their pride and their folly." Stupid fuckers, she thought. Pride was a luxury. What mattered was saving your own life, and saving the lives of those you cared about. And that reminded her, she had to find out what had happened to Ygritte. Looking forward to a bath, and a meal, she trudged up the steep pathway to the black fortress.

Chapter Text

"I warned that fuckwit not to behead Rickon Stark. That boy was our binder, against defeat. Lose the fight, and we could trade him for our safety. Win, and he'd be a valuable hostage. But, no, fucking Ramsay Bolton had to show what a hard man he was, by cutting his head off, then tying his corpse to that old nag, and sending it trotting over to the enemy."

"Can't disagree with a word of it, Ser", replied "Steelshanks" Walton, a sergeant in the Boltons' service, who'd made the same decision as Ser Aurane, to get the hell away, once it became clear the battle at Winterfell was lost. With his groom, Simon, they were enjoying a haunch of mutton, which his men had roasted over the fire, washed down with a skin of ale. “He murdered the old lord, is my belief. Well, Lord Roose knew what he was doing, but that twat, he'd no more head than flat ale." He nodded. The other men were enjoying themselves in the small village they were staying in overnight. Enjoyment meant plundering the houses, raping the women, and killing the men. Ser Aurane let them do it. The soldiers might have been tempted to hand him over to the pursuers, who he had no doubt, were on their trail. Now, his men could expect no mercy, and so, they had to remain loyal. There were about two dozen left, half the number who'd ridden away from the battle with him. They’d hidden out in the Wolfswood, for weeks, freezing their balls off, living off game, and waiting for the enemy to disperse, before striking out to the South. They'd seized fresh horses from inns, and farmsteads on their path, leaving a trail of corpses behind them, and were now ten days out from Winterfell.

"What now?" asked the sergeant.

"We can't be far now from Ryswell and Dustin land. That should at least be friendly territory. We can take stock. What I'm thinking is, we get a boat at Barrowtown, and sail downriver to Blazewater Bay."

Walton nodded his agreement. “Wouldn’t want to ride through the Neck, Ser, not now." They'd dumped their armour, to make better speed. But, that would make them very vulnerable should the fucking frog-men start loosing their poisoned arrows at them, as they rode down the causeway from Moat Cailin. Walton shook his head.

He’d studied maps of the North, in the capital, and at Winterfell. The roads were virtually non-existent, just tracks in the ground. But, he was reasonably sure he was headed in the right direction. He wiped his hands on his leather jerkin, and got up for a piss. He was bearded, filthy, and no doubt he stank, after weeks in the wild, but he’d wait till he got out of this shithole, before he worried about making himself presentable. The mayhem in the village had died down, by the time he lay down on a straw mattress, in one of the cottages, clutching a purse of dragons to his chest. The family had been butchered, but years of warfare and piracy had hardened him. He thanked the Gods for throwing Walton in his path. The man was brave, resourceful, and killed without compunction.

Well-rested, they rode out, a couple of hours after the sun rose.

”Dead, by the guts of the Father”, cursed Benfred Tallhart.

“They stayed long enough for fun”, remarked Dacey Mormont.

The pair had led fifty horsemen into the village, with a pack of hunting dogs they’d picked up at a fortified manor a few miles back. The place had been moated, and thus safe from the enemy. They had remounts, and he knew he was gaining on them. Fires were still smouldering, and fresh shit lay everywhere; human and horse. The place was littered with bodies, and it was plain what had been done to the women, before their throats were cut. Perhaps fifty dead, in all.

One of his men emerged from behind a hovel, retching. He wondered if he was suited for soldiering, then changed his mind once he saw what had caused his reaction. Two men had been strung up from the branch of a pine, by their heels, and a fire lit under their heads. If you can call them heads, after they’ve burst open.

Once he’d recovered, Benfred searched the ground, diligently. It seemed plain enough they were heading for Barrowtown and the Rills. After a brief rest, while they gulped down some ale, and changed horses, they rode out in pursuit. Someone else would have to bury the dead; he could at least avenge them.

”We aren’t taking prisoners, Dacey”, he remarked, for about the tenth time on this mission, and she nodded.

Benfred might have enjoyed the hunt through the snow and pine forests, had he not witnessed the trail of murder these swine had left in their wake. They’d made no effort to hide their tracks, and were plainly just heading for friendly territory as fast as they could. He’d caught a dozen of them along the way, stragglers, and had left them swinging from branches. He saw that the ground rose, perhaps five miles off, and they all spurred forward.

As he reached the brow of the hill, Ser Aurane called a brief halt. The horses needed resting, again. Day by day, they were flagging. He looked back, down the track they'd come, and then he saw it in the distance, the glint of metal in the sunlight, more than once, swords or spears. On cue, he heard the sound of excited barking. Fuck it, of course they'd have brought dogs with them. He wondered if he could plan an ambush, but then looked at his men, seeing how nervous they were. This lot would break and flee. Walton seemed to read his thoughts, and nodded. “Ride on”, he commanded, and they descended through a thick forest of oak.

It was approaching dusk, when Aurane had to make a decision. He guessed that they ridden about twenty miles from the village. They’d skirted each hamlet in their path, not wanting their hunters to catch them. The horses could manage another five or ten miles, before he would need to halt. Should he press on, or ride off the trail, hoping that his pursuers would miss them in the darkness. Small hope of that, now they had hunting dogs pursuing them. There was no chance that the hounds would lose the scent, unless he found a stream and rode down it. They spurred on harder. And then, by the grace of the Gods, he found it, a river, broad, but fordable. They could ride several miles downriver in the darkness, before crossing. His pursuers would be left guessing where they had gone. He had no doubt that the dogs would pick up their trail eventually. but they would have gained several valuable hours.The river flowed very sluggishly, and would no doubt freeze before long. Thank the Gods it hadn't frozen over !

He halted his men. “Walton and I have a plan to throw off the pursuit”, he told them. “You must ride on.” He’d wondered if they’d be suspicious, but Walton had quietly told him they were panicking. They’d need no excuse to flee. After the rest had ridden off, he, Walton, and Simon turned left, and splashed through the shallows. After perhaps half an hour of this, he felt a good deal happier. Until his horse went lame, without warning. Fuck it! The animal could barely walk, let alone trot.

"I need your assistance Simon," he yelled out. His man turned back and rode to help his master, who had dismounted. Simon leapt down to help him.

"I think my damn horse is lame, Simon. Can you examine her? Simon gingerly felt the front right leg of the mare, as Aurane stood behind him. His groom was a useful servant, but useful servants were two a penny, and he needed the man’s horse. He drew his dagger, silently. “I'm so sorry about this" he said, aiming for the man’s neck; only to cry out, as he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his back. He collapsed to the ground, rolling over to stare up at his assailant.

”Thought you’d try something like that, Ser “, said Walton, bloodied sword in hand. “That’s a nice fat purse of gold dragons you’re carrying on you. Could just make the difference between life and death for us two. Oh, and I’ll have these, as well.” The man knelt down, and yanked the rings off his unresisting fingers. “I’d like to say I’m sorry about this, Ser, but that would be lying.” The last thing he ever felt was Walton’s sword entering his throat.

Benfred reached the river, with the hunters. They forded it, then halted for a while, as he and Dacey debated if the enemy had gone upriver. In the end, they rode on, hunting down the men they pursued over the next two days. In due course, they’d find Aurane Waters’ body upstream, and leave it impaled on a stake. But of Walton and Simon, they found not a sign.

Chapter Text

This was how the Gods chose to punish her, thought Sansa, as she lay in the best bed available, in a primitive, wooden manor house, half a day's ride from Winterfell. The reeve, who lived there with his family, had done his best. The furniture had been polished with beeswax, the chamber sweetened with bowls of lavender, and the adjoining garderobe thoroughly cleansed and freshened. It was not Winterfell, and she needs must wash in cold water, but still, it was immeasurably better than the cottages and hovels that most of the village's inhabitants had to live in. They had dined off a rich broth, made of game and vegetables, followed by roasted mutton, served by the man's daughter, and a pair of maidservants. They'd finished with fruits from his orchard, apples, pears, and plums, all of it washed down with some excellent cider. She couldn't have faulted the man's efforts. Yet, still the Gods tormented her, with desires and lusts that were twisted, unnatural, perverse, as punishment for her sins and crimes.

Kyra, the the maidservant she'd brought with her from the castle, lay beside her. A pretty simpleton, of seventeen years, she was competent at her duties, and content with her station in life. The prospect of travelling to distant villages, in the company of the Lady of Winterfell, had filled her with awe. She gently nudged the girl, getting no response. Satisfied that she was asleep, Sansa reached under her shift, touching herself, as she indulged her fantasies. Septa Mordane had warned her that there was a special place in the Seven Hells for girls who did such things, and no doubt she was right, but she was past caring. Her mother had spoken to her, of the act of procreation, between men and women, advising that it was her duty to bear children to the man she would marry, but only shameless wantons took pleasure in the act. No doubt that was true as well, but she took immense joy from the act of bodily union with her own brother. As soon as it was safe, she would cease drinking drafts of moon tea, and bear his children. As she felt her excitement stir, her mind filled with sinful visions. She found herself wondering if, privately, her mother had shared her own desires for Jon Snow, and that explained her hostility to him, as she could never indulge herself. Gods yes! She could picture herself and her own mother, both kneeling before Jon, taking turns to pleasure him with their mouths. Or her, riding his face, while her mother rode his cock, each one crying out with excitement. Other visions floated into her mind, of Margaery's head between her thighs, and then, and how the Gods cursed her, even of the Beast and Myranda! At last, she achieved her release, and lay back on the pillow, panting. One thing only, the Gods spared her. She was never tormented by visions of her first husband, the Imp, as a lover. On that note, she drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.

She rose, soon after dawn, washed her face and hands with scented water, then wiped herself down with a wet linen flannel. After Kyra had dressed her and arranged her hair, she descended into the Hall, to break her fast, with bread, cheese, and small ale. The reeve, called Robbett Cerwyn, a cousin to the lord of that name, his wife, a mouse-like woman who said nothing, Wolkan, and a young scribe who served the reeve, were present, waiting for her to start eating. Wolkan had advised her that she must travel to the villages on her demesne, from time to time, to hear the grievances of the smallfolk. She liked it not, fearing either a prolonged rape, or a quick death, at the hands of such brutes. Still, she could hardly admit to such worries in front of her own maester, and she had two score guards and squires, who rode with her. Men who had fled the battle had turned outlaw, indeed two of them awaited her judgment, this morning, and that gave her the perfect excuse to bring a substantial bodyguard with her. They talked as they ate.

"The village has suffered in the wars”, said the reeve. “A score of the young men marched away to serve his Grace, King Robb, and only three of them returned. Then, the Boltons stole what they could. The people have few stores left. It may be judicious to lessen their services for a time." It was on the tip of her tongue to say that doubtless every village would have its own tale of woe, and Winterfell would be left with nothing at all at this rate, but on the other hand, there must be truth in what the man was saying. He was a Cerwyn, after all. But, then Wolkan spoke:

"My Lady, remember, the Boltons' lands and holdings are now forfeit to you. You may sell or let them as you wish, and there are moneylenders in White Harbour, who will advance you credit, on their security." That was true. In that case, a finely-calculated display of generosity could do some good. They discussed the matter at some length, before leaving for the tithe barn, where the day's proceedings would take place.

Perhaps two hundred men and women were gathered, who bowed and curtsied as she entered. A trestle table with chairs had been set up for her and the others. A score of her guards lined the walls. Four guards brought in the outlaws, whose hands had been tied. The villagers let out a howl of anger, at the sight of them. According to several witnesses, they had stolen goods and livestock from the village.

"Have you anything to say for yourselves?" she asked at length.

"We're both soldiers", said one, bearded and filthy, like his companion. "We fought for Lord Bolton, and we'd no choice. When yer chief says "march", yer has to march."

"You could have surrendered, after the battle." The man spat on the ground.

"And been burned? We saw the smoke."

"Only a handful of men, who were guilty of grave crimes. Most were disarmed, and allowed to return to their homes. You are thieves and outlaws." There was no response, and indeed, the sentence was a foregone conclusion. A thief might receive clemency, but an outlaw would receive none.

"Hang them, in front of the people, afterwards", she commanded the captain of her guards, to a roar of approval from the crowd. The men shuffled out with the guards, no fight left in them. There followed a succession of cases. A man who had stolen chickens from his neighbour was sentenced to be hanged, but he took up her offer of the Wall, instead. A compulsive aldulterer, who'd fornicated with half the married women in the village, it seemed, was sentenced to a whipping.

”And thank all the Gods that Lady Stark is so gentle”, said Cerwyn, grinning, “for I would have had you gelded.” There was general laughter at that, at least on the part of the men present. Other minor disputes cropped up, over boundary markers, and the trespass of beasts. Ordinarily, they would have been dealt with by the reeve, but since she was present, it fell to her. She simply rubber-stamped what he had earlier suggested, in any case.

Finally, the question of service. Two women, and one man stepped forward to present their case, first knuckling their foreheads. They were polite, but insistent. With the loss of young men, and the the Boltons' pillage, they simply could not afford six days' service a month, nor one tenth of their produce. She'd agreed with Cerwyn that he would appear firm, unyielding, reminding them all of their duties to the Starks. In the end, she spoke.

"Villeins you are, and villeins you remain. Service towards House Stark is both a duty and a privilege. Master Cerwyn is right to remind you of all that you owe to us. Nevertheless, we have heard your concerns, and I would not see my people suffer. We remit your service to three days' labour each month, and one twentieth of your produce, for the next four years. Thenceforth, your full duty of service will be restored. Let his be recorded, scribe." The three village leaders bowed their heads, and returned to the crowd, who murmured among themselves, quite approvingly, she thought. As the meeting drew to a close, one of the men present proposed three cheers for her ladyship, which she graciously acknowledged. Margaery of course, would have had them kissing her feet, by this point, she'd had that skill. But mobs are fickle. The same crowds who'd adored Margaery, had laughed to see her burn, once Aegon Falseborn and his Dornish whore had won their affections.

They filed out of the barn, the crowd now in festive mood, at the prospect of a hanging. She made the cold face. It would be unseemly to appear in any way affected by the proceedings. The men died swiftly enough, pissing themselves, then dancing, before falling still. They'd remain there, as an example, until they were nothing but bones. "You are your mother's daughter, if I may say so, my Lady", remarked Cerwyn. "Stern, yet fair". And, both of us hungering after the same beautiful, young, bastard, flashed a blasphemous thought in her mind. She said nothing, but nodded.

Her reeves and bailiffs were sensible men, she realised, over the next three weeks, as she rode from one village to another, making judicious concessions, as she went. The head men trod a careful line, between enforcing what was due to her House, while keeping the respect of the people among whom they lived. It seemed the smallfolk were more loyal to the Starks than she had feared. But, she still felt a wave of relief, as she rode over the drawbridge at Winterfell. Here, she was safe as nowhere else in the world. Even better, the first of the goods she had ordered from White Harbour had been delivered. Yes, it was good to be the Head of House Stark, she mused, as she tried on her sixth silk dress of the afternoon.

Chapter Text

Olenna Tyrell rose, as Daenerys Targaryen, Princess Missandei, General Orhan, and his wife, Lady Myrcella, entered the Great Hall at Dragonstone, to a fanfare of trumpets, surrounded by the strange wand-bearing eunuchs. As they reached the high table, the Red Priest, a blackamoor named Moqorro, said Grace, followed by the Palace's Septon. An error, she thought. The Red Faith might be tolerated, but was there any reason for this silly girl to have converted? The Chamberlain, Modestus, bade them all be seated, and she resumed her conversation with Lady Sylvia, the striking redhead, who had the misfortune to be married to that dullard, Victarion Greyjoy, a man who could speak of little other than his exploits in battle. A fortnight had passed since the citadel had surrendered, and hundreds were attending this, the first of the royal banquets. Olenna sat on the Reward. The wine, at least, was excellent, the company more variable.

"And, what is your background, my dear?" enquired Olenna.

"Oh that? I was a prostitute." The Queen of Thorns nearly choked on her wine. "And a damn good one" roared Victarion, patting her hand, as he laughed. The very idea of any lady of the Seven Kingdoms admitting to such a thing! Leyton Hightower looked horrified, Joy Hill (and what was a bastard doing sitting at the Reward anyway?) maintained a bland expression, Grey Worm and Malazza of Yunkai both smiled, and Monterys Velaryon and his wife pretended they hadn't heard.

She rallied, "Ah, indeed my dear. Few ladies of the Seven Kingdoms would ... erm, admit to such a professional background.”

"It's nothing to be ashamed of", commented Malazza. "I had to get my tits out, and use my tongue on command, when the Imp held me as his prisoner." Good Gods? Were all the Dragon Queen's Eastern followers freedmen, whores, or base born? She had largely confined herself to the company of other exiles from the Seven Kingdoms, during her time in Essos.

"Tyrion Lannister?" She’d poisoned his revolting nephew, then tried to frame him for the deed. He'd escaped, murdering his father in the process. She’d heard he’d been put to death in Meereen.

Servants began to lay out the first course, a collection of shellfish, with fine white bread, and fresh butter, and poured crisp white wine into silver goblets, to match.

"The same. There were four of us, and the little shit would rape us, every which way, and then he'd give us to his friends." Not much shocked Olenna, in her sixty fifth year, but this was like no banquet she'd ever attended. Malazza smiled nastily. "The Queen's Grace gave him to us. I cut out his tongue with a breadknife. Then, well, we just moved on to other pieces of his anatomy." She said it casually, as if discussing the weather. She drank like a fish, too.

”Congratulations, general”, remarked Grey Worm, raising his goblet.

”For the Imp, or Tarth?”

”Both”. The woman had captured the Stepstones, and the Sapphire island, it seemed.

”I suppose there was no worse punishment than losing his tongue?” suggested Olenna.

”I’ll say. Even when he had his cock in my mouth, he’d be jabbering away to somebody.” Gods, this woman must have been born in a sty. Only for her to say, “Malazza of Yunkai, from richest heiress in the city, to common whore. But I clawed my way back, thanks to Daenerys Targaryen.”

”And your own abilities”, said Grey Worm.

”The East’s been turned upside down”, commented Sylvia.

”The Queen’s Grace will have something to say, on that score, tonight”, was Grey Worm’s response.

At the other end of the Hall, sat Gilly. To her surprise, every servant who was not working in the kitchens, or serving as a guard like Ygritte, or waiting on the tables, was invited. She’d come out of her shell, a bit, since joining the royal household, and was talking to a young man her age, named Jarl. Like her, he was of the Free Folk, so they spoke together, in the Old Tongue. He worked as a messenger.

"Slavers took me, at Hardhome, three years back. Thank the Gods, they sailed too close to Braavos, and were taken in turn. And you?"

"I ran for my life, with a Crow, The White Walkers were after us?" He grimaced.

"Is anyone left, North of the Wall?"

"Doubt it. The Lord Crow let thousands through."

"That was good of him. I thought those bastards would let us die."

"Turns out, there aren't many of them left. They need people to fight the Dead. And, Lord Crow wanted more Free Folk, to fight for him, and his sister, against some cunt who took their castle. She's the Lady of the North, they say. And, the Lord Crow was fucking her." The other man spat out his ale.

You're shitting me!"

"I'm not." They chatted for some time. She’d been worked to the bone, since arrival, but this banquet was a fine reward. Pies of mutton and veal, plenty of bread and cheese, and as much ale and cider as you could want. She wore a smart black and scarlet woollen livery, and had a warm place to sleep. Life could be a lot worse. she thought, after her fifth horn of ale.

Ygritte was stationed in the Minstrels' Gallery. A bunch of cunts were banging drums, and fiddles, and blowing trumpets. They might as well have been farting, in unison. Not her kind of music at all, but the people in the Hall seemed to like it. She scanned them constantly, for any threat to the Queen she served. She'd be moved to light duties shortly, as she waited to give birth. Gilly had sought her out, after the fight at sea, but honestly, she hadn't even come close to the fighting. It was all done, by the time her ship had come up. Like all the rest, she had a livery in the Targaryen colours, though hers had a thin mesh of mail, sewn inside it. The Hall was lined with eagle-eyed watchmen, and there were more guards, disguised among the servants. Everything had been tasted, she knew, before being brought to the banquet. Why, there were even Faceless Men among those who served the Queen. No one knew who they were, save they were some cult of assassins, with almost magical powers. The Gods help anyone who might try to murder her Queen. Well, three had, and the Gods most certainly had not helped them. She'd seen them, moaning on the poles they'd been impaled upon, on the castle walls, a couple of days ago.

A couple of tables up from Gilly, Sam belched contentedly. He'd stuffed his face with the excellent pies and ale on offer, and looked forward to the candied fruits, which would follow. He'd enjoyed his first whore, a week ago, after his colleagues had taken him to the brothel in the village that straggled away from the castle. Honestly, she'd been rather nice. He wasn't fool enough to think any woman would truly find him desirable, but she had at least pretended to. He wasn't quite sure whether working in an army quartermaster's was a step up or not from the Wall, but there were worse fates, by far, At least if Daenerys Targaryen won, he'd be released from his Nights Watch vows, and maybe get a purse of gold. He wasn't noble any longer, obviously, not after his father had disowned him, but perhaps he could be comfortable. There was a call for silence, from the Chamberlain, and then he listened to the most remarkable speech he'd ever heard, a speech that was, in fact, incendiary.

The Queen began, by thanking those present, and her soldiers and sailors, for their victory on land and sea. Driftmark was now taken, along with Cracklaw Point, Tarth, and Massey’s Hook. In the West, and in The Reach, her allies were holding out, but now, the traitors were caught in a pincer, closing inexorably.

”But, you need to know what you are fighting for,” she continued. “I’ve spoken of “breaking the wheel.” Let me tell you where breaking the wheel must start. In here.” She pointed to her own chest. “Many of you have risen from the humblest beginnings, slaves, peasants, brigands. And yes, there are those among you who once took slaves. But, you learned better. And, what you had in common was that you rose, because of your own merits, not because of an accident of birth. Some of you possess brilliant, focused minds. And that made me wonder, how many people are there, who dwell in the Seven Kingdoms, who possess brilliant, focused minds, and yet spend their lives in hovels and rookeries, or on their backs in brothels, or end up dying in ditches, simply because of an accident of birth?” You could hardly hear a pin drop now, in the Hall.

”First things first. I follow the faith of R’hllor, but I promise that all the rights that are possessed by the Faith of the Seven, and the followers of all other Gods, shall remain intact. You know my record. Second. It has been the custom for a Great Council of lords to be formed, on occasion, to choose a monarch. They will now choose from among their number, men and women of worth, to sit permanently at the capital. But not the lords only. The guilds of the towns and cities shall likewise choose delegates to join them, and to bring their grievances to me and my Small Council. Third, men are hanged at the whim of their lords, for as little as stealing a bag of apples. All men, be they rich or poor, shall be tried by judges, appointed by the crown. And for three crimes only, shall men die - murder, treason, and enslavement. Last, and not least. No man or woman must be born to servitude. The children of every villein must be free to choose those for whom they will labour, when they come of age. Their parents must also, in due time, be freed, but I am advised that it would be impossible to do this immediately.. In return for this freedom, the lords will be paid recompense. Thus, shall all prosper, under the new order.”

Hundreds rose to applaud, including Sam, though in truth he was horrified, as well as excited, by what he had heard. From where had she got such ideas? Then he remembered. Of course, Aegon, Fifth of his name, had proposed similar laws, only to face revolt from the lords. Would the lords rise against her in fury? And what if they did? He had seen her armies. Relentless, unstoppable, invincible.

Oh foolish, foolish, child thought Olenna, as she pretended to applaud. Daenerys Targaryen would find a quick grave, and once poor Margaery had been avenged, and her family restored to power, she’d deal with her as she had the revolting Joffrey.

Chapter Text

Jon Connington, Hand to the King, rose early as ever, to attend to his duties. As he worked on his papers, so he thought of the past. After the fall of Storms End, the lovely Arianne Martell had won the heart of the young Prince. Very much against his advice. Wait for Daenerys Targaryen to come West, then unite their claims, he'd advised. But, mutual lust, combined with overweening ambition, had overcome good sense.

And, now look who was coming for them! Every day brought news of another island, or stronghold, lost to the Dragon Queen. Ten days previously, news had been brought of defeat outside Winterfell, although Stannis Baratheon was unlikely to make common cause with Daenerys. And her fleet now had a chokehold over the Blackwater Estuary, preventing any trade with the capital. Already, the first pangs of famine were being felt by the Smallfolk.

Between them, the Golden Company, and the Dornish had defeated Mace Tyrell, and the capital, already in chaos, had risen in revolt. And, that’s when things had started to go very wrong. He had intended to have Cersei Lannister and her children discreetly poisoned, and Casterly Rock given to some cadet branch of her family. Margaery Tyrell and her cousins, on the other hand, would have made useful hostages, to keep the Reach in line. There would be no need for more than a handful of executions. Most of the Dornish, led by Ser Daemon Sand, and the brood of Prince Oberyn, had very different ideas. Worse, Aegon himself shared their lust for vengeance. The boy he’d raised as a son had turned out very differently, to the father that Connington had loved. The Sand Snakes already had long lists of people marked down for destruction. Their names had been posted in Baelor’s Square, with rewards offered for their heads. Before long, hundreds of heads were decorating the city.

That had not been the worst. That came, some months after the city fell, when Aegon decreed that Tommen Falseborn, his wicked Queen, and her ladies, should be publicly burned, while Cersei and her daughter would be impaled. Even Queen Arianne had been appalled, joining him in pleading for their lives. It had made no difference.

”Traitors require exemplary harshness”, had been his response. “Tommen is an abomination and a bastard. Margaery Tyrell, and her clique, are a byword for depravity. They couple with men and women indiscriminately.” By this stage, he was sharing his bed with Tyene Sand, in preference to his wife. She had now borne him a bastard. The worst elements of the mob had certainly enjoyed the burnings, but the High Septon had been appalled. He and the majority of the Most Devout, had fled to Oldtown, and there pronounced sentence of excommunication upon them. The surviving Tyrells, Redwynes, and Hightowers had risen in revolt, as had much of the West. He'd led repeated military expeditions, which had contained, but not put down, the revolts. They had appointed Walder Frey's son, Luceon, as their own High Septon, and now the Great Sept and the Starry Sept exchanged anathemas.

But fortunes may change, and today was to be one of very mixed fortunes.

"Summon Lord Varys", he instructed one of his deputies, a former gaoler named Longwaters. The Master of Whisperers had performed sterling work, by murdering Ser Kevan Lannister, and Grand Maester Pycelle, and by stirring the population of the capital to revolt. Yet, his subsequent record had been more mixed. He had failed to prevent the escape of Cersei Lannister and her daughter, nor to assassinate them abroad. To his astonishment, it seemed that the Dragon Queen had favoured them. Varys had even reported a rumour that she and the former Queen were lovers, although that was hard to credit.

The eunuch seemed to just appear in the room, wearing a scent that resembled lemons.

"I have news my Lord," he began.

"Good or bad?"

"Very good, I'm pleased to say. Stannis Baratheon has been murdered, in White Harbour." Now that was excellent! "The assassin was a professional, yet guilty of multiple offences. His life was forfeit, and I sent him North with Ser Aurane Waters. He was promised immense reward, and a full pardon, should he succeed. Alas, he was captured, and sawn in half." Varys had hinted that he had such a scheme in place, though he preferred to keep his cards close to his chest.

"Why didn't he just run away?"

The eunuch smiled nastily. "His wife and children are currently held, securely. Had he betrayed us, they would have died, extremely painfully. Still, I shall release them, and give them the gold that was promised to the murderer. But, I bring still better news for you. I've been in communication with Randyll Tarly, for some time. "

"You were dangling the promise of Highgarden before him, as bait."

"Indeed. He's an ambitious toad, and now he's seized the castle from the Tyrells, in the name of our dear sovereign."

"I didn't think he was the type to betray his liege lord."

"Give me a fulcrum, and I can move the world. The Dragon Queen is a follower of the Red God, and many of her own followers are freedmen and Dothraki savages. Those facts persuaded him, in the end." Now, this did shift the balance of power in the Reach in their favour.

"If only Daenerys Targaryen had marched West sooner, we could have wed the two Targaryens."

"My wishes exactly, but if wishes were fishes, we'd all cast nets. Arianne Martell is a most unsatisfactory Queen. She has failed to bear our King an heir, and he looks elsewhere for solace. I believe that is past time that she met an "accident", do you not agree?" Connington nodded. "That would leave open the possibility, just maybe, of a reconciliation, and a marriage, between the pair."

"A nice idea, but we know Daenerys has promised vengeance to the Tyrells and Lannisters."

"And perhaps, we can give them that vengeance." What on earth did he mean?

"Not just Arianne, but the Dornish in general have proved a liability." Well, it was hard to disagree with that. "Suppose we were to offer our opponents the older children of the late, and unlamented, Prince Oberyn, together with Ser Daemon Sand, and others among their party. Might that not be sufficient to affect a reconciliation? We would say, the King was misled by his evil counsellors, who will now be delivered up to justice. Would anyone truly lament if they were to end their lives atop poles?"

"The King? Tyene Sand shares his bed. Prince Doran and Trystane?"

"Daenerys Targareyn is said to be the most beautiful woman in the world, and the daughter of a King. What is the baseborn daughter of a septa by comparison? As for Doran and his son, they are not over-fond of our dear Sand Snakes, and fear to lose the rule of Dorne. We can at least approach the Dragon Queen, to see if a peace is possible?"

"Go to it, Lord Varys. " Perhaps he had misjudged the eunuch, and he could work miracles after all, he thought, after he had left the chamber. He certainly felt a lot happier than he had for some time. Aegon must be made to see sense. And, Arianne had to be removed from the scene. She did little other than cry, pray, and reproach her lord husband.

It was then that Longwaters returned, panting heavily. Plainly he had just run up the stairs of the Hand's Tower. "Speak man, what ails you."

"It's the Queen's Grace, my lord. She has fled the city."

Chapter Text

Escaping the city had been easy. Septons and Septas could enter and leave, without restriction. Maegelle and Rhaena, two highborn ladies who were members of the order named The Sleepless, had taken her confession. Arianne had spoken to them, of her wish to beg mercy of the Dragon Queen, for her own people, even at the expense of her own life, and they had suggested she escape with them, disguised as a novice.

"She is a pagan", remarked Maegelle, "yet our sisters among the Eastern exiles have written to us, that she has endowed septs for their use in her Realms. Naturally, we must attempt to convert her, but better a pagan who favours our Faith, than a whoremonger who debauches his own septas and novices." They meant Luceon, the High Septon and son of Walder Frey, a man who shared his father's lusts. In happier days, like most of the Dornish court, she'd treated clerical celibacy as something of a joke. In Dorne, septons and septas had few qualms about taking lovers, sometimes even each other. But, views were very different, here.

They had thought, initially, of heading straight for the docks, and taking a ship for Dragonstone, but that was impossible. Every boat heading in or out, was being combed for spies and infiltrators. So, they’d set out on the Duskendale road, as pilgrims to the Motherhouse there. Arianne’s hair had been cropped short, in the manner of a novitiate, and half her face swathed in bandages. She hoped it would be sufficient disguise. Three lay brothers, armed with cudgels and swords, accompanied them. The roads were unsafe for women, even septas. Arianne, however, carried a pair of daggers of her own. Large numbers of the smallfolk were leaving the city, yet many were headed in the other direction. From talking to them, they learned the commons were in great fear. Some were afraid of the Dragon Queen and her armies, others feared to starve if they were trapped in the city, and would take their chances with relatives in outlying villages. In just two days on the road, she had learned a lot. It had never occurred to her, when she played the game of thrones, just how greatly the smallfolk would dread the approach of an army. Even when spared murder and rape, the pillage of livestock, crops, and firewood, condemned them to starvation. It added to the weight of guilt she felt for her actions.

The weather was fine to begin with, and camping out in the open was not too great a hardship, for one night. The second night, they found shelter in a septry. Things started to go wrong on the third day, when they encountered a barricade, manned by soldiers, who were checking every traveller on the road. The countryside was bare for miles around, and there was no way of slipping past without being detected, unless they turned back for the city, and began again. And who might they encounter along the way? For an hour, they shuffled forward in a queue, waiting their turn. Arianne's blood ran cold as they approached the guards. Some young lordling, with guards of his own, was complaining vociferously at the wait.

"Sorry, my lord, but we've got our orders. A very important person has fled the city, and we've got to search everyone." Of course, once she'd fled, they'd send out ravens and fast riders. She wondered what her fate would be if captured. Maybe they'd burn her alive, like Poor Tommen and Margaery. No doubt her fate would be similar, if she eventually reached the Dragon Queen. It was no better than she deserved.

They reached the barricade. The captain had a face like a pig, and his men were equally grim. "State your business", he commanded.

"We're travelling to the Motherhouse, at Duskendale", said Maegelle. "You can be assured our prayers are with the King's Grace and yourselves."

"That's as may be. " He stared at them, long and hungrily. Maegelle and Rhaena were both very attractive women, and Arianne had a nasty feeling that had no one else been present, the captain and his men might have assaulted them, regardless of their status. Finally, he said, "You're not who we're looking for? But this one?" He turned to Arianne, "remove her bandages." Her heart was in her mouth.

"That would be unwise", said Maegelle. "Novice Unella is a leper. There is a lazaret at Duskendale, where she is to be confined." The captain recoiled as if struck, before nodding at them to go through.

When they had a walked on out of earshot, Rhaena remarked, "We may not be so fortunate, the next time. There is a crossroads, two miles further. I suggest we turn East, back towards the coast. "

"You know this area well?" asked Arianne.

"I was born near Rosby. We were gentry, so we visited other gentry families, throughout the Crownlands. I know the district well." It began to rain as they walked on, turning into a downpour, by the time they'd reached the crossroads. They had cloaks, but still, it was miserable for them. "There's an inn, The Holly Bush, were I stayed in happier times. It's two hours' walk from here. I'd suggest we stay there, if we can find a chamber." They all trudged on, saying nothing to each other, with their heads down in the foul weather.

They reached the Inn eventually, where the Innkeep, a sour-faced old miser, demanded an outrageous price for a pair of chambers. "It's the war", he explained, although the Inn was far from crowded. Arianne was disposed to argue, but Maegelle just paid up. "We don't want to draw any attention to ourselves", she explained, afterwards. They ate together in their chamber, the lay brothers staying in the room next door. The food was a salty, overcooked stew with bits of fat and gristle floating in it, along with stale bread, and some sour wine. "The quality has clearly declined, since I was last here", remarked Rhaena. They had undressed, hanging up their wet robes to dry before the fire. They'd brought a change of clothing with them, leather jerkins and breeches, in place of septas' robes, which they put on. Arianne found herself drifting off, even as the other two sat up, talking softly to each other. For once, her sleep was dreamless.

She was awakened, by a loud commotion downstairs. Footsteps came pounding up the stairwell, kicking in bedroom doors. There were screams and curses, from down the corridor. They heard the Innkeep, a sound of vicious satisfaction in his voice, calling out "You'll find them in the two rooms at the end of the corridor." How the hell had he recognised them? Not that anything other than flight mattered now.

"We go out the window!" commanded Maegelle.

"The lay brothers?" said Arianne.

"Must take their own chances. Go!" She flung the window open, then virtually manhandled Arianne through it. She fell no great distance, onto a dungheap, she realised with disgust. She scrambled up, even as the other two jumped down after her. "To the stables", said Maegelle, and they ran hard for the stable block, only for three guards to emerge, blocking their presence. They were fucked! Arianne drew a dagger, swiftly, but really, it was hopeless, only for her to see one of the guards fall to the ground, a thrown knife protruding from his throat. One of the others flung himself on her, dragging her to the ground, and trying to disarm her. It was the work of a moment to drive her dagger through the man's jerkin and into his heart. She pushed him off, even as he retched blood, then leapt to her feet, seeing Rhaena neatly open the throat of the third. Was this a part of a septa's training, she wondered, giggling insanely? She guessed later, the men had fought badly, because they must have had orders to capture, rather than kill. Each of them took a horse by the reins, and led it out of the stable. She mounted hers, even as she heard men pounding out of the Inn after them. They kicked hard, and the horses took off. The Innkeep, motivated more by greed than good sense, suddenly appeared in their path, a cudgel in his arms, only to scream as Maegelle slashed him across the face with a short sword she'd taken from a dead guard. Then, they galloped hard down the road, into the night, for several miles, before Rhaena led them off into a thick wood. They dismounted and kept walking for perhaps four hundred yards, down a trail that she was plainly familiar with. And, there, as they came into a moonlit clearing, a score of men were waiting for them, .

More men came up behind them. Flight, and fight, were plainly pointless now.

"That was smart work, ladies", said their leader, a smooth-faced, young man.

"I apologise for the deception, my lady, but it was necessary," said Maegelle to Arianne. "Even among the Sleepless, the Queen's Grace has her agents. I've been a whore, an assassin, a sellsword, before finally, I took my vows. Rhaena? Well, she can tell you her own life story, if she wishes."

"Might I at least know who has taken me into custody?" asked Arianne.

"You may", replied the man. "My own men call me the Sirdar, but my name is the one I took on the day I was freed. I am Grey Worm."

Chapter Text

“Fetch Lady Myrcella and Lady Joy, they must be present,” commanded the Queen. Modestus nodded to Ygritte, and she rose wearily to her feet. Her bump was showing, and she’d been excused the harder forms of training, and her duties as a bodyguard. Now, she was bearing errands. The castle was abuzz with the news that the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had been taken captive, and there was widespread speculation about her fate. Many favoured her execution, although others thought she had value as a hostage.

Myrcella, Joy, and the Queen’s adoptive daughter, Missandei were inseparable, so she was not surprised to find them together, in Myrcella's chambers. Missandei was playing cyvasse against the other two, and winning easily, it seemed. “She always does,” said Joy, ruefully. Ygritte led them to the throne room. Missandei came with the others, even though she wasn't explicitly included in the order. As they walked back to the throne room, so Myrcella explained her past history and how the Dornish had treated her. By the end of it, Ygritte would happily have opened Arianne Martell's throat herself. Myrcella was a sweet, gentle, girl, and thinking of the way she'd been treated made her blood boil. Skilfully, she used make up, to disguise the scar left by Darkstar, and she’d grown her hair long, to hide the loss of an ear. But, she’d been through horrors no child should suffer.

Child? It was funny to see Myrcella that way, given she was married, and only a few years younger, but she was an innocent, right enough. Ygritte had been told about the Faith, which most kneelers followed, and she reckoned Myrcella would be much better off living in a Motherhouse. She wouldn't last five minutes, North of the Wall.

They entered the throne room, and bowed before the Queen, before taking their seats. She recognised Grey Worm, Malazza, and Orhan , along with Olenna Tyrell, and various guards and courtiers.

Kneeling before the throne, hands bound in fetters, was a most attractive olive-skinned woman, with black hair cut short. Standing on either side were two more good-looking women. The Queen seemed to surround herself with beautiful women, she thought idly. She turned her attention back to the prisoner.

"Princess Arianne, are you truly so eager to die?" said Daenerys.

"Your Grace, I've come to beg mercy for my people, not for myself", she replied.

"I have no quarrel with the smallfolk of Dorne. You and your family? That is a very different matter. In Meereen, a mother grieves for her beloved son, cruelly murdered before her eyes, as does his sister, in this very room. Also in this room, a grandmother grieves for her granddaughter, likewise murdered. I have promised all of them vengeance on you, and the rest of the Martells. Why should I let you live?"

Ygritte sensed real anxiety in Myrcella and Joy, sitting on either side of her. But it was Olenna who reacted first. She stalked towards Arianne, bent over, and then spat in her face, before striking her, knocking her on her back. One of the guards restrained Olenna, while the other helped her back up.

"I am guilty of much, your Grace, Lady Olenna, but I am innocent of those murders. I begged for their lives. I am despised as much by my husband and cousins, as by all of you."

"Can anyone attest to the truth of this?" asked Daenerys.

One of the guards spoke up. " Your Grace, neither I nor Rhaena were present when Tommen, Margaery, and the rest were put to death. But, other septons and septas have confirmed that the Princess did speak out against the their deaths. She has been held a virtual prisoner in the Red Keep, as a result."

"Even If I were to grant you the benefit of the doubt, Arianne Martell, what of Lady Myrcella, cruelly mutilated because of your games? You sought to pitch her into a fight with her brother. That would have resulted in the death of one, perhaps both of them. Do you deny it?"

"I can see that now. I can only say, I did not see that at the time."

"I think that Lady Myrcella should determine whether you live or die."

Even looking back on it, Ygritte couldn't understand quite why she jumped to her feet, and spoke up. They were kneelers after all, but she'd become fond of Myrcella. "She don't deserve that... Your Grace," she added hurriedly.

Daenerys looked shocked, before replying "Of course she does."

"Not this Princess, your Grace. But Myrcella, she can't have that on her soul. You're the Queen, and you has to decide her fate. If you say she dies, well, I'll open her throat myself. She's got it coming. But it has to be your decision." She stole a glance at Myrcella's husband, who looked distinctly unhappy.

For a while, the Queen said nothing. Then the guard spoke up again. "Your Grace, Princess Arianne came here, freely, to face your judgement. Surely, that must be taken into account. What if your Grace were to command that she join our Order?"

"And how would you respond to the prospect of a life, spent in service to the Seven?" Daenerys asked the prisoner.

"I would consider it a mercy, your Grace. I would take my vows."

" After I have taken Kings Landing, I shall make full enquiry, into your actions. Even if you are guiltless of the murder of innocents, you remain an attainted traitor, and as such, your life is forfeit. But, my ancestress, Queen Rhaenyra spared the lives of the usurpers, Alicent Hightower and Helaena Targaryen. I would therefore be minded to spare you, upon condition that you take a septa's vows. Until then, you shall remain a prisoner here, in conditions appropriate to your station. As to your family, for your husband and cousins, there can be no mercy. As to your father and brother, let them make submission, and they shall be spared, upon pain of forfeiting half their lands, and ceasing to rule Dorne. Now, leave us."

Ygritte departed with the three young women. "That was bold of you, Ygritte", said Myrcella.

"Did I do right? Maybe you did want to punish her?"

"I wanted to kill her. I've dreamed of it, for years. But seeing her there ... so broken, so pathetic. I couldn't. We were friends, and if she did speak up for Tommen, and the others, well, maybe it's right she becomes a septa. But, if I'd spared her, Orhan would have said I was weak." She saw tears in her eyes. Ygritte sensed that her marriage might not be a happy one, but she had no desire to pry.

In fact, Ygritte guessed rightly. Daenerys was alone in her chambers with her step-son, later, when he asked her:

"I'd have had that spear-wife whipped, if she spoke like that to me. So tell me, was it Princess Arianne's pretty face, or her huge tits, that led you to spare her?" Dany froze, before replying:

"I don't think that's any concern of yours, Orhan."

"It's why you spared my good-mother, isn't it? " There was real venom in his voice. Dany turned to face him.

"Are you jealous? You have a beautiful wife. It's none of your business where I find my own pleasures."

"What I have, is a girl who is silly and childish, even for her years. What I want is a woman grown." She fixed him with a hard stare.

"What you want, with me, will never take place. Your own father would kill you, if it did. I'm not happy with the way you treat Myrcella, either. She is one of the greatest noblewomen of the Seven Kingdoms, and you'll treat her with the respect that she's due. You could also treat her with a little kindness, too. " Her step-son glared at her, and for a moment, she wondered if he was going to try to force himself on her. She knew what he felt for her. But then, he turned on his heel, and stalked out of the chamber.

That one would bear watching. How could such a shrewd, able, father, produce a son who was turning out such a disappointment?

Chapter Text

Irri had been pleasantly surprised by White Harbour, after she and Monterys Velaryon had docked there, the day before yesterday. The city was small, by the standards of the East, but much cleaner, and evidently prosperous. It was mainly built of fine, light-grey stone. No doubt it had its stews and rookeries, but she had seen little visible sign of poverty. She walked out onto the balcony of the chamber she'd been allotted, in the New Castle, seat of the Manderly clan. The grey Ocean stretched back all the hundreds of miles she'd sailed from Dragonstone. A hard frost lay on the tile and slate roofs of the houses, reflecting the rays of the bright winter sun, that ran down to the great harbour, thronged with shipping. Yes, the sight was beautiful, but the cold was livering. She wore a thick wolf-fur coat, provided by her hosts.

She smiled, as she thought back to the brief, but extremely passionate reunion, which she'd enjoyed with her old friend and lover, at Dragonstone. "I'll find another chamber to sleep in, tonight", Princess Missandei had remarked to her pointedly, on the evening of her arrival there. That one missed nothing. Her husband would have been furious, but he'd been dead six months, and so she'd journeyed East with their boy, Elias, intending to catch up with Daenerys at Pentos. There, she found she'd won a great naval battle, and taken up her seat at Dragonstone. Irri had followed her. She'd only been on the island for a week, before the Queen had sent her, with Lord Velaryon, as her envoy to the North. Another party had been despatched to the Vale, which she was told, had remained neutral in this fight.

At a meeting of Dany's Small Council, she'd been given a full briefing on the Northern situation. It seemed that a man named Jon Snow, a bastard of the former lord, and the pretender Stannis Baratheon, had overthrown Aegon's allies, taking back Winterfell, the Starks' castle. Stannis, however, had been murdered by an assassin. Daenerys had said she had no quarrel with the son of Ned Stark, and Irri had been instructed that he would be confirmed as Lord and Warden in the North, upon condition that he travelled to Dragonstone to offer fealty. Ravens had flown between Dragonstone and White Harbour, prior to her arrival on the island, and Lord Manderly had confirmed that the envoys would be offered bread and salt.

Another matter had been discussed, more privately between the two of them, as they lay together, in the royal bed. Daenerys would need to take a husband as consort. The bastard of a great lord, who had proved himself in war, would be ideal. She wanted Irri to form an assessment of him, and:

"If that means you must bed him, then by all means do so. Men share confidences in bed." So did women, for that matter.

”Your romantic life is becoming complicated. Me, Jelme, the beautiful Cersei Lannister, and now perhaps, this Jon Snow.” She giggled.

”It always has been. At least since I was wed to Drogo.”

”That bastard!”

”I know. I persuaded myself, we were in love, the way a bedslave might persuade herself. In truth, I was just his child whore, to be used in any way he wished.”

”That was plain to all of us.”

”You and Jhiqui showed me real love. And Doreah. I’ll always be thankful.”

”Did I hurt you, when I said I didn’t wish to be your servant any longer?”

”You did, actually.” Irri tensed. “But, you were right. I need people around me who’ll answer me back. There’s a spearwife, Ygritte, who always speaks her mind. Most nobles would whip her. But, how can I rule effectively, if people are afraid to speak up. Oh, and she’s about to give birth to Jon Snow’s child. She hates the man.”

”So, he threw her out?”

”It’s complicated. Jon Snow took her prisoner, and spared her life. Among her people, that means a man is taking a woman to wife. They became lovers, but it turned out, he was just spying on her people. Then, she was captured again, while fighting against him. They resumed their affair, only for this man’s sister to show up. She thinks the pair of them became lovers. “

Irri exclaimed in shock.

”Well, my own parents were brother and sister. But, it’s considered a dreadful crime, in the North. So, Ygritte was pregnant, by this point, and he sent her away, with some money. Which is more than most lords would do, to be fair, but she sees it as a whore’s payment. One of her companions says they were meant to go to a place of learning, where they’d be safe from the war, and he would have sent her more money, but they jumped ship at Pentos.”

”Why would you consider marrying such a man?”

”He rules the North, but he’s too lowborn to take the Iron Throne. Now, Lady Olenna would have me choose her grandson, Willas, but he’s the richest lord in the Realm. He would be treated as King, and I as his consort.”

”It seems I’m going into a hornet’s nest.”

”I’ll try to make it up to you.” Dany bent her head, and Irri gasped, as she felt her lover take her left nipple in her mouth, and gently slide her hand between her thighs, just the way she liked.

A delightful memory, but it was time to consider the matter at hand. She must meet the rulers of the North. A servant led her to the audience chamber, where Lord Velaryon was already waiting. Seated on a dais were a handsome, dark-haired man, with scars, on his right cheek, a striking red-haired woman, and a morbidly obese man of late middle age. The chamberlain introduced them as Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the nights Watch and Protector of the Realm, Lady Sansa of Winterfell and Lord Manderly. She and Velaryon bowed to them.

"I trust your journey was a pleasant one", remarked Snow.

"Uneventful, and swift, your Excellency", replied Velaryon. "But the cold, well, that's another matter. Let me thank you all for receiving us." They exchanged trivialities, until Snow came to the point.

"What is that you want of us, my lord."

"I believe we have common enemies. The government at Kings Landing is evil, and needs to be brought down. The Reach and the West are openly in revolt. My Queen, Daenerys of House Targaryen, is the rightful sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms. And, she is winning. She has defeated the enemy at sea, and her fleet blockades the capital. Her armies have taken Tarth, the Stepstones, Massey’s Hook, Rooks Rest, Cracklaw Point, and they advance on Duskendale. Reinforcements are ready to sail from the East."

"I agree we have a common enemy. But, my late brother re-established the North as a separate kingdom. We might consider an alliance with your Queen, but we have no reason to rejoin the Seven Kingdoms."

"Yet, you supported Stannis Baratheon."

"Stannis Baratheon is now dead."

"There is also the matter of the Riverlands." added Lady Sansa. "I have heard nothing of my uncle, who was taken prisoner by House Frey. As the last surviving granchild of Lord Hoster, they are mine by right of inheritance. "

Irri spoke up. "My lady, if you are seceding from the Seven Kingdoms, it seems to me that any claim you may have to the Riverlands must disappear."

"Not in the least. I am willing to perform homage for the Riverlands to Daenerys Targaryen. The status of the North has no bearing upon my claim. Now as to her proposed "reforms", it would seem that your Queen is shallow, ignorant, and naive, and has little knowledge of the Seven Kingdoms. Who would work the land if the smallfolk could leave their estates at will? Where would the money be found for our castles, our palaces, our places of learning and worship? How could any lord govern their lands, or protect their people, without the right to execute criminals, at need? A thief or an outlaw threatens the wellbeing of every inhabitant in a village. Of course, such a one must be hanged, and the villeins themselves would expect this to be done, for their own safety. Regardless of the North's status, I shall never implement such laws on the territories I rule."

"Forgive me for being blunt, my lady, but I have heard similar arguments in the East, from masters who kept five parts of the population as chattel. What was it one Great Master said, ah yes, "Ask yourself, if all men must grub in the dirt for food, how shall any man lift his eyes to contemplate the stars? If each of us must break his back to build a hovel, who shall raise the temples to glorify the gods? For some men to be great, others must be enslaved,"" Lady Sansa looked as if she'd swallowed a lemon at that point. Good! "Yet, it turned out that the freedmen were quite capable of farming estates, working as merchants, or artisans, without being compelled by the whip. Meereen is more prosperous than ever it has been under the rule of the masters. There are men and women of brilliance among the smallfolk. They might surprise you, my lady. To those lords who bend the knee, Queen Daenerys will guarantee their lands and their wealth. And indeed, offer recompense for freeing their people. But, she will make life fairer for the smallfolk, in this Realm, as in the East."

"We digress", said Snow. "Your Queen must acknowledge the North as a separate Realm, for there to be an alliance."

"Allow me to be blunt in turn, your Excellency", said Velaryon. "Your brother, may the Gods have mercy upon him, led fifteen thousand men of the North to an early grave, in pursuit of a crown. Across the South, towns and villages were burned, mothers and maidens were violated, by your brother's men."

"That was Lannister work!" snapped Sansa. "The work of your Queen's allies."

"Lord Tywin was a monster, who employed monsters in his service, true. But, your brother's men peformed many cruel deeds as well. There's a reason why the Southrons call your men "The Wolves". My point is, that your people are not viewed kindly in the South. A Queen must rule in the interests of her people. Her people would view yours as enemies. They would look askance at any ruler who expended resources on behalf of the North, in time of famine, or war. But, if you bend the knee, why, you are her people as much as any Southron, and you are entitled to her protection."

Lady Sansa was about to retort, but Jon Snow took her hand. It was Lord Manderly who responded. "You've given us a great deal to consider. No doubt you have matters to consider as well. Let us continue these discussions, later, in a more private setting."

That seemed sensible. There seemed little common ground, thought Irri, but an agreement was in the interests of all. The offer of a marriage was not a card that had to be played at this point. As she left, she suppressed a smile. Lady Sansa was easily one of the most beautiful women she'd ever set eyes upon, but one icy bitch. Perhaps Daenerys could melt her, if she took her into her bed, along with her brother.

Chapter Text

“I am sorry, that was rude of me.” Irri had sought her out, the day following the audience, and they were sharing a flagon of wine in her chambers. To her surprise, Sansa had found herself warming to the young Dothraki woman. “But, I’ve seen the mob rise up in revolt. They are terrible!” She clenched her fists, and shut her eyes, as she remembered the riot in Kings Landing. Remembered the three men chasing her into a hovel, then ripping the clothes from her back, knowing that she’d be raped over again, that she’d be begging them to kill her, long before they did so. Remembered too, how the kennel-master's daughter, Myranda, had loved to degrade and torment her.

”They are terrible. I saw and heard things, when Meereen and Yunkai fell, things I wish I had never seen and heard. I won’t go into details, I’m sure you can imagine what took place. Most slaves hate their masters, and they had the chance to pay them back for centuries of suffering. I can’t say, what they did was right, but I can’t condemn them, either. I was a slave for a time. I know what it is to hate a master.”

“But, you’re a princess? Royal captives must surely be treated with honour?" Or maybe not. They'd burned poor, dear, Margaery, after all.

“And yet, I was treated as the meanest slave. And yes, as a princess, I ought to have been betrothed to the son of one of the nobles in the khalasar. That is our custom. And, not even wed, until I reached my sixteenth name day. But Drogo was a vile man, who treated all women as whores.”

Sansa had to speak frankly now, and the wine helped her. “Your Queen has the reputation of being someone who delights in cruelty, just as her father did. He burned men and women in wildfire, for his own amusement. She crucifies and impales her enemies, and has them trampled by elephants. She dances on their graves.”

”That last is a lie.”

”So, the rest is true?”

”Partly. She can be cruel to her enemies, I won’t deny it. But, there is a context. At Astapor, the masters gelded kidnapped boys, and treated them so harshly that three parts of them died. When she marched on Meereen, the masters nailed 163 children to posts, and cut their stomachs open.” Sansa exclaimed in disgust. “Some of them were just about alive, when we found them, dying by inches. There was no hope for them, so we had to kill them, as an act of mercy. Daenerys ensured they all received a decent burial. So, when the city fell, she demanded they hand over 163 of their leaders, to be crucified. That was not unjust, but it was a mistake, for hundreds of guilty men still went free, and many of them rose in revolt, later on.”

”Impalement is a bad death, but it is commonly used in the East. And the men who suffered that fate were vile men, who inflicted far worse upon the innocent. Likewise, those who were trampled at Volantis. My Queen has compassion for the innocent.”

”I understand. My brother and I, we’ve inflicted cruel deaths upon evil men. But, what if she decided that I deserved to be impaled or crucified or burned alive, for my sins?”

”Surely, you’ve done nothing to merit such punishment?”

”My father was a traitor, as she would see it. So am I, and Jon. I have ... done things in my life that cause me shame. Beyond that, you compared me to an Eastern master."

"That was unfair, too", replied Irri. "I apologise."

"But, it's not wholly wrong. I know that all the things I enjoy in my life, that other lords and ladies enjoy, are paid for by the smallfolk. My dresses, my jewels, my horses and hunting dogs, my wines and costly spices, I know where they come from. And, I've no intention of giving them up. In this life, you're either the one living in the castle, or the one tilling the fields, and I know which of the two I prefer. But, I have spent time, now, among the villeins, hearing their grievances. And, by and large, they seem content, so long as they aren't treated too badly. That's why the mob rose, because they were starving, and King Joffrey was a monster. But, I fear that your Queen will foster discontent among them, by making them promises we cannot afford. And, nor will they respect us - or her - if she spares thieves and outlaws. "

Irri took her hand, something she rather liked the feel of. Nobody, apart from Jon, ever showed her affection. "Perhaps you should talk to Daenerys then. She welcomes plain speech. And, she bears no ill-will to either you or you brother. Bend the knee and you will enjoy her favour, and ....", she saw Irri musing for a while "she seeks a husband." Oh Gods! Her own brother, whom she had exchanged her own vows with! Yet, it would make them safe from their enemies, at last, a royal, not just a lordly, family.

"Do I take it that Daenerys Targaryen wishes to wed me?" asked Jon, as they lay together in bed, that night.

"Lady Irri dropped a broad hint that she did. I can guess why. You bring the North, but, as a bastard, you can't challenge her right to rule."

"Well, it's out of the question. You and I are I wed."

"Will you tell her that, or shall I?" she remarked, drily.

"You actually think I should go through with it?"

"I don't want it, Jon. I want to stand before the world, and declare that we are man and wife, just as the Targarens did. I want to bear your children, and for them to inherit Winterfell when I'm gone. But, I also want us to be safe. Were you to marry her, it need not change what takes place between us."

"You think she'd be happy with it?"

"We'd need to be discreet, obviously."

"Perhaps I should tell Irri that I prefer boys." Sansa laughed at that.

"She'd probably want to convert you. I think you should travel to Dragonstone, find out what she's truly like." She frowned. "There's one thing I don't understand. Cersei Lannister fled East, and Daenerys gave her refuge. Why? She's one of the world's vilest women, as bad as this Aegon and his followers. And, Myrcella enjoys great favour. Now, I knew Myrcella, and she was sweet and gentle, nothing like her mother. But, why should Cersei's crimes go unpunished? "

"She bent the knee in time?"

"It troubles me what influence the Lannisters will have. If anyone deserved a slow death by fire, it was that bitch, not her poor son." Time had not lessened her hatred for Queen Cersei. She rose from the bed. It was time to return to her chamber, where Kyra had warmed the bed for her. Great peril lay ahead, but great opportunity as well.

Chapter Text

A keen wind ruffled Jon's hair, on board The Cinnamon Wind, as they stood out from Gulltown. It had been a fine voyage, taking no more than a week to sail from White Harbour. With luck, they could reach Dragonstone in five days. He'd left Sansa as Regent of the North, and taken her advice to meet the Dragon Queen. He couldn't say he relished the prospect, either of meeting her, or of marrying her, but politics makes for strange bedfellows. Like the one who approached him, as he gazed out over the ship's stern. Lady Melisandre, the Red Witch.

"A fine wind", she remarked.

"Tolerable". He wished she'd go away.

"You don't like me, do you?"

"Why should I? You led Stannis to disaster. I won't allow you to lead me down the same path.”

"My God granted King Stannis victory in war. But, he lacked faith. He refused to give up his daughter. My God forsook him."

"What kind of God would demand the murder of an innocent girl?"

"My God. And your gods. You know it. Lady Val is a heathen, like so many of her people; like you. Yet, she knows the power of sacrifice."

"So have you seen me, in your fires?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. And, yours is a mighty destiny."

"Spare me your claptrap." And, then Jon gave a start, as for a fleeting second, Sansa appeared before him. Then it was the Red Woman again.

"I know who has your heart. I see a future where you and she will rule this land as King and Queen." Was it that obvious? "Oh, you hide it well, but the fires reveal much. The guilty passion of an older brother, for his younger sister. The sister he remembers emerging, in all her naked beauty, from the warm pool at Winterfell, where she was wont to bathe.” Gods! It was an image he'd often touched himself to, when younger.

"You disgust me!" Melisandre smiled again.

"You need not feel guilt, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, for she is your cousin, not your sister." Jon stared at her, in disbelief.

"You lie shamelessly."

"Prince Rhaegar ran off with his Lyanna. Your mother. Your father is not Ned Stark. He raised you as his, to keep his oath to his sister, but in truth, he resented you. He sent you to die at the Wall. Yet, the Lord of Light had other plans for you. He will make you his champion in this Middle Earth!"

"Piss and wind, my lady. Excuse me, but I have duties to attend to."

"There is more. You will wed this Daenerys Targaryen. Wed her, bed her, and betray her. With words of love and loyalty on your lips, you will clasp her in your arms, and plunge your dagger into her trusting heart. She worships the Lord, and it is her destiny to be his sacrifice, as was Nissa Nissa. She will die as you hold her, the agony of your treachery worse by far than the pain in her breast, and you will weep for her. But, then you will ascend the throne of your ancestors. You will take fair Sansa as your Queen and you will light the Lord’s fires across this land." He listened with horror, as he imagined what it meant. A world grown dark with the smoke of sacrifice; of men and women chained to stakes, screaming as red clergy came forth with burning torches. And of him, presiding over it all, with Sansa by his side.

"You misjudge me, if you believe me that kind of man".

"Your wildling lover might disagree with that assessment." As ever, he felt a stab of guilt over Ygritte. He could only hope she was safe now, in Oldtown. "It matters not what you want. The Will of God is inexorable. And, you are his Chosen. You will betray all, deceive all, and in the end, it will have been worth it." Jon walked away from her. He couldn't deny, she knew *something*. She knew he and Sansa were lovers, but the rest? That was nonsense. But was it? There was an uncomfortable degree of truth in what she'd said about Ned Stark. Lady Catelyn had hated him, and the man himself? Well, he'd left him a choice between the Wall, or making a living as a sellsword. It was no thanks to either of them that he'd survived. Was he really the son of Rhaegar Targayen, a man he’d been taught was a vile rapist? It would change things, utterly, between him and Sansa if it were true. They could wed, without fear of revolt. It occurred to him, that meant Daenerys Targaryen might be his own aunt.

He was still pondering it all, when he heard a knock on the door of his cabin. It was Lady Irri, the alluring Dothraki envoy. He poured wine for her.

"I presume that your sister has told you, that my Queen seeks a consort."

"Aye, she told me. And the reasons. I bring the North, but I'm too lowborn to challenge her for the throne." Was he lowborn? If Rhaegar and Lyanna were his truly his parents ... well. It was one thing to be a bastard born of a serving girl and some lord, but the bastard of a Prince and one of the highest noblewomen in the Realm? That was something else. Irri nodded.

"Politics compels the highborn to wed those they barely know, yet rest assured, my Queen is as beautiful, even, as Lady Sansa." Fuck it, did even Irri know the truth of what took place between them? "And she is skilled in the arts of love." There was a wistful look on Irri's face. Did that suggest ... that the Dragon Queen actually had taken this woman as a lover? The thought would once have appalled him, yet he knew it now to be a common enough practice, whatever the Faith might say, especially among highborn women, who feared to bear a bastard. Men would pay whores to perform such acts of love with each other, before their gaze. At the Wall, for that matter, were men who coupled with other men. His own steward, Satin, had been a male whore of striking beauty. Sansa herself, had hinted, on occasion, that she had similar desires. Plainly, she'd loved poor Margaery Tyrell intensely. She'd obviously loathed the Beast's paramour, Myranda, but even so, and very much against her will, she'd taken pleasure from some of the things that woman did to her. Just what would take place, in his absence, between Sansa and her pretty bedmaid, Kyra?

"Daenerys Targaryen will not dissolve the Realm", continued the woman. "If she were to let the North secede, why, every other part of the Seven Kingdoms would demand the same. Seven Kingdoms would war perpetually for mastery, and territory. Yet, who better would serve the interests of the North than the Queen's consort? And, your sister would be Lady of the Riverlands. Truly, the Starks would be the first family of this Realm." It was, it must be admitted, a tempting offer. They talked for a while, before she left.

The rest of the voyage was uneventful, at least until they reached Dragonstone. An honour guard awaited him, at the harbour, along with a crowd of onlookers. Among the latter, stood a young man, in a half-helm and padded jack, staring at him with distaste. And next to him, a young woman. And, oh fuck ... that woman was Gilly! What was she doing here, glaring at him like a basilisk? And that young man? No, it couldn't be, but it was! Ygritte. She smiled sardonically, before remarking, softly, but just about loud enough for him to hear, "Jon Snow, his own fucking self. I guess some kinds of shit, they always floats to the top." He turned away, following the guards up the path to the castle.

Chapter Text

"I hates him, an' I hope he dies!" said Gilly to Ygritte, as they watched Jon Snow go past. "And her!" she added, as she saw the Red Witch disembark from the ship. The intensity of her hatred for the man surprised even her. Yet, there was not a night she didn't pray for her boy, left behind at the Wall, nor worry if he was still alive. Then the Red Woman stopped and stared at her intently;

"Your boy is safe and well." Melisandre then walked away. Safe and well? For a moment, she was relieved, but then she thought some more. "Is she lying to me?" she asked Ygritte, feeling tears starting.

Ygritte put her arms around her. "Right, we go to Andrastos, and we get an answer. We wear the Queen's livery, and that means we're under her protection. That also means, if someone murders one of our own, she has to avenge it. It don't matter how important Jon Snow is, we’ll get justice." Ygritte had given birth a week ago, to a daughter. Gilly had tended her, while she screamed in the birthing chamber. Yet here she was, back on her feet, full of energy as ever.

Gilly rose, and nodded, before they set off back to the castle. It was perhaps an hour's walk to the very heart of the palace, and the Queen was already hosting an audience with the visitors. She had returned to Dragonstone, just a few hours previously, on the back of Drogon. It seemed she'd taken a place called Duskendale, a hundred miles and fifty away. Other towns had fallen, Maidenpool, Saltpans, and Lord Harroway's Town. Two days previously, Andrastos had taken her to a room called The Chamber of the Painted Table, which showed, in a form he called a map, a picture of all the Seven Kingdoms. It fascinated her. He’d given her documents he called despatches, and told her to match the places they described, to the map that was painted on the table. She understood now, just how big the kneelers' country was, and how much land her mistress had conquered. Andrastos eventually emerged from the audience. He listened as first Gilly, then Ygritte stated their grievances. "The Queen's Grace will be informed", was all he could promise.

For the best part of a week, Gilly continued at her work, sewing and embroidering clothing. She supposed it was too much to hope that any of the highborn, even Queen Daenerys, would truly care about either her or Ygritte, and the wrongs that had been done them. Until the chamberlain approached her. "The Queen's Grace will see you both, now."

When she entered the Queen's private chambers, Ygritte was already waiting there. She could sense how she seethed with anger. They waited for the Queen, who entered wearing a severe black dress, fringed with scarlet, with her family sigil embroidered on the breast. The three of them sat down together, on a couch, lined with silk. The chamber was beautiful, decorated with more coloured glass, which she now knew was called mosaic, and sea shells. It had a fine view over the Blackwater Bay.

"Jon Snow did you wrong, Gilly. He insists that he feared that the son of Mance Rayder would be sacrificed, as he possesses king's blood, whereas your child would be safe. I believe that he meant well", Ygritte snorted with contempt in response, "but he was naive in the extreme, and in any event, he had no business taking a boy from his mother. He assures me, as does Lady Melisandre, that the boy is alive and well. Now, between you and me, I've had as much of the Red Woman's company as I can stomach. As have Moqorro, and the other clergy who came West. They view her as a fanatic. I have given orders that she will return to Castle Black, and stay there. At the same time, my own men will travel with her, and return with your boy, and the Lady Shireen. Can you believe, her own mother is eager to burn the girl, thinking of her as a curse?'

"By the Dead!" exclaimed Gilly. "She's the sweetest, gentlest, girl I ever met. She taught me to read. "

" Her mother's one evil bitch", said Ygritte. "Your Grace", she added, hurriedly. "I seen her looking at that poor girl, and just dreaming of tying her to a stake, an’ setting her afire. She daren't do it when her husband was alive. But now?"

"This world is an evil place for girls", replied Daenerys. "They get children raped into them when they've barely flowered; sacrificed for victory in battle, or when the crops fail; sold into brothels; they get called whores, simply because their parents weren't married to each other. I try to shelter Myrcella, and Joy, and Missandei, but maybe that’s a mistake.”

”It ain’t, but may I say something?” The Queen nodded. “Myrcella and Joy are innocents. Their Faith has septas and Motherhouses. Wouldn’t they be safest there?” Dany thought, then replied,

”If that’s what either girl wanted, I would support her in that. But, it can only be her decision."

"Thank you, your Grace," said Gilly. She'd been wrong to ever doubt her. The Queen nodded, before continuing,

"You won't like what I'm about to say, but Jon and I are likely to wed."

"Oh for fuck's sake, are you mad?" cried Ygritte. "I'm sorry, your Grace. But, he'll turn on you like a snake, the moment it suits him! I promise you that."

"Politics, Ygritte, it's all politics. He and his sister bring the North and perhaps, the Riverlands."

"But, I've told you what goes on between them!"

"Whatever has taken place between them will end, when he is wed. "

"Ygritte's right your Grace. It's a really bad idea! He's pure evil. " Then a terrible thought struck her. "An' what happens to Ygritte's daughter? He'll want to claim her. She'll be a princess." Ygritte looked fit to burst with fury.

"The girl is yours. He lost any right to raise her as his daughter, when he sent you away. But, the girl must be supported as she deserves. I shall give her lands, to be held for her, until she comes of age."

"She'll be a lady, with a mother who's a whore!"

"Don't call yourself names, Ygritte."

"It's how the world will see it."

Gilly could see the Queen starting to get annoyed. "What the world will see are a mother and a daughter who very much enjoy the favour of their monarch. Believe me, you'll have no shortage of suitors from the highest families in the land, queuing up to wed her in due course. And kissing your feet in the process." Gilly realised it was time to leave. She rose.

"Your Grace, we're both very grateful, we really are. " She gave Ygritte a hard stare, who said "I'm sorry I shot my mouth off. You really are very kind, your Grace. Far more than any other highborn."

"I don't mind plain speech, Ygritte, but do try to keep a hold of your temper."

They left the chamber, talking as they walked through the palace. "He'll betray her, I know it", said Ygritte. "He can suck a cunt, right well, but he's still a cockroach."

"Then, we has to keep a close watch on him, Ygritte. And gut him, the moment he makes his move." Her friend nodded, and then they made their way to the nursery, where the girl was waiting for her mother.

Chapter Text

“By all accounts, you’re a very wicked man”, remarked Daenerys playfully, as she strolled with Jon, in Aegon’s garden. “You seduce and abandon women, in breach of your vows, you torture your captives, you stole a child from a young woman. They say …. “ , and here, she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “you enjoy carnal knowledge of your own sister.” She was amused to see Jon blush. The man was a rogue, but so were most men, and she found herself enjoying his company.

“Coming from a Targaryen, that seems like a strange criticism. As to the rest, well, what the world has to say about you makes my own sins and crimes pall by comparison.” He smiled as a he spoke.

“Yes, but I’m supposed to be evil. I’m a Targaryen. You’re a Stark, a family that’s a byword for honour and moral purity.” Jon burst out laughing.

”You don’t believe that, do you?”

”No, but I’d be interested to hear your views.”

”As high a honour." The motto of the Arryns, but my own family might have claimed it for their own. From a very early age, it was drummed home to me just what an honour it was to be a Stark, even if I was a bastard, lesser. It's only over the past few months, I've worked out it was all a bloody lie. My own dear … father loved me so much that he sent me to the Wall. I’d been fed a load of horseshit about how it was a great honour for a bastard to take the Black. At the same time, it was made clear that I could expect to inherit nothing from the richest man in the North. When I got to the Wall, I found myself among the legion of the damned. They were almost all, men condemned to death, traitors if highborn, murderers, thieves, and rapers, if lowborn. Brutal death at the hands of the free folk was our expected fate. It’s no thanks to my father, or Lady Catelyn, that I survived.” She was sure he was being sincere. In fact, he seemed to be unburdening himself.

”Oddly enough, it was the Red Woman who made this very plain to me, on the way here. I detest her, but she spoke the truth, in that at least. At some level, I’d always known it, but I'd lied to myself about it. Now, for the rest, I’ve learned that my father's men, murdered, raped, and burned, when the Iron islands rebelled. And my brother’s men did exactly the same, in the South. Twenty thousand young men went South, and three thousand returned. We won the North by bringing fire and blood to our rivals, just as your family won the Iron Throne. Yes, it was war, and terrible things happen in war, I don't need to tell you that. There are worse out there, like Aegon and his cousins, or the Freys, but we aren't paragons, and we never have been. It’s actually Sansa who’s delved into the less savoury aspects of our family history, and she’s very clear-sighted about just where our wealth and privileges come from. They’re wrung from the labour of the small folk. ”

”I’m told she dislikes my reforms.”

”Sansa has had some dreadful experiences at the hands of the small folk. It colours her views. What she wants is security and comfort. Reassure her, on those points, and she’ll come around.”

”You’ll have to give her up, you know, if we wed. I don’t care what took place between you. By all accounts, she’s a rare beauty, and you are not unhandsome. Why wouldn’t you desire one another? But, such unions are condemned in this land. Ask Cersei Lannister.”

”Cersei! The vilest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. And, your guest.”

”I’m well aware of all the evil she’s done. She’s confessed it to me. We became close, after I told her I killed the Imp, the brother she hated.”

”So that’s what happened to him! I’d heard all sorts of rumours about him."

”He set himself up, briefly, as ruler of Meereen, in my absence. He sold men into slavery, and raped countless women. I handed him over to his victims. I don’t know the details, but I understand his dying was prolonged and painful. Rest assured, Cersei will never return to this country, nor will she ever hold power again. But, I have promised to send her the murderers of her poor son.”

Moving on, she remarked, “Ygritte and Gllly hate you, I’m afraid. You wronged them. I wish to be quite clear that they enjoy my protection. You will not harm them.” Jon did look embarrassed.

”Yes, I wronged them. Ygritte, in the most intimate of ways. Gilly, I honestly thought I had no choice in the matter. If I can make recompense…”

”Neither woman would accept a single star from you. In your shoes, I would apologise to each of them, unconditionally.” He nodded. "Even then, don't expect them to forgive you. It's entirely a matter for Ygritte, whether she lets you meet your daughter. That said, if your daughter wants to seek you out, when she's older, it would be wrong for Ygritte to prevent it."

"That's fair."

”We all do things that shame us. I know I have."

They reached a pavilion, where the noon meal had been set out for them. They helped themselves to the food, and she poured wine for them both. "So, Jon Snow", she continued, "I believe you've been frank with me. Let me be frank in turn. I'm sure you know that I have a husband in the East." He nodded. "He would never be accepted as a consort in this land, so I foresee no difficulty in taking another. And, he knows that as well. Like Queen Rhaenyra, I would make you Prince Consort and Protector of the Realm. If a witch's curse cannot be undone, then we must adopt an heir. Princess Missandei has not the slightest wish to rule the Seven Kingdoms, but you will treat her as your daughter as well mine. In return, you would return the North to the Seven Kingdoms. We could, I suppose, maintain a separate Northern crown, but the crowns will be united. One final point," and she was long past the point where such discussion embarassed her. "I have never been chaste. Chastity is not expected of rulers in the East. People will delight to bear tales of my affairs with men and women, some of them true, but mostly exaggerated. But, were I to be your wife, I would never embarass you. I understand it would be a great humiliation for a married man, on this side of the Narrow Sea, for his wife to flaunt a lover."

"Now, if we are to wed, let me give you fair warning.” She fixed her gaze upon his. “Never betray me. Do so, and the horror of my response would be inhuman.”

"I never will." She would remember this conversation, long into the future. Perhaps he had even meant it, when he said it.

Chapter Text

”They say she'll do the sorts of things, quite naturally, that you'd hesitate to request from a professional. She’s partial to girls, too, I’m told. I can guess what she and that pretty little Princess Missandei get up to, behind closed doors.”

Jon suppressed the urge to push Harold Hardyng out of the open window, in which they stood, watching as Daenerys reviewed a battalion of imperial guards, in the courtyard below them. Sansa had told him all about this creature. He’d fathered bastards all over the Vale. If anything, this man made his flesh creep even more than did his mentor, Littlefinger. Not that he himself was much better, he supposed. His apologies to Ygritte and Gilly had been received in stony silence.

”That is the Queen to whom you’ve just given fealty,” he replied. She looked most striking, today, wearing a golden silk deel, tied with a black sash, and black felt hat, the garment of the Dothraki nobility. “I’ll give you one warning. You’re talking to her future husband. Speak about her in such terms again, and I’ll cleave you from neck to balls!”

"My most sincere apologies, my Lord, it was meant only as a jest." He actually sounded sincere, damn him, but Jon knew him for a liar. Hardyng left him. He'd arrived two days previously, with Baelish, and others from the Vale, to swear fealty. To nobody's great surprise, Sweetrobin had passed away. "I loved that boy, as my own son", Baelish had claimed. "First the father, then the mother, and now the last of their line, all dead. What a tragedy." From Sansa, Jon knew that this piece of shit was responsible for all three of their deaths. Yet his sister was hardly blameless, either. Baelish had made exactly that point to him, when he had questioned him about the circumstances in which the boy had died.

"I'd say a bit of mutual discretion would be in all our interests, wouldn't you?"

He knew that Sansa had lied on this man's behalf, when questioned about her aunt's death. And, she'd also confessed, one night as they lay together, that she'd been giving the boy excessive doses of sweetsleep. Of course, she'd had no choice in the matter, but still, he wasn't going to get her into trouble. Baelish simply oozed slime, and yet, he recognised the man was useful. He and Ser Harrold would bring the Vale over to the Queen's side, just as he would the North, and Sansa the Riverlands. The territories controlled by their enemies were shrinking daily. Of course, the snake had his price. Confirmation that he would rule Harrenhall, and the Twins, once he'd taken the stronghold of House Frey. He'd also asked to be made Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.

"I have Lady Sansa in mind for that position", the Queen had replied.

"Then allow the pair of us to wed, and the issue is settled", he'd replied. Gods, the audacity! Jon could have run him through at that point.

"You may press your suit, Lord Baelish", she'd replied, "but it is for Lady Sansa to choose who she will wed."

Daenerys was a beautiful woman, no question, as beautiful as his sister-wife. He'd found himself warming towards her, too. As a Targaryen, she had no qualms whether he and Sansa were paramours, save that the country would not tolerate it. He almost choked as an idea crossed his mind. What if the Queen were to take Sansa, as well as him, to her bed? Daenerys, he suspected, would favour it, but Sansa? He could at least suggest it to her. It would strengthen their political alliance too. Then, he remembered the Witch's prophecy. Was he really destined to betray and murder the Queen, and rule with Sansa by his side? He could only pray she was wrong. He walked swiftly down to the courtyard, where the soldiers were dispersing. Daenerys greeted him.

"You've been here ten days, and you haven't even seen the dragons. Come. Who knows? You may even ride one, one day. " Honestly, he'd spent most of his time in the company of either Daenerys, or her officers, finding out how they waged war. With a level of professionalism that the Seven Kingdoms had never seen, was the answer to that mystery. He'd thought the army that he and Stannis had led to Winterfell was impressive - and in its way, it had been. But compared to the Queen's forces, it had been pathetic. And, setting aside all moral considerations, that was a very good reason to remain loyal, he thought, as they walked towards the dragonpit. He had little doubt that her response to betrayal would be inhuman - hers' and her soldiers'.

They reached the dragon pit, a great amphieatre, where the creatures roamed, attached to very long chains. "Fire made flesh", said Daenerys admiringly, Each was perhaps thirty feet long.

"Aren't they wonderful", said Daenerys, with awe in her voice. Yes, but not as impressive as he’d expected, to be frank. He'd read that Balerion and his siblings and descendants were hundreds of feet long, capable of swallowing a mammoth. But these were quite small. "Fire made flesh", she repeated, with love.

"Truly remarkable", he said. They were prestigious, certainly, and dangerous to small forces, no doubt, but until they grew, they would be no real threat to the great lords of this land, who commanded great ranks of archers. But her armies, Oh Gods! They were something else. A very clear and present danger.

”How do you know yourself to be a dragonlord?” He asked.

”The Valyrians used spells, lost to the world. For me, either the dragon will let you ride it, or it will eat you. If you can count on the former, well, you’re a drogonlord.

The beasts got up, and started chirruping, at the sight of them. They approached to sniff at the pair. The Queen patted them affectionately, as did Jon, more nervously. One in particular, the green one, seemed to take a liking to him, rubbing its head against his arm.

”Rhaegal’s fond of you, I see. When we’re married, we’ll see if he’ll let you ride him.” Riding a dragon! Now that would be exciting. Or terrifying. Maybe both.

”What are the other two called?”

"Drogon and Viserion”, she replied, with a bitter twist to her mouth. “I should have given them different names. I thought to honour my first husband and my brother. Neither man deserved such honour.” Jon thought it best not to pry, at this stage.

She said goodbye to the dragons, and they left. Alone in a palace corridor, she turned to face him, and said, “Why don’t you kiss me? I want to feel what it’s like with you.” He fastened his mouth on hers, feeling his cock stir as her tongue entered his mouth. She tasted of aniseed. By the time they drew apart, he was hard. She touched him, through his breeches, before remarking, "Good to see that everything's in working order. Do you do anything else with your tongue, apart from kissing?"

"I could show you. We wouldn't have to wait for marriage."

"Good. Come to my chambers, tonight."

When he entered her bedchamber, she was already lying naked on her bed, save for a diamond choker, which suited her perfectly. There was a glass of sparkling white wine, waiting for him, in a curiously shaped crystal glass. He picked it up, only for her to remark;

"I had a set moulded, to the shape of Cersei Lannister's breasts. What to you think?"

"Cersei Lannister!" He nearly dropped the glass in shock.

"She's extremely gifted with her tongue. I want to see if you're better than she is." When he set off for the Wall, he'd have been horrified to think of a Queen playing the whore. But, that was before he'd started fucking Sansa. He disrobed swiftly, then parted the Queen's legs, and bent to his task, for several minutes. Judging by her reaction, he'd passed the test. Sansa and Ygritte had reacted in similar fashion.

"Yes, you are very good at this, Jon Snow. Honestly, I'd give you the edge over Cersei. Now, it's my turn", she remarked, before kissing her way down his body.

Well, one did not refuse a Queen's commands.

Chapter Text

Red Lamb nodded to Sam. Once, not too long ago, the thought of addressing a Council of War would have had him tongue-tied and stammering. But, he had grown into his new job, been promoted to adjutant, and he now reported directly to the Lhazareen.

”Your Grace has 18,000 men in the main field army, now closing on Rosby under Generals Grey Worm and Orhan, and Lord Hightower. 15,000 in and around Harrenhall, under Lady Malazza, and Ser Justin Massey, and 2,000 on this island, 1,000 on Driftmark, 3,000 on Tarth, and 11,000 in garrisons across the Crownlands and Riverlands. That means we must find 75,000 pounds of bread per day, 50,000 pounds of meat, and 33,000 gallons of ale. Wine is an acceptable substitute for ale, as are watered spirits. That is just for the soldiers. Servants and camp-followers must be fed too, and then of course, horses and draught animals need provisioning. Typically a horse will be eating a fiftieth part of its body weight, every day. Of course, much of that is grass, but we need tons of oats and hay, every day.”

The Queen nodded. This was all known to her already, he was sure, and certainly to the senior officers present, but it would be new to the Westerosi lords. Most never worried about such things, deriding logistics as "counting coppers."

”Meat is easily obtained,” he continued. “Animals are slaughtered mainly at Pentos and Mantova, the meat salted, and shipped West. Grain, too, along with spices, preserves, and alcohol. We have" and here he consulted his notes, "a total of 1,043 ships which bear supplies and specie to our forces. Problems arise as we advance inland. Some of Your Grace’s forces are now a fortnight’s march from any navigable waterway. The cost of transporting supplies overland doubles, approximately every thirty miles. Not to mention there are losses to wastage."

"Our men can always forage", remarked Olenna Tyrell. "The smallfolk are well used to it."

"Indeed, my lady", said Sam. "Nonetheless, we have no wish to be engaged in a running battle with the peasants. The loss of a half a dozen chickens may seem a small affair. To a peasant family, which depends upon their eggs, it can mean slow death by starvation. So, they will fight back, when they can. Not with much success, admittedly, but it means constant attacks on stragglers and baggage trains." He saw a look of surprise on her face. Clearly, such a thing had never occurred to her. "Of course, we have no choice but to take supplies from the smallfolk, but insofar as we can, we strike agreements with the minor lords and village reeves and headmen, to distribute the burden as widely as possible. We pay them in silver, which at least, sweetens matters." He saw Jon Snow nod with approval.

"Lord Stannis was one of the few commanders who took such matters into account", he remarked. "It made our march on Winterfell so much easier." There was a slightly awkward silence. He knew that Jon was now allied to the Queen, but still, Stannis had been a pretender. His murder at White Harbour, however foul, had made matters much easier for them. Several of his lieutenants, like Ser Justin, had come South to offer fealty.

"Thank you, adjutant" remarked the Queen. "You may leave us, now. Red Lamb, the state of our war chest?" Sam gathered his papers, bowed, and left the chamber. He was due to meet Jon in his chambers, that day. Ygritte had sought him out, a couple of days previously, and told him that the Queen was likely to marry “that cunt”, despite her best advice. “No doubt he’ll cut her throat, while she sleeps, or put poison in her wine,” she’d added. Sam had protested Jon would do no such thing, but … the lure of power turned mens’ heads.

An hour later, he made his way to the guest chamber, where Jon was staying. It was the best part of a year since they'd parted. Once, he'd have run a mile from Jon, after flagrantly disobeying his orders to become a maester. But, he was a different man now, he realised. He'd found a job he could do well, and somewhere along the way, he'd grown a backbone. Jon greeted him, and poured wine for them both. They talked over their adventures, before Jon asked;

"What made you jump ship?"

"I wanted Gilly. And, she and Ygritte were determined to go." It was best to be blunt.

"That pair hate the sight of me. " He sighed. "I suppose they have reason. So, are you and Gilly together?"

"No, she had other ideas. " Then he changed the subject. "The Queen's Grace has freed me from my oaths to the Nights Watch."

"Aye, she has that right. I suppose I freed myself from them. Officially, I'm Lord Protector of the North, and so, I've appointed Ed Tollett to lead hte Nights Watch as my deputy. Old Lord Mormont, he'd be appalled, but I was sent to the Wall to die, just as much as you were. It's just, my father was less of a cunt about it than yours was."

"I don't have a father", he replied. It was instinctive, and Sam surprised himself with his own comment. It was also true. Jon nodded.

"That's just as well. The Queen told me, Randyll Tarly switched sides and took Highgarden. He put the defenders to the sword. Well, he chose the losing side, and if he's not killed in battle, he'll be handed over to the Tyrells for judgement. Horn Hill is forfeit to the Tyrells. Your brother will be allowed to take the Black, if he wishes to avoid execution. That leaves you. Offer the Tyrells fealty, and they might restore the estate to you."

"I'm not interested. I've found a job I can do well. The Queen needs lords, and soldiers, and she'll want representatives of the town guilds, too. But, she also needs bureaucrats, as well. All I'd ask is that Talla and my mother are provided for. They aren't to blame for what the others did. If you're going to be Prince Consort, then you can ensure it."

"Aye, I'll do that. "

"So when's the wedding taking place?"

"After the capital's taken. " Jon laughed. "Actually, there'll be three weddings. One before the Red God, one before the Old Gods, and one before the Seven. I'll also be Lord of Winterfell, and Sansa's to be Lady of Riverrun." Sansa! Was it really true that she and Jon were lovers? The thought of taking Talla to his bed utterly horrified him. He longed to ask his old friend, but daren't. Yet Sansa was a rare beauty, more comely still than the Queen. Perhaps even a brother would lust after her? "The Starks will be the greatest family in the land, now, but somehow, I doubt if my father or Lady Catelyn would be at all pleased.".

"I was sorry to learn of Rickon, Jon."

"Thank you. We buried him with his ancestors. And then we avenged him. Hideously. House Bolton is no more." Jon's eyes were like chips of grey ice. The Kings of Winter had indeed, visited terrible deaths upon their enemies, Sam recalled reading. "Bran's dead, and Arya's vanished. Robb was murdered. It's up to Sansa and I to continue the line."

"Your sister will want to destroy the Freys, I imagine?"

"Aye, more unfinished business. I made that clear to the Queen's Grace. We've agreed, every male of the House, aged over fourteen, will be hanged. The women will be made to join the Silent Sisters. The children, they'll be given to poor peasant families, to raise as their own. Dead or alive, Lord Walder will be quartered, and his remains displayed across the Riverlands. No man will use the Frey surname upon pain of outlawry." Sam gulped. That was a cruel fate indeed. There was a harshness to Jon that he'd never noticed before. Or perhaps he had, and he'd just ignored it. After all, he'd simply latched on to him when he arrived at the Wall. Without Jon's protection, the thieves and rapers at Castle Black would have used him as a woman, or else cut his throat.

"Well Sam, it was good to see you again. We've both got duties to attend to, I'm sure. If you do change your mind about Horn Hill, or you want a place at court, then let me know. " Sam nodded and left. Both men had changed, far too much to be close now, he realised, but at least he had a patron. These were hard times, but at least his own future was secure.

Chapter Text

"Will you attack from the air?" he had asked her.

"No, Jon, we are the pathfinders," Dany had replied. “Well, perhaps I will attack, if we come across small detachments. But I take your point. The dragons are still young, and we’ll probably come off worst if we attack massed ranks of archers. Besides, it’s raining, now.” Heavy rain lessened the effect of dragonfire. They had flown together, on the back of Drogon to Duskendale, and thence towards Rosby. There are perhaps few more unpleasant experiences than flying through the rain in armour. Any excitement Jon would have taken from riding a dragon for the first time must have been spoiled by the weather. The countryside was a dreary expanse of grey, green and brown, she thought, before Jon called out to her. He had better eyes than she did.

"That must be Rosby".

It certainly looked like it, as they drew closer. A large market town, dominated by a couple of sandstone churches, and a castle in the North East corner. A stone wall ran out from the castle, encircling the town, the buildings mainly built of wood. Around it, a great network of earthworks and ramparts had been built, surmounted by wooden palisades. This, then, was where the army of Jon Connington and the pretender Aegon were making their stand, the last major stronghold before the capital itself. She knew from her spies that food was starting to run short in the city, and so, she wished to make an end of it. They circled the town for a time, as people pointed up at them, gesticulating and shouting. A few tried loosing arrows which fell far short of their target. She tapped Drogon's flank with her whip, and he turned back, toward the army encampment. She saw numerous torsion weapons, mounted on the ramparts. Plainly, they intended a warm welcome for her army, probably literally.

"They'll have wildfire, Jon. I've never been able to get hold of it, despite my best efforts."

"What'll you do?"

"We've got incendiaries of our own. And rockets."

"Rockets?"

"You'll see." She turned the dragon back towards the road that led East to Duskendale.

"How do you protect your men from wildfire?"

"It was actually Cersei Lannister who gave me the answer to a similar question. I don't think you'll like what I'm about to tell you."

"Try me?"

"You know I conquered Volantis? The city is protected by a range of hills. The main road runs through a place called Badgers Pass. The Volantenes had fortified this pass, and blocked the road through it. We were at a loss how to get the army through. Cersei suggested we drive our prisoners before the army, to soak up the enemy shot. It worked. But, out of 14,000 prisoners, fewer than five hundred survived the battle." Jon was silent. She sensed his disapproval. Then he commented;

"Cersei got that from her father. He'd have done the same, in that situation. At Castamere, he drowned hundreds of women and children, rather than risk his own men in a bloody fight down a mine. So, that's what you'll do here?"

"Maybe, maybe not. I'm attacking on a much wider front here, so the enemy's shot will be less murderous. That pass was a hundred yards wide, at its narrowest point. It was like fighting through a hole. And, I've got to think of lordly opinion, too. I'm on thin enough ice with them as it stands, with my intended reforms. Imagine how they'd react if I started using their relatives as "living boards". One way or another, I've got to win this war quickly. People are going hungry in the capital, so my spies say. That's my responsibility too. Our fleet has cut off all trade from the sea, and a city that size can only feed itself if it brings in supplies by boat. Better a horrifying end to the war, than horror without end."

After flying another twenty miles, they spotted their own army encampments, and she nudged the dragon downwards. She smiled with approval as they flew down into the centre of the camp. She noted that it was clean, orderly, calm, everything she expected to see, with Grey Worm in command. Wherever her armies marched, they would entrench, and build a palisade, before resting for the night. The Sirdar emerged from his own quarters, to greet her and Jon. A pavilion had been prepared for her, and she and Jon dried themselves off, there, and changed their clothing. Then, they rejoined Grey Worm, sipping wine and eating cakes, along with her step-son, who plainly loathed the sight of Jon Snow, Leyton Hightower, and a number of the senior officers. She and Jon both told them all what they'd seen.

"Can't we just by-pass the enemy?" asked Hightower.

"I wouldn't want them in my rear", she replied. "My best guess is they have twenty thousand men at Rosby, and the Gods know how many left in the city. We could be trapped between two armies. No, it'll come down to cold steel I'm afraid. "

"Eighteen thousand, attacking a similar number behind entrenchments. Not the kind of odds I'd favour", said Grey Worm.

"We've faced much worse. But, half those soldiers were slaves, and many were eager to switch sides. Some of these will be Golden Company, and by all accounts, Connington knows his business. We'll have to assault them, I'm afraid, but I won't destroy the army. If they're too strong, I'll break off the attack." One thing she'd learned over the years was there was no shame in admitting defeat. Sometimes, the enemy were just too powerful, and it was better to retire in good order, than throw lives away needlessly. They talked on, for a couple of hours, discussing tactics. At length, she and Jon returned to her pavilion.

"I want to fight", he said to her, as they ate supper together. She wasn't too happy at that prospect.

"I've no desire to be made a widow, even before we get married."

"If I'm to be respected by your people, I think I have to take part. Else, they'll say I shirked battle."

"But, you're already a veteran fighter."

"They've never seen me fight. As far as they know, my record could be a load of hot air." She thought for a moment. There was merit in what he'd said, but she feared to lose him. "I'm not putting you in the front line, at any rate. You can join Grey Worm's command. He'll find a use for you, but he won't throw your life away. "

"Why does Orhan so dislike me?" asked Jon.

"Because he wants to fuck me, that's why", she replied bluntly. "He has a lovely wife whom he despises, but what he wants is me."

"His own father's wife!"

"His father would kill him, if he knew. It's a worry. I fear he'll try to force himself on me, one day. "

"I'd kill him."

"You wouldn't get the chance. Believe me, I keep several daggers on my person, and I've learned how to use them."

"What if he died in this battle?" She thought about that.

"It's an idea, but don't you get any thoughts about killing him. You're a fighter, not an assassin, and if you got caught, I'd have to give his men your head to placate them." No, Orhan had to survive this battle, but afterwards? She had an idea that Jon's former paramour, Ygritte, would be only to willing to do the deed for her. She'd happily open Jon's throat too, for that matter. The spearwife would be joining them in the next couple of days, once she caught up with the army. For now, she had other concerns.

"I was hoping you'd join me in bed, tonight. Since we're now betrothed, and on campaign, I don't think there's much of a risk of scandal, any more."

Chapter Text

Sansa had not been idle, while Jon was at Dragonstone. Frequent ravens had flown between White Harbour and the island, written in a cipher that Wolkan had taught to her and Jon. Then, a ship had returned, bearing the Red Woman, as well as further dispatches, instructing the Lady Melisandre to be sent back to Castle Black, and for Lady Selyse and Shireen, and Gilly’s son, to be taken to Dragonstone.

She had summoned Ser Davos to her quarters in the New Castle. The man had been bereft, ever since the murder of his king. Hopefully, her news would cheer him. "My brother is likely to wed the Queen's Grace. She is minded to show clemency to all but the Beast in Kings Landing, and his closest associates. Provided she gives fealty, Lady Shireen will be invested with Storms End."

"She is rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms", replied Ser Davos. Sansa sighed.

"Ser Davos, no one condemns you for your loyalty to Stannis. But, his cause died with him. I believe you care dearly for this girl. She is indeed, sweet and charming, though sadly afflicted. If you have her best interests in mind, you will lead the party to Castle Black, and return with her. To proclaim her Queen would be but to place her head in a noose."

"You speak truly, my lady", he replied after a while. "We'll take ship to Eastwatch, then ride hard. I fear what her mother intends. And, that Red Bitch."

"Don't hesitate to slay either one, if they threaten the girl. The ship sails on the morrow, so hurry to bring your most trusted men." He nodded, and left. She had thought to tuck Shireen out of the way, in the North, wed to some minor lord, but this was just as elegant a solution to the problem she posed. She'd have had the girl quietly murdered, had someone raised his banners on her behalf, but thankfully, there was no need. One less crime on her conscience.

That had been a week ago. Hopefully, Ser Davos had accomplished his mission by now. There was a knock on her door, and Kyra entered. She curtsied, before saying, "My lady, mass is about to be celebrated." The Manderlys were followers of the Seven, unusually for the North, and she attended daily prayers and weekly mass, for form's sake. As she walked towards their sept, she wondered for the hundredth time why the Gods tolerated her presence in their holy sanctuary. Surely, if they were just, the building would collapse on top of her? And, for the hundredth time, she told herself the answer. They were simply reserving her for greater torment in the world to come. The chapel itself was a place of dazzling beauty, she thought, decorated with mosaic and gold leaf, filled with rainbow-coloured light, which came through stained glass windows. In such a place, she could almost believe that the Gods were benevolent. As she took her seat, in one of the pews at the front, reserved for the highborn, she averted her eyes from the icon of the Father, bearded, frowning, a terrible just judge. She focused instead on the image of the Mother, kind, gentle, ever-forgiving, as her own mother had been. As the choir started to sing, she felt tears start in her eyes, as she thought of Robb, her mother, Rickon, Bran, Margaery, and her ladies, all cruelly murdered. They surely, must have been taken to Heaven, even if she herself had no prospect of ever entering paradise.

As always, she was lost in her own thoughts, during the service. She intoned the responses at the right moments, and scarcely listened to the homily, before leaving with the Manderlys. They enjoyed dry fortified wine, and sweetmeats, with other highborn at the castle, for an hour after the service, before Sansa returned to her own chambers. Wolkan entered, bearing more messages.

One was from Jon, bearing the news that he and Daenerys Targaryen were now formally betrothed. Assuming that her uncle were dead or vanished, then the Queen would grant her Riverrun as a fief. She felt a mix of jealousy and satisfaction. She hungered for Jon's body. She'd considered seeking her pleasure with squires or guards, in his absence, but the risk of scandal was too great. Any man she took to her bed would brag about it. Then there was Kyra. There was a certain resemblance between the girl and Margaery, and that sent her thoughts racing in a different direction. No doubt she could make the girl do the kinds of things she'd done with Myranda, and that was sorely tempting. But, what if her bedmaid spoke about it to her friends? She'd have to silence the girl for good. Gold might buy a woman's silence for a time, but a knife in the back would buy it forever. No. There were dark rooms in her mind she'd rather not enter. Irri on the other hand? She'd sensed that the Dothraki woman had been flirting with her, and she'd found herself enjoying the attention. Perhaps they would meet again, at court. She read on, only to be genuinely shocked, as if someone had flung a glass of cold water in her face. The Queen and Cersei Lannister, it seemed, had been intimate, to the point she'd fashioned wine glasses in the shape of her breasts! Cersei! Well that explained the favour the woman had shown to that bitch and her daughter. Her nature was as twisted and corrupt as Sansa's own, it seemed. But, that was only to be expected of a Targaryen. Queen Rhaena's love for women was proverbial, and Rhaenyra had almost been married, at one point, to her cousin, Laena. Jon informed her that Sweetrobin was dead, and that Harold Hardyng, lecherous creep that he was, was now Lord of the Vale. He finished, by warning her of Littlefinger's ambitions, and suggesting that she lead an army into the Riverlands, to assert control of that disordered region. That was good advice.

There was a second message from Baelish, in which he suggested a betrothal. She'd sooner wed a pit viper than that one. But, she'd have to tread warily with him. He was a powerful, dangerous, man, who had the potential to implicate her in his crimes. He wrote also that while he had no certain knowledge of Uncle Edmure's fate, his wife, Roslyn Frey, was living back at the Twins with their young son. She made a mental note that Roslyn was to have her faithless tongue cut out, and the hand with which she'd wed her uncle severed, prior to being hanged, along with the adult males of the family, but as to the boy? His blood was tainted, no doubt, but he would still be her cousin. She would have to have him declared illegitimate, naturally, but it seemed unfair that he should be given to some baseborn family, to grow up as a pig boy or ditch digger. No, let him be given to some childless knight or lordling, and grow up unaware that his mother had been a treacherous whore. She would settle a large sum of money on the family which fostered him. She sent a message for the Manderlys to meet her in her chambers. She had two thousand men of her brother's army, under her command, and her hosts could raise a similar number easily. It was time to march to war, to assert her rights.

Chapter Text

“We make them come to us, your Grace.” He’d made the same point repeatedly to King Aegon, the man he’d raised as Young Griff. For the third day in succession, the army of Daenerys Targaryen had marched out of its encampment, and offered battle to his own men. Half of them were his veterans of the Golden Company, the rest Dornish or Stormlanders. Let them break themselves on the fortress he'd constructed. A deep ditch lined with spikes surrounded the encampment. Siphons of wildfire had been placed on the fighting platforms, and wooden towers constructed, where scorpions waited in readiness, in case the enemy should use her dragons. He'd created a deathtrap.

"Remember Storms End, Jon", replied the other. Years ago, when they'd landed in the Seven Kingdoms, and much against his advice, the young man had led an attack on the Baratheons' ancient fortress, and had taken it by storm. As King, he'd distinguished himself in battle since then, leading from the front. He was a fine warrior, and a passable king. A pity that he should be such an awful failure as a man.

"Bitch", he heard Aegon mutter, as they looked out over the ramparts, to see the enemy army drawn up, nearly a mile distant. He cursed inwardly, yet again, that his king and their enemy were not united as man and wife. There was no need at all for bloodshed, especially now that Arianne Martell had fled to Dragonstone. Putting her to death would have served both sides’ interests.

He'd made these points, when they had ridden out, under a white flag, the previous day. He hadn't known what to expect of the Dragon Queen. When they had met in the open, she wore black armour, inlaid with red rubies, just as Rhaegar had. The tales were not wrong. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. Why must Rhaegar’s sister and his son be at odds, he had asked her?

"Produce Lady Margaery Tyrell, Tommen Hill, Elinore Tyrell, Megga Tyrell, and Rosamund Lannister, alive and well, and we can negotiate peace terms", had been her response. Why this obsession with five worthless traitors?

”Five children”, had been her reply.

"Princess Daenerys, is there nothing I can offer you that will seal a peace between us?" Aegon had asked.

"Indeed there is. Give me your liver," had come her response. He understood at that point, just why she had been given those nicknames. Ul Dosht, Maegor Reborn, The White Flame Who Dances on the Graves of Her Enemies. She was a frightening woman, face cold and pale as snow, eyes like chips of purple ice. She reminded him of the Night's Queen, in the old tales he’d heard as a boy. Had Queen Visenya been similar? But, that was all over and done with, now. Targaryens had slain their kin the past, and the king would have to slay his aunt, today. He winced as he heard Aegon say to one of his serjeants, "We'll take her alive. Then, I'll give her to my men, to use as they wish." That would not happen. He'd make sure she died swiftly, first. She was royalty, and royalty can't be treated in that manner.

There was a cry from one of the sentries, and he looked up, to see hundreds of Dothraki forming up, ready to charge. Of course, the ramparts would protect them, but still, they'd unleash an arrow storm, no doubt. "Shields up, heads down", he said to his lieutenants, and they passed the word. “Balaq,” he nodded to the veteran Summer Islander, “make sure your bowmen give them a warm welcome.”

The enemy came tearing in at a gallop, wheeling and turning, loosing thousands of shafts. They aimed over the palisades, largely shooting blind. His men knew their business, hunkering down, behind shields and pavisses, or else crouching directly behind the wooden walls. Such was the volume of shot that here and there, arrows found their mark, but this was more a nuisance than a real danger. Then he cursed, as an arrow splintered on his helm, and a shard found its way through the left eye hole, thankfully missing the ball by a fraction. Gods, though, it hurt! Splinters were the real danger. Briefly, he raised the visor, to dab at the wound with a cloth. The Summer Islanders were shooting back from their own fighting platforms, bringing down horses and men alike, although the enemy moved too fast for them to take a heavy toll.

Eventually, the Dothraki rode back to their own lines. He could see that a body of the enemy had advanced to about four hundred yards distant, a mix of heavy infantry and cavalry. They surrounded a body of men, who were carefully erecting a series of strange tripods. He frowned, and then remembered his time in the East. Rockets! Honestly, they were a joke, as much a danger to their own side as to their foes. Some of his men attempted shots from the ramparts, but not even the bows of the Summer Islanders could range that far, without the benefit of a strong wind behind them.

He watched, smiling, as the metal tubes were fitted to the cylinders, and then lit. As far as he could tell, there were ten of them. He laughed as three completely overshot his encampment, exploding far in the distance, two more exploded in mid-air, and three others fell short, confirming his judgement that they were worthless. And then quite suddenly, his world exploded in a flash of orange flame. The blast knocked him off his feet, and even as he rose, he couldn't shake off a ringing noise in his head. Aegon, and several squires and serjeants, were staring in horror at a palpitating bloody mass, perhaps thirty yards away, which a few seconds before, had been his former squire, Rolly Duckfield, and half a dozen of his men.

Seconds later, one of the fighting platforms was engulfed in green flame, as a rocket smashed into it, igniting its store of wildfire. And, so it continued, with more rockets setting off, most missing them, but a handful striking their target and doing real damage. Connington set off, walking on the ramparts, stating over and again, the enemy must attack, and that a handful of rockets alone could not come close to destroying the army. So far as he could tell, his own men were enduring the explosions, they were elite soliders, after all. But, the Stormlanders, and Dornish, they were getting increasingly frightened.

Black Balaq hurried up to him. "My lord, your cousin, Ser Ronnet, we caught him trying to flee the camp." He cursed loudly.

"Give him thirty lashes. Scourge some courage into him. Do it in front of the men." The Summer Islander nodded. A knight might be executed, but he was rarely subject to the shame of a public flogging. Well, it was time to set an example, and Ronnet was a cunt in any case.

"Oh. Fuck. Me!", he heard the Captain-General, Harry Strickland mutter. Another craven. He turned to see the man pointing, to where, hundreds of feet in the air, the black dragon was gliding towards them. "Balaq!" he roared. "Forget Ronnet for now, and take her down. Scorpions, to the ready!" he bellowed. Men began to sight the weapons on to the dragon. "Archers to your marks!" commanded Balaq. Daenerys was taking an immense risk. But, the dragon didn't descend. It simply flew over the camp, releasing something from its talons. A few moments later, there was another great explosion, which slew several horses, leaving others screaming with fear. A fucking firepot, that must be it.!

"You called this a death trap, Connington", said the King, visor up, and plainly angry. "Aye, it's our death trap, like enough our tomb, before long." Strickland nodded vigorously in agreement, before remarking, "We need to charge the men with the rockets. We can't just sit here, and let them slaughter us." He misliked it. Was this a deliberate ploy, to draw him out of his position? Yet, it was clear that some of his Westerosi soldiers were close to panic.

"Harry, take four squadrons, ride hard for the enemy, and cut them down. And, on no account, try to engage the rest of the army. You understand, cut down the rocketeers, and then return immediately."

"Aye, my lord", replied Strickland, looking less than thrilled at the prospect. The man was more an accountant than a warrior. Another rocket slammed into the ramparts a hundred yards to his right, tearing a hole twenty feet wide. Men hastened to fill the breach. It seemed to take an age for the cavalry to form up, but time always slowed to a crawl in a fight. At last, the gates were opened and the horse rode through, swiftly hitting a gallop. It was a slaughter. The enemy attempted to form a ring around the rocketeers, only to be ridden over and cut down. His men were proficient killers, cutting down hard and fast, before moving on. He nodded with approval, only to curse as he looked up again. Out of nowhere it seemed, the Dothraki had returned at the gallop, some showering his men with arrows, others riding round to cut off their retreat back to the camp. The riders and their horses’ heads might be protected with armour, but nothing could protect their flanks from the storm of arrows, and now, they were going down in earnest. The Dothraki plainly weren't too concerned if their arrows found the survivors among their own men.

He had a decision to take. Abandon these horsemen to their fate, or else attempt a rescue. He hesitated a few moments too long. Surrounded by the knights of his household, King Aegon was already riding out of the camp, with hundreds of men on foot streaming after him. The battle would be fought in the open, after all.

Chapter Text

Grey Worm had told Jon he was confident that the enemy would be drawn out of their camp, and now they were coming. A body of enemy horse were cutting their way through the Dothraki, in the centre of the battlefield, with vast numbers of infantry streaming out of the camp, after them. "Advance", commanded the Sirdar, and Jon ordered his trumpeters to sound the call to attack. He commanded six squadrons, a mix of guards cavalry, Dothraki in mail, and the dark horsemen from the East, led by their own lord, Peshora. The ground was still damp but fortunately, not wet enough to prevent a charge. The trumpeters sounded the challenge again, as they moved to a fast trot, with the main fight still half a mile away. Behind him, he heard thousands of voices starting to sing the marching song of the Unsullied, "The Bridegroom of Death," so he glanced back briefly, to see the imperial guards marching steadily forward, their line a mile wide. Then, he drew his mace, for a sword the length of Longclaw was of no use on horseback. As they moved to a canter, the enemy became aware of them, turning and gesticulating. Peshora's men led the attack, for they were lancers, a weapon that Jon had yet to master. There was a gentle slope in their favour, enabling their charge to pick up momentum.

A hundred yards distant, they hit the gallop, the lancers to the fore. The enemy cavalry had barely started to trot forward, when they hit them, the lancers riding straight through their ranks, till they reached the press of enemy infantry. Jon had no time to think, before he found himself ducking before an enemy's axe that glanced off his right shoulder. Ignoring the pain, he cut hard to his right with the mace, striking his assailant hard on the visor. The man screamed in agony, reeling in his saddle, and one of Jon's fellows smote him on the back of his helm with his axe, shattering it. He pressed on, barrelling the enemy aside with his horse, guiding the beast with his knees, using both mace and shield as weapons. There was no artistry to this kind of fighting. Skill at arms meant little, just brute strength, and waiting for your enemy to give you an opening. His horse sreamed suddenly, as an infantryman in a kettle helm slashed at its flank with a curved sabre, before Jon kicked him hard in the face, his iron-shod boot breaking the man's nose and teeth. As the enemy fell, Jon rode his horse over him, quite deliberately. The enemy were slowly giving back, he sensed, suggesting that more cavalry had reached the fight from the opposite flank.

Gods, but Connington could be an old woman, at times, thought Aegon, as he laid about him. He'd speared his man, a Dothraki, with a perfectly-timed thrust, when he and his knights hit them, after riding hard from the camp. Throwing down his lance, he drew a sabre of Valyrian steel, giving a good, hard, chop to the neck of another, almost taking off his head. Their armour of boiled leather might give protection from arrows shot from a distance, or glancing blows, but against lance or the finest steel, it was useless. He and his men cleaved a path, cutting right through to where the remains of the rockets' tripods were littered on the ground, rescuing the hard-pressed remants of Strickland's horsemen. "To me!", the king roared, and they drove on, spearing, sabring, slashing the Dothraki apart; only to encounter more enemy cavalry, armoured in steel, who charged them. Just in time, he got his shield up in the path of a bearded dark-skinned horseman, couching a lance, and blocked the strike, which sent a terrible, jarring, pain up his left arm. Still, the man was exposed and he cut swiftly with his right, into the neck of the enemy's horse, which went down screaming, taking its rider with it. He could see his men and Strickland's, fighting like demons, but they were gradually giving way, outnumbered by the enemy horse. He could only hope that more infantry joined them, and that Connington would release the reserves. Moments later, he sensed his own line stabilising, and stole a glance behind him. Thousands of his infantry were now joining the fight. It would be a slogging match, but he'd won enough slogging matches in the Reach and Stormlands, barely taking a scratch in the process. They’d advance soon enough.

But then, he spotted Strickland in the press, and rode forward to join him. The man was shouting wildly and pointing into the distance. Harry Strickland was a craven, on the verge of panic. Why had Connington not replaced him? From his steed, Aegon could see great ranks of Imperial Guardsmen marching steadily towards them. Could they hold them? Looking back at his own men, he noted that the Golden Company's foot were were forming disciplined ranks, as ever, but the rest of his men were still a disordered mass, almost as if no one was in charge of them. This fight was only going to go one way, unless they retired to the camp. He was about to order a fighting retreat.

"The Dragon Queen", he heard the captain suddenly screaming at him. And he saw her, mounted on a silver horse, only a few hundred yards away, atop a small hillock, dragon standard flying, and with few guards about her. What she was doing out there, rather than staying safely surrounded by a battalion of guards? He had no idea, but he'd never have a better chance to end the war at one stroke. Cut the head off the snake, and the day was won. With luck, the bards would sing of this day, the battle that secured his reign for good. "You're coming too Strickland", he commanded, to the man's evident dismay, as he swiftly gathered a party of about forty horsemen. They disengaged from the main fight, then rode hard for his enemy.

Dany had flown back to her own lines, after releasing the incendiaries. She'd been sorely tempted to unleash Drogon's fires, but she'd seen the scorpions and ranks of archers. Yes, they might inflict real harm on the enemy, but they could easily be cut down too. She unlocked her chains, and dismounted. A squire brought her a silver mare, and Ygritte helped her mount the horse. She thanked them both. Ygritte had wanted to join the main fight, but she was a bodyguard, not suited to the melee. Later, she’d give thanks to the Lord of Light for not granting the Northern spearwife’s request. She'd chaired the council of war before the battle, but she was no fighter, and commanding soldiers on the ground was something that would ever be a mystery to her. She had little to do, other than to observe the fight. "Your betrothed fights like a man possessed", remarked her standard-bearer, Ser Leo Tyrell, who was gazing through a Myrish lens. He handed it to her, but even with its aid, she could see little. The Imperial guards were closing on the fight, and it was hard to distinguish what was happening. Perhaps Ser Leo was just being polite. She spied a hillock, perhaps a hundred yards to the right, and rode towards it, hoping for a better view, followed by her guards. She smiled to see Ygritte jogging beside her. She was adamant she preferred to fight on foot, rather than from the back of a horse. She briefly caught sight of Jon, wearing the distinctive suit of black plate she'd gifted him, before he vanished again.

" 'Ware the enemy", shouted one of her guards. She looked up, shocked. A party of enemy horse was riding hell for leather for her position, and quite suddenly, she realised her own party was the smaller, and the enemy horse were closer than her own men. For just a moment, she considered fleeing, but her army might collapse in rout. She saw one of the men carried her own dragon standard, and at the head of the party was her own sworn enemy, wearing a golden coronet atop his helm. She was frozen to the spot, not sure what to do, but her guards spurred forward without orders. She saw Ser Leo go down before her nemesis, a lance in his throat, before the man cut down a squire with his battleaxe. He was fast, accurate, deadly, while she was barely passable at swordcraft. As she drew her sword, knowing she was already a dead woman, he spurred on towards her, a demon on horseback.

Ygritte had fought in a score of fights, and had lost count of the number of lives she'd claimed. Like all the household guards, she spent hours in training, every day, honing her skills with spear, short sword, and dagger, when she wasn't guarding the Queen. She was calm, cold as ice, as she saw the deadly horseman hurtle towards them, and knew instinctively what she had to do. She raised her ash spear, to her shoulder, and hurled it straight and true, not at the man, but at his steed, burying it half way in the horse's right flank. She felt a momentary pang as the beast screamed, before toppling backward, bringing its rider down with it. Quick as a snake, she drew her thinnest dagger, honed to a point, from her boot, and darted forward, even as the man struggled on the ground, driving the blade through the left eyehole of his visor. He struggled briefly, and then was still. She heard a cry of fury behind her, before a violent blow landed on her helm, and she knew no more.

She woke in a feather bed, in a room lined with rich silk tapestries. As she struggled to rise, she felt someone pushing her back gently. As her vision focused, she saw it was the Queen, herself.

"Rest, Ygritte," she said, smiling. She leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. "You saved my life."

"What happened?" she asked with difficulty.

"You slew the Pretender. One of his men struck you over the head with his mace. Thank God you were wearing a hard helm. You've been out cold for the best part of a day. "

"The battle?"

"One of my squires killed the man who attacked you. The rest fled as reinforcements reached us. We put the Pretender's head on a pike, to show the enemy, and his army dissolved. They had nothing left to fight for. " Daenerys stroked her hand, before saying, "You've won my war for me. Name your reward. Lands, gold, jewels, you'll have them."

"I can't think, right now."

"Then go back to sleep. You're in my bed, and Maegelle and Rhaena are, among their many talents, experienced healers. " She saw there were a pair of septas in the room, both of them skilled assassins, she recalled. Name her reward? How about opening Jon Snow's throat, she thought, just before she drifted back into oblivion?

Chapter Text

Shireen had not slept for a second, during the course of her last night on earth. She was chained, shivering, to the wall of one of the ice cells. She was wrapped in furs. Not as an act of kindness, but simply to keep her alive to be tortured. Her fool, Patchface, was chained in the next cell, no longer chanting his silly rhymes, but rather crying and raving. Before long, she would be too warm for comfort.

The woman who had been her mother intended to burn the pair of them, as a sacrifice to the Red God, in a couple of hours. A week ago, Shireen had been confined to her rooms at Oakenshield Castle, where they had moved, from Castle Black. Then, yesterday, the guards had brought her before the monster, now wearing the robes of a Red Priestess. She had ordained herself, it seemed. As if the stupid woman could do such a thing! She had known from an early age that the woman hated her, viewing her as the Gods' curse upon her, because of her own sister's adultery with the fat, drunkard, King Robert. More than once, she'd suggested sending Shireen to Volantis to serve as a temple prostitute, claiming she possessed the nature of a whore. Her father, though, he had loved her, in his strange, stern, way. But he was dead, murdered in White Harbour. Her so-called mother had told her that she was to blame; had she been sacrificed to the Lord of Light, He would have saved her father, and given her the son she so craved. Shireen found herself crying, bereft of all the people she'd loved, her father, kindly old Ser Davos, Ed Tollett, and Gilly, the wildling girl who’d befriended her, and who she'd taught how to read, in turn.

"You will serve the Lord of Light as a handmaiden, in the next world, and be thankful for it", the woman who had been her mother had told her yesterday. "Had I my way, you would burn in the flames of hell, for eternity. You are the foul fruit of Delena's fornication." Shireen dried her eyes, and heard the clown starting to howl like a dog.

She prayed that even now, the Lord of Light would save her. But then, Lady Melisandre, had told her it was an honour to be sacrificed in the flames. There were times when the Red Woman was friendly, other times, she frightened the life out of her. She could only hope the fires would burn swiftly, and the Lord would forgive her sins. She heard the key turn in the door, and a pair of guards entered the cell. One of them unlocked her chains, and she was led out, along with Patchface. In the courtyard of the castle, a pyre had been constructed, two large wooden stakes atop it. Dawn was now breaking. Several dozen of the Queen's men stood about. She didn't want to mount the pyre, but she'd no desire to be dragged up on to it, either, so she climbed the steps, filled with dread. Patchface was kicking and screaming, trying to break free from his guards. One of them punched him in the mouth, stunning him. She made no move to resist as her hands were tied behind her back. A light snow was falling.

Selyse emerged from the castle, with two of her ladies, likewise clad in crimson robes. Shireen saw that the woman had a look of fierce joy on her face, approaching a task that she was eagerly looking forward to. Shireen knew it was pointless to beg the monster to let her go free. Better to die than seek the pity of one who was pitiless.

She began to intone;

”Oh Lord, we offer you these creatures. Vile, wretched, unworthy. We beseech you. Accept our offering. May these creatures’ cries and screams be a thing of beauty to thy ears. May the sight of their burning be pleasing to thy eyes.. Cleanse them of their sins through the purifying fire, and take them into thy service, in the world to come.”

Perhaps, Shireen’s words in response came from the Lord of Light, or maybe from her own heart. She would never know, but she spoke them, anyway:

”Thou fearest me. So, thou should, thou who art vile. The Lord of Light rejects thy sacrifice, Selyse Florent, heretic, prideful, fool. But, He summons thee before His judgement seat, for thy presumption and folly. Thou callest thyself a priestess of His? The Lord laughs thee to scorn and mocks at thy irreverence. Thy death is close.”

Selyse gaped in astonishment, before snapping to one of the guards, “silence the slut.” The man mounted the pyre, and shoved a rough cloth into Shireen’s mouth, as a gag. Shireen winced, as he slapped her across the face.

Selyse took a torch, then carefully applied it to the kindling, underneath the pyre.

The waiting was the worst thing, Shireen would think, as she recalled it, later. It seemed to take an eternity, as the snow began falling steadily, before her feet started to warm. She could hear the fire now, beneath the platform on which she stood. She gritted her teeth, and shut her eyes, as she waited for the flames to start burning her legs.

Only for her to hear loud cries, and the sound of hoofbeats in the courtyard. She opened her eyes to see Ser Davos, on horseback, cleaving the head of Selyse from her shoulders. “Throw down your weapons, fools”, commanded a woman. It was Lady Melisandre, herself. Men rushed the pyre, cutting her bonds, and then dragging her to safety. One pulled the gag from her mouth.

”Patchface!”, she shrieked, but even as her rescuers turned back, the platform collapsed, under the screaming fool, who toppled into the flames with the stake he was tied to. Briefly, he cried out in agony, before the flames consumed him. Shireen sank to her knees, weeping uncontrollably, even as Ser Davos knelt beside her, holding her in her arms.

Finally, she rose. The courtyard was filled with Black Brothers and Northern soldiers, holding the Queen’s Men under guard. Melisandre glanced at the fire, and the fool’s charred corpse, before remarking, “that creature was evil.” Something snapped, and she flew at the Red Witch, clawing at her, trying to throw her into the flames. “You’re the one that’s evil”, she screamed. “You made my mother into a monster!” Men separated them.

”Shireen, you’re safe now”, said Ser Davos. “The Queen’s Grace protects you.”

”The Queen’s Grace?” she asked between sobs.

”Aye, Daenerys Targaryen. She’s going to make you Lady of Storms End.”

Storms End? The mightiest castle in the land. Honestly, she’d rather just run away and hide.

Chapter Text

Half a day's ride out of Kings Landing, the men they called Patricians, the city's leaders, were waiting for them. Ygritte rode a short distance behind the Queen and Jon Snow. She hadn't wanted to ride, but Daenerys had gifted her a beautiful red-brown mare, and it would be rude of her to have refused. She rode like a sack of potatoes, and doubted she'd ever really get the hang of it. Ygritte Firehair, the Red Spear, the soldiers were calling her, much to her embarassment. The Song of Firehair was one that many of the footmen now chanted as they marched, a song of victory. One verse went;

"Ygritte Firehair went forth among her foes. Her thoughts were red ones and her spear was bright. Her enemies begged for peace, but she brought them death. Ygritte Firehair the beautiful."

The song went on to claim she'd killed dozens of the enemy single-handed. She'd blushed when she heard it, before telling the Queen about it. Daenerys had laughed and said she should just own it, the songs always claimed that your deeds were greater (or worse) than the truth. She'd rewarded all the warriors who'd achieved great things in the fight, Ygritte foremost among them. As well as the mare, the Queen had given her a golden torque and arm rings, before the assembled soldiers. Jon Snow, too, she noted sourly. The Queen had gifted him a beautiful steel hauberk and helm, decorated with gold and silver, for his bravery in battle. Still, she had to grudgingly admit, Jon had never lacked courage and skill in a fight, simply honour and decency in life. She still thought Daenerys was a fool to be marrying him. But, that was only the start.

Gilly had finally caught up with the army, and they'd talked it all over. Ygritte's daughter by Jon would be a great Southron lady, one day, but that was the last thing she ever wanted for herself. Gilly had suggested she ask for lands for the Free Folk, where they could live under their own rules and customs. She'd told her how she'd read of a great Northern territory, called the Gift, which belonged to the Crows, but where almost no one lived these days. It sounded ideal. "And no taxes", Gilly had said. "Taxes?" It turned out, among the kneelers, everyone had to pay money to the ruler in the Red Keep, whenever they bought or sold in the markets, or went to taverns, or brothels. She supposed the same had been true in Braavos and Pentos. Some places, so Gilly had said, you even had to give a share of all you earned to the ruler, but that was just plain thieving. Of course, among her own people, you had to follow your chief, when he called you to fight, and he had the best hunting grounds, the biggest herds, and he took the pick of the plunder, from raids. But only shits like Varamyr Sixskins would try to take from what was yours. The Queen had listened, and told her it was a good idea, but they'd need to discuss it with the chiefs of her people, and work out exactly how much land in the Gift they'd need, and where. She'd also said they'd need to pledge to defend the North from enemies, maintain any roads that ran across the land, and allow travellers to pass unharmed. In turn, she would pledge, both for herself and her successors, to defend them, and that was only fair.

They came to a halt, before the men, who wore costly robes. They were all nervous, it seemed.

”Welcome, Madam, and may the Gods speed”, said the leader. “I am Tobo Mott, Magister of the Guild of Armourers, and on behalf of the people of city we bid your Grace welcome.” Others spoke up, echoing these greetings. She wasn't sure what a Guild was, but she suspected they were sincere, though self-interested. She knew all about the sacking of strongholds that failed to surrender, and plainly, they wanted to avoid a sack.

"Yet, you all supported the Pretender, when it suited you", replied the Queen, coldly. She was right to make them sweat. The Pretender was currently being transported some miles back in a cart. His head had been sewn back on to his neck, and his corpse nailed to a frame, with the words "The False King", hung on a placard round his neck. In due course, his head would be placed above one of the city's gates, and his body cut into quarters, to be sent to other cities.

"Your Grace, we had no choice. I am Magister Hornlach, of the Spicers", said another. "We would all have been put to death, by the Usurper and his minions, otherwise. Still, we would make amends. Between us, we would offer your Grace an indemnity, of 500,000 Gold Dragons, to spare the city any reprisals." This had been expected. Daenerys made a show of considering the offer.

"We are minded to be merciful. We accept your offer. We shall lift our blockade immediately, and supplies will be made available for the city's people. There will be no reprisals, save for the very worst of the traitors." Magister Hornlach gave a nasty smile.

"As to that, we have a gift for your Grace. Most of the traitors fled, but we took one of the most despicable. The Usurper's own paramour, Tyene Sand." He snapped his fingers, and a pair of guards dragged forward, a very beautiful, and very angry looking, woman, who was bound in fetters. She spat at the ground, in front of the Queen's horse.

"Allow me to take her head, your Grace", said Jon Snow.

Tyene spat again, before saying, "Your whore will want to burn me, Snow. Then, she'll want to fuck you. Watching people burn arouses her, just like it did her father."

"Coming from a woman who burned children for the pleasure of it. Oh yes, Tyene Sand, Princess Arianne has told me all about you."

"Another bitch, who betrayed her own family."

"Princess Arianne will face justice for her deeds. As will you. But it is not my justice you have to a fear. I am sending you to Meereen, to face the judgement of a mother, whose young son you murdered cruelly. " She saw the Queen smile, grimly. "Lady Cersei will be pleased to renew her acquaintance with you. Perhaps she will grant you mercy, but I should not count upon it. Take this woman away. She is a dangerous and desperate criminal, who must be guarded at all times." Guards dragged the woman away, still cursing.

"Good Magisters", continued the Queen, "my army will enter the city two days hence. Rape, looting, and other outrages, will be forbidden, upon pain of death, should they occur, but I expect you to maintain order in turn. And, my soldiers will expect their due reward. Ensure that your indemntiy is ready for them."

The Patricians knelt, and Mott spoke up, "It shall be as you command, your Grace." From what Ygritte knew of the Queen's army, the gold dragons would end up soon enough in the purses of the city's innkeeps, whores, mummers, and the men and women who ran its gambling dens. And, no doubt, the Patricians knew that just as well. What a bunch of cunning devils they all were. She could almost admire them.

Chapter Text

The librarian stared up at Olenna from his desk, a deep frown on his aged face. He wore a chain, fringed with eight metal links. "No woman, other than a maidservant, is permitted to set foot in the Citadel, let alone our library." Her notary, Master Leonard Hightower, a very distant relation to the lord of Oldtown, replied.

"It appears that even a gifted scholar may be a rank fool. You are speaking to Lady Olenna Tyrell, grandmother to Willas Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden." Highgarden in fact, had yet to be recaptured, but its fall was inevitable. The maester leapt to his feet, shocked.

"A thousand apologies Ma'am. If I'd had any idea ..." She let him stammer on, until he was virtually grovelling at her feet.

"That will do", she finally said. "We wish to make use of your archives. We are seeking to consult the papers of High Septon Maynard."

"Of course, your ladyship, of course. Let me consult the catalogue." He scurried off, before bringing back, a thick bound volume, which he leafed through. "Ah yes, MSS18 and MSS34. Please, go into the Reading Room, and I shall have the papers brought to you. " She nodded, and she and Hightower took their places at a desk. She had sailed from Dragonstone to Oldtown. Rumours had been rife for years, in the Dornish marches, that Prince Rhaegar, and the woman he'd abducted, Lyanna Stark, had had a son together. And, she had quite a strong suspicion who that son might be. A son who had been raised at Winterfell, and then sent to the Wall to rot, once Ned Stark had betrothed his daughter to Joffrey Baratheon. It was ironic that of course, the little shit was no Baratheon at all, but instead, merely a Hill. Still, it seemed that the Ned had not been quite the honourable fool that many had taken him for. He’d have wanted his own grandson to inherit the Iron Throne, and he'd want a rival claimant out of the way. She of course, would have arranged for Rhaegar's son to contract a "winter chill", or suffer a "hunting accident", in like circumstances, but Stark doubtless feared the wrath of the Gods, and had preferred the wildlings to perform a deed that he could not bring himself to carry out.

An attendant brought them two folders of manuscripts, which they spent several hours examining. Most of the papers were of little interest. Some were amusingly scandalous, such as the examination into the conduct of one of the Most Devout, in King Robert's reign. It appeared that the man, by name Gerardys, was in the habit of visting a high class courtesan, in The Street of Silk, who, dressed as a Red Priestess, would flog him mercilessly, before urinating over him. He had been stripped of his position, and sent to one of the strictest of monasteries to do penance. A constant worry of Maynard's had been the prevalence of Sapphic practices, in Motherhouses. Well, that was no surprise. Denied the company of men, the septas were bound to spend half their lives with their tongues and fingers up each others' quims, that is, if they weren't using dildos on each other. No doubt Daenerys Targaryen would enjoy being a septa. She'd heard the tales of what she and that twisted bitch, Cersei Lannister, had got up to, out East. A pity that she had to die. But, what with her so-called "reforms", and her apparent willingness to spare Arianne Martell, she'd left Olenna with no alternative. Her beloved Margaery would be avenged. The Martell cow would be taken to Highgarden, and there she'd be given to the guards to use as their whore. What was left of her would then be flayed alive.

"Aha", she suddenly exclaimed, grinning at Hightower. She read, then showed him, a short manuscript, and oh, bloody rapture! In it Maynard recorded that he had performed, very much against his will, a wedding ceremony for Prince Rhaegar, and Lady Lyanna Stark, who was, at the time, very obviously pregnant. It seemed that the Prince had made threats, and well, it was difficult to resist a Targaryen prince. He'd even told Lyanna that his marriage to Elia Martell had been annulled, it seemed. Well, that was a bloody lie, only a convocation of the Most Devout could annul a marriage! Obviously, Rhaegar was willing to say anything to get the stupid girl into his bed. The poor chit was just fourteen, and the Prince nine years her senior. The marriage itself was of doubtful validity, being bigamous, but she could see an argument in favour of it. Most importantly, and however unfairly, the Seven Kingdoms did not favour having a woman, seated on the Iron Throne. Least of all, the man who ruled the Starry Sept, and claimed to be the High Septon. Back in the capital, they'd nicknamed him the High Sparrow, a vicious fanatic. But, he suited her purposes.

"And this", said Hightower. He showed her a note from "a friend", to Maynard, remaking that a child whom Lyanna had named Aemon, had been taken North of the Neck. If it were not written by Stark himself, it must have come from the only man to survive the fight at the Tower of Joy, Howland Reed of Greywater Watch.

"Leonard, please make a fair copy, and then seal it. We'll bring it to his High Holiness."

Two days later, she curtsied respectfully before the man himself, in the Starry Sept, before explaining the situation to him.. "And so you see, your High Holiness, that there is compelling evidence that the man that the Dragon Queen plans to wed, presented to the world as Jon Snow, is in fact, Aemon Targaryen, the son of Prince Rhaegar."

The man frowned. "Maynard had no business performing such a wedding. Bigamy is a sin in the eyes of the Gods. "

"And yet sire, there is precedent for such marriages being binding upon House Targaryen. "

"That is so. The Pretender who calls himself Aegon Targyaren has been cast into the Seven Hells, yet I mislike this Daenerys. She is a woman, is she not? A man who sits the Iron Throne may choose to sin, and thereby, incur the judgment of the Gods. But a woman who presumes to do so, commits a sin by virtue of that fact Women are wantons, at heart, unfit by their very nature to rule over men. "

"Quite so, your High Holiness. "

"And she worships a false God, the Red Demon of the East. The thought of a woman in service to that Power, sitting the Iron Throne! I can think of little worse!"

"There is more, I regret to say. She intends to wed this man, Jon, Aemon, yet he will simply be her cypher. She will deny him even the title of a king! And, the marriage will be a sham!"

"How so?"

"She is a Tribade." His Holiness exclaimed in disgust.

"You can verify this? Be careful what you say, even of your enemies."

"It is common knowledge in her Eastern realms. Cersei Lannister escaped the capital and made her way East. She prostituted herself to Daenerys Targaryen, and became her concubine. Together, they practiced unnatural acts of love.”

"Cersei Lannister! A woman steeped in sin and evil. Murderer, traitor, regicide, and keen practitioner of incest. And a Tribade to boot! No, this woman can not be permitted to sit the throne of her forefathers. Well, Lady Olenna, you have given me a great deal to think about. Let me grant you my blessing before you depart. “

Humbly, the Queen of Thorns knelt before the idiot, as he intoned his blessings over her. Politics was simple, really. Trust no one, and betray all, and there were no limits to what you could achieve.

Chapter Text

The Trident was heavy with floodwater, from the rains that had poured incessantly, since Sansa had crossed the Neck with her army. With the rains had come sickness. Half her soldiers were coughing or sneezing, by the time they had marched off the Kings Road, into Frey territory. She'd given free rein to her men to pillage and loot at will, deciding they needed some relief from what was, after all, a pretty dismal campaign. Murder and rape, however, and looting religious buildings, were strictly forbidden. By the time they'd reached the Twins, and commenced the siege, they resembled a tribe on the move, driving herds of cattle and sheep, and carts, laden with cages containing ducks, chickens, and geese. At least the army was eating well, even if the Freys' smallfolk were not. They'd been joined by a couple of thousand Valemen, under Ser Harold Hardyng, now Lord of the Eyrie, and four thousand more were besieging the stronghold, from the opposite bank, led by Daenerys Targaryen's commander, Malazza of Yunkai. Had the Freys decided to make a fight of it, they might have caused them real trouble. But, few people wished to fight in a doomed cause. The enemy's vassals had either fled, or had hastened to seek terms.

Despite his betrothal to the merry widow, Randa Royce, Ser Harold had lost no time in trying to get her into his bed. Truth to tell, she'd rather enjoyed his attentions, despite his being a notorious lecher. He was a striking-looking man, after all. And, Randa plainly enjoyed fucking him. And she needed some diversion, on campaign.

"What would your betrothed think?" she'd asked, one night at supper, as he pressed his suit.

"Randa? She'd think I was a fool to pass up such an opportunity. Besides, she likes you. She's not jealous. And, she's hardly a maid, either." Well, she'd fucked her first husband to death, before cutting a swathe through the pretty young squires and knights of the Vale. She kept a "lively" court at her father's seat.

"I suppose the appetites of widows are proverbial, after all." She, of course, was a widow twice over. She'd joined him in his bed, and braggart though he was, he was certainly a gifted lover. Almost as good with his tongue as Jon. More than once, she’d put her hand in her mouth, to stifle her cries of pleasure. As they lay together afterwards, sharing kisses and enjoying wine, she'd asked the question that had plagued her, for some time.

"Was the young lord's death natural?"

"What do you think, Sansa? I didn't ask, and nor did anybody else. Let's just say, nobody was at all surprised." She felt him shake with laughter. "You should have heard the eulogy that Baelish gave at his funeral. "The noblest lad that ever trod the earth", "a boy I loved as dearly as if he were my own son." Of course, we all hated the little shit. But, we all pretended to mourn him.

"Baelish wants to marry me. He couldn't keep his hands off me, at the Eyrie. Either I was pretending to be his daughter, "Alayne", giving favours to her "Daddy". Or else, I had to pretend to be my mother. He claims he took my mother's maidenhead, along with Aunt Lysa's. I'd sooner wed a pit viper."

"Aye, he's a pervert, but you needs must consider it. With the Twins added to Harrenhall, he'll be the greatest lord in the Riverlands."

After just five days of siege, the remaining garrison surrendered, hauling down the banners of House Frey for the last time, which were soon replaced with the Mockingird of Baelish, the Stark Direwolf, and the three-headed dragon. She rode into the castle courtyard, flanked by Ser Harold, and Lady Brienne. The garrison had been promised their lives, in return for surrender. No such promises had been given to the Freys themselves. There were perhaps a dozen males, and fifty women and children.

"Where is my uncle, Lord Edmure?", she commanded. There was an embarassed silence, until one of the garrison spoke up. "Murdered, my lady. By Black Walder. He's long fled." That was as she had suspected. "And the whore who wed him?" She heard a whimper from among the women and children, and stared balefully down at Roslin Frey, as her guards dragged her forward, with a young lad, perhaps three years old. "Take the boy. He is not responsible for his mother's crimes." Roslin broke down, as her son was taken from her. He was crying in dismay.

"Mercy, my Lady", she begged. "I was given no choice. I had to do what they ordered."

"Take this whore", she commanded, ignoring the woman's pleas, "and remove her tongue and her hands. Then, hang her from the battlements." The woman shrieked as she was dragged away. Sansa felt no pity, only an icy rage. "Where are my mother, my brother, and my uncle buried?" The terror on the part of the prisoners was now palpable.

"Please, my Lady" said an old man in rough woollens, probably a servant. "Lady Catelyn, and Lord Edmure, their bodies was dumped in the river. The King's Grace ..." he faltered.

"Yes."

"They cut his 'ead off, 'im and 'is wolf. They stuck the wolf's 'ead on 'im, and led 'm round on horseback. Then, they chopped up 'is body." She felt sick. Hanging was plainly too good for this family. Ser Harold gave snort of disgust.

"My Lady, I would do to them as King Aerys, of hallowed memory, did to House Darklyn."

"Which was?"

"Their tongues and private parts were removed with pincers. Then they were burned to ashes." She was tempted, she was very tempted, but Aerys? Is that who she wished to be? His cruelty was a matter of legend, and yet, his daughter would shortly sit the throne. Before long, no doubt, the Citadel and Faith would be lauding him and Prince Rhaegar as heroes, while denouncing her own father, her grandfather, and the rest, as the vilest of traitors. Yet, the Starks would rule at Riverrun and Winterfell, a Lannister in the West, and a Baratheon at Storms End. Allowing history to be rewritten was a small price to pay for their survival. Ser Harold plainly had no qualms in adapting to the new order of things.

Lady Brienne spoke up. "My Lady, the women and children, the Queen's Grace would expect them to be offered mercy." From her discussions with Lady Irri, that was true. No, she couldn't start her rule by torturing and burning them. She'd stick to what Daenerys and Jon had agreed.

"The men are to be hanged. See to it" she commanded. "The women, they too, are sentenced to hang, but they may join the Order of Silent Sisters, if they prefer, as an act of grace. The children will learn honest trades, as farmers, smiths, herdsmen, seamstresses. Let them be fostered with the smallfolk. Henceforth, let no one use the Frey name, upon pain of outlawry." Then she remembered. "Lord Walder's corpse. Disinter it, and cut it into quarters. They will be exhibited here, at Riverrun, Seagard, and Harrenhall."

"It shall be, my Lady, as you command", the captain of her guards replied.

"Thank whatever Gods you worship", shouted Ser Harold at the weeping prisoners, "that Lady Sansa and Lady Brienne have such sweet and gentle dispositions, for I would not have shown you such mercy." Yes, one word summed up Ser Harold, gifted lover or no.

Bastard.

She had taken Lord Walder's solar for his own. Already, her men were busy chiselling away the Frey family sigils, throughout the castle. Brienne joined her. "Thank you for speaking up", said Sansa. "I might have agreed with Ser Harold, in my anger."

"I understand how distressing this must be for you, my Lady."

"After all this time, I think you may call me Sansa. Besides, you'll outrank me, before long".

"How so?"

"You and your father descend from Princess Rhae, King Maekar's daughter. Once Daenerys Targaryen ascends the throne, you'll be in the line of succession. A royal princess. You can hardly remain in my service."

"I want none of that."

"The Queen's Grace will insist. Your Highness", she added with a smile.

The world had turned upside down, she thought, after Brienne had left her. The Baratheons might have ruled the Seven Kingdoms for a thousand years. Now, they were simply usurpers, relegated to a footnote in the pages of history.

Chapter Text

Gilly hadn’t taken long to work out that she hated Kings Landing. The Red Keep might be a royal palace, but it was a cramped place, compared to Dragonstone. She shared a chamber with Ygritte, her baby, and Mance Rayder's son, and that was a privilege for a servant, but still, everything here was less impressive than in the great fortress-palace on its island. Nor had it been helped by the fact that before they fled, the traitors had stripped the place bare, and done as much damage as they could, smashing windows, tearing down tapestries, destroying pictures, blocking the privies. They'd made a point of dumping their own shit, and other rubbish, throughout. She'd joined other servants, in clearing it out, a revolting task, and the place still bore the marks of the damage.

As for the city, it stunk to wake the dead! She'd felt overwhelmed at Pentos, but at least that was a fairly clean city. Here, open sewers ran down some of the streets, that is, if the people didn't just dump their waste wherever they could, and lots of the buildings weren't much better than the shacks that many of her own people had lived in, North of the Wall.

The people weren’t much better, pinched, half-starved, and they couldn't be blamed for that, but even with food supplies now being made freely available, at low prices, there was a sullen, bitter, look to them. As she'd followed the soldiers marching into the city, past the crowds of onlookers, she'd heard them muttering to each other. "Red God's Whore", "Eastern Bitch", "Demon worshipper", "Monster". She didn't need to ask who they were talking about. It made her blood boil. The Queen was cruel to her enemies, yes, but that was to be expected of any chief. She was kind and generous to her followers. A pity she was blind to what Jon Snow was.

They’d all been made welcome, more or less, by the people of the Crownlands, as they called the land they’d marched through, but this city was a different matter. A couple of days previous, she and Ygritte had gone out to explore one of the nicer districts, where the buildings were mostly stone and brick, and not too much shit on the streets, and they’d entered a tavern, for their noonday meal. The innkeep came over to take their order, before replying loudly, “We don’t serve your kind, fuck off out of here.” They spoke common, but it was obvious they were free folk. She sensed Ygritte’s fury, and knew, like as not, she’d open the man’s throat for him, so she put her hand on her friend's, whispering “We don’t want to cause trouble for the Queen.” But, that didn’t stop a pair of men, guards' cavalry troopers, who rose from their table and came over. One of them punched the innkeep hard in the face, knocking him down, before the pair delivered several kicks, as he cowered on the floor.

”That’s the Red Spear yer talking to, yer cunt”, the trooper shouted at the cringing man. “Yer see that livery they’re wearin'? The Queen’s Grace likes men who say “Yes, ser, and yes ma’am, “ to her servants, yer fucker. Now, you’ll give ‘em their meal for free.” Well, they'd got a free meal, but Gilly worried how people would react, once the story spread. Ygritte, of course, had laughed, and thanked the pair, and found out which unit they were serving in. "I wouldn't mind Nikos in my bed," she'd told Gilly afterwards, giving the name of the man who'd punched the innkeep. Well, he was a good-looking man, blonde-haired and grey-eyed, but just a bit too ready with his fists and feet, she thought.

They were back in their chamber, Ygritte nursing her daughter, when she heard a knock on the door. A pair of maidservants entered. "You are summoned to the Small Council. I shall look after the children, in your absence." said one. The Small Council? What the fuck? Still, they followed the other servant through the palace corridors, then out into the great courtyard, before they entered the Great Hall, the Iron Throne in pride of place. They were led off to a large chamber, the Queen awaited them, with perhaps a couple dozen people. The room was sweetened with bowls of herbs. The palace was filled now, with braziers burning incense, and large bowls of lavender, to mask the stench from the city.

"Ygritte, Gilly, thank you" said Daenerys. "I have some good news for you. Your son, Gilly, has been found safe and well, and Lady Shireen Baratheon was rescued in the nick of time. Can you believe it, her mother was on the point of burning her as a sacrifice."

"Thank all the Gods", she replied, with feeling. There were exclamations of horror, all around the room.

"What happened to Selyse?" she heard Jon Snow ask.

"I believe Ser Davos Seaworth took her head. Her corpse was thrown into the fire, so I'm told."

"That bitch was no loss", said Ygritte, to general agreement. She still wasn’t sure what they were doing here, but Ygritte Firehair had won the right to speak freely before the Queen’s councillors.

There then followed a discussion lasting a couple of hours. Some of the things, she could follow, others passed over her head.

"My father gave his vassals reason to rebel against him", said the Queen. "For that reason, I shall be granting royal pardons under seal, to the heads of House Stark, House Arryn, House Lannister, and House Baratheon. House Tully, I fear, is now extinct. However, my father's deeds did not justify the murder of my good sister Princess Elia, nor the murder of Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. Prince Aegon ought to have ascended the throne, and a regency council been formed for him. The Great Houses supported Robert the Usurper, who rewarded their murderer, and his successors, and so they must share responsibility for the years of misrule that followed."

She'd read about the rebellion against King Aerys, who sounded like a right cunt. But, she'd heard what was done to Elia and her children, too, and that was vile. What a "regency council" was, she had not a clue.

"The Crown is deeply indebted, and money will be needed to make good the damage caused by the wars. Each Great House will therefore pay an indemnity to the Crown, in return for the Crown confirming their possession of their lands. I have agreed this with Prince Jon, Lady Myrcella Lannister, Ser Harold Hardyng, Lord Velaryon, and Lord Willas Tyrell. The lands of those who fought for Aegon the Pretender shall in turn, be forfeit to their own overlords, who may let or sell them as they wish. Lord Willas", she nodded to a young man sitting opposite, "has kindly agreed to serve as Master of Laws, and Lord Baelish, as Master of Coin. They shall be responsible for collecting these sums."

That seemed fair to Gilly, other than Baelish! She saw him, sitting there, with his chin beard and smirk of satisfaction. Back in Dragonstone, lots of people had had things to say about him, and none of them were good. Owning land? That was a difficult idea for her to get her head around, but Andrastos had explained it all to her. Beyond the Wall, you owned your animals, your home, your gems and items of gold and silver, and your weapons, but nobody owned the land.

There followed a discussion about the traitors. Daenerys had a list of names, maybe a hundred or so, who were deemed outlaws. Dorne was still in revolt and parts of the Stormlands. She knew none of them, of course, but some names she recognised, like Jon Connington, Nymeria Sand, and the bald eunuch, Varys. An outlaw was what her own people called a nithing. They could be killed on sight.

”I trust that the traitress, Arianne Martell, will be sent to the stake ‘ere long”, remarked a gruff, bearded man. “Let her suffer the same fate her husband inflicted on the innocent, a slow roasting.” She heard a cry of dismay from Lady Myrcella.

”No, Lord Royce,” replied the Queen. “She will stand trial, for treason, and the murder of Prince Tommen, Margaery Tyrell, and her ladies. But, that is a formality. She will plead guilty to the first, and be acquitted of the latter.”

”Your Grace, why spare a confessed traitress?” asked Baelish. “It need not be cruel, Lord Royce misspoke, but death by the sword, or sweetsleep, that would be fitting. Alive, she is a danger.”

”Stop it!” cried Myrcella. “If anyone should want her dead, it’s me and Lord Tyrell. She has a kind heart, and evil people deceived her!”

Lord Willas nodded, then remarked "I don't hold her to blame for the murders, either."

"She will be attainted for her treason", said Daenerys. "But she has expressed a desire to join the Order of the Sleepless, and that will be permitted, as an act of mercy. Queen Rhaenyra spared Alicent Hightower, and Queen Helaena. I can do no less!"

Discussion turned to Daenerys’ plans to form a permanent Great Council, with both lords and guildsmen in its number, and her attention wandered. Then, it snapped back with discussions for her plans to wed Jon Snow.

”It appears His High Holiness”, and there was real venom in her voice, “will not perform the ceremony because I follow R’hllor. Fortunately, other members of the Faith are more reasonable.” That was one wedding she’d never attend, nor Ygritte, but things did not bode well for this man, she was sure. "There will be three wedding ceremonies, performed according the rites of each faith, but none will be lavish. The Realm cannot afford it, for the time being. The first priority is to provide this city with adequate sewerage."

”Now, as to the Free Folk, Ygritte and Gilly have requested they be granted land in the Gift, a part of the North that is largely uninhabited." So, that's why she was here. "Ygritte has sought this as her reward for her valour at Rosby. Please speak."

"Your Grace, I think Gilly can explain it better. She's talked it through with Modestus and Andrastos." Both eunuchs nodded in agreement. Andrastos took up a parchment scroll , which he unrolled across the table they were seated around. It was a map of the North. But, it was actually Jon who spoke first;

"Perhaps thirty thousand of the free folk came South of the Wall. Many have settled at the Wall, occupying old castles. Three thousand marched South to Winterfell, and the large majority survived the battle. They have three principal leaders, Tormund, Sigorn, and the priestess Val. " She noticed a flicker of distaste, as he mentioned her name. "They remain close to Winterfell, but of course, they have families still at the Wall. Perhaps, fifteen thousand in total. We'd need to summon the leaders to come South, but I expect they would welcome the chance to find new lands in the Gift." Now, Gilly had to admit that Jon had spoken fairly, whatever her own feelings about the man.

"Our customs are very different to yours, Your Grace. But, we would expect to live by them in our lands, and anyone who came to join us would have to live by them too."

"That's fair, Gilly, but in turn, the free folk would have to pledge to defend the North, and not to raid neighbouring lands. In turn, I would pledge to defend them, on behalf of myself and my successors."

This time, Ygritte spoke. "There's another thing, your Grace. It's Val, she kills boys and girls, on her altars. Her Gods demand it." There was a sharp intake of breath from the others.

"And what do your people make of that?"

"Many follow her, many hate her. I think she works evil. So does Gilly."

"My own father was a vile bastard", said Gilly. "He sacrificed his own sons to the white spectres. He worshipped them as Gods."

"I told Val and Melisandre, both, that I'd hang them if they sacrificed another child", said Jon.

"Moqorro and his followers disapprove strongly of this Melisandre", said the Queen. "Sacrifice is a part of my religion, but only for the willing, or the worst of criminals. Certainly not the sacrifice of children. Let it be decreed then, that even in the lands of the free folk, children shall not be sacrificed, upon pain of death."

"Thank you your Grace", replied Gilly. Discussion then turned to what the free folk would need in their new lands. Plenty of forests, said Gilly, so they could gather wood and hunt game. Rivers and lakes for fish. The tribes and clans, would work out between themselves where their hunting grounds would lie. Andrastos marked up the map, showing where the bounds of their lands would be set. An area of about ten thousand square miles, he said. Gilly had no idea what that meant, but it sounded a lot. But of course, the details would have to be worked out with the leaders.

"A good morning's work", concluded the Queen. "You may leave us now, Gilly and Ygritte". She wondered what she'd do. Much as she liked the Queen, the idea of returning North, to her own kind, was one that appealed. But, what of Ygritte. She was a heroine now, with a daughter who would be a great Southron lady. Whatever they wanted, things would never be the same again.

Chapter Text

"Apply the Instrument", ordered Jon. The torturer, Gurney, removed the poker from the brazier, where it had been heated, until its tip was golden, and ground it into the left nipple of the Ser Marq Mandrake, who filled the chamber with his screams. The man was naked, suspended from a large iron hook in the ceiling, by a rope to which his hands were tied behind his back. Gurney had been jerking him up and down for several minutes. The acrid stench of the man's piss filled the small cellar, underneath the Tower of the Hand.

"Give me names and addresses, Mandrake, that's all I'm asking for. Then, we can bring all of this to an end." With his wedding to Daenerys now due, less than a fortnight away, he had been showered with honours. Prince of Summerhall, a knighthood for his service at Rosby, a colonelcy of a guards regiment, but there was a sting in the tale. This. At Lord Willas' suggestion, before the Question could be put to any of the prisoners, it must be approved by the Small Council. He had been among those who had voted in favour, and so, his wife to be had told him to supervise it. A notary sat on a stool, making a record, another suggestion of the Master of Laws.

"You'll hate it, I know", she said. "That's why you should do it. In Meereen, I discovered that my questioners did it, because it amused them. Most of the "evidence" they obtained was worthless." He did hate it. But, he was now quite used to it. The Watch had tortured captives, and he himself had confined men to the ice cells. Creggan Karstark had gone mad in one, flinging his shit at the guards and howling like a dog. Before leaving for the South, Jon had opened the man's throat for him, as an act of mercy. And then there was Gilly. He'd made her put her hand in a flame, telling her he'd burn her own son, unless she consented to swap him for Mance's. No wonder she hated him, so.

Another shriek from Mandrake brought him out of his reverie. Gurney had applied the poker to the man's scrotum, this time. "Connington", he gasped. "He's hiding out on the Street of Steel. Disguised. With Tobo Mott, the armourer."

"Mott? The Magister?" The man nodded. This was excellent news, if true. Did torture actually produce results, he'd often wondered? Yes, if the information could be quickly verified. "Take him down", he commanded Gurney. There was a look of disappointment on the man's face. He suspected he was among those who actively enjoyed their work. "Get Ser Marq a blanket, and some milk of the poppy", he ordered Gurney's mate, a man named Maltravers. He left the stinking chamber, then made his way to the chambers that he and the Queen shared in the Maidenvault. She listened to him gravely, before summoning Grey Worm and others to meet them in the Small Council Chamber.

"Seal off the Street of Steel, and search every building", she commanded the Sirdar. It was late afternoon, and the light was beginning to fade. "To think, Jon, that I've spent my life plotting, and fighting, for this. A ruined palace, and a city that's little better than a sty." He could hardly disagree. The city was vast, with some magnificent public buildings, but in the main, it was a slum. White Harbour, the Northern capital, was smaller by far, but clean, elegant, and prosperous. They returned to the Maidenvault, for a supper of lamb roasted with rosemary, served with a Dornish sour red. They talked of her plans for the Seven Kingdoms, which were good ones, he was sure. But the lords, many of them at any rate, would resent the freeing of the smallfolk.

"It's not the same as being a chattel slave", she remarked. "But, it is servitude of a kind. Granted, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms do have an interest in keeping their people alive, to fight their wars, till the land, and to pay their rents and taxes. The Eastern masters didn't, other than a handful of pampered pets who were their household slaves and their overseers. The fieldhands, the workers in mines, quarries, baths, and suchlike. They were simply fed the minimum to stay alive, worked to death, and replaced with fresh stock. It made sound business sense for the masters. Most slaves could be bought very cheaply."

"Most of our class haven't a clue how this works", replied Jon.

"Of course not. Nor did I to begin with. I was told that my husband's slaves wore golden collars. Oh, they wore collars all right, but not of gold. The women, they were kept to be raped in every orifice. The men, sometimes used the same way, otherwise worked to death, or sold. What was I, but a high class child mistress, to be used in any way that my husband thought fit?" The thought of it nauseated Jon. A thirteen year old girl having to learn "pillow tricks", in order to keep her husband's favour. "Like many slaves, I persuaded myself that my master truly loved me. I wept when I pressed the pillow down on his face, so that he could ride the Nightlands, rather than live on as an empty shell. Now, I laugh at the memory of it!" She smiled.

Jon felt a chill, at that. Daenerys had a habit of saying unsettling things, one reason why he doubted if he would ever truly come to love her. Oh, she was so beautiful that she'd take your breath away! Hair like silver moonlight, amethyst eyes a man could drown in, an exquisite body. She was gifted, intelligent, a passionate lover, but there was something ...off. There was a hardness and a ruthlessness to her that he'd never encountered in a woman of his class, not even in Sansa. She talked casually of atrocities, that would be the stuff of nightmares to most highborn ladies. The stories from the East, her telling him of driving thousands of prisoners before her soldiers, truth be told, they unsettled him somewhat. Which was hypocritical of course. He had killed many, sometimes with great cruelty. And, Sansa was no shrinking violet, either. It made no matter. This was a political match. Respect, affection, loyalty, these things he could give to her. House Stark would be raised to the highest eminence in the Seven Kingdoms. And, that he, the stain on their honour, had achieved it, would be sweet revenge on Lady Catelyn and his loving father.

"Of course, I've been blessed by gifted people in my service. Irri and her sister, Missandei and others, some of the lowborn, but with brilliant, focused minds. I couldn't have worked out all this without them. " That was food for thought too. Few lords, however kindly disposed towards the smallfolk, actually thought of them as possessing intelligence. A messenger knocked, then entered the room.

"Your Graces, Grey Worm has returned, with prisoners. They have been fettered, and brought to the Small Council chamber."

"Then, we shall join them", said the Queen. They made their way to the chamber, where most of the councillors were gathered. There were six prisoners, one of whom he recognised as Tobo Mott.

"Which of you is Lord Jon Connington?" she enquired.

"I have that honour", replied a middle-aged man, with dark beard and hair. "I served your Grace's father as Hand, and for the love I bore your brother, I raised his son as my own, and took vengeance on the Usurper's dogs. Dogs that your Grace made her allies."

"The Usurper's dogs tore each other to pieces" replied Daenerys. "None kept faith with any of the others. But you took vengeance on their children and grandchildren. Why should I forgive that?"

"I did it for your family. To see your brother's son ascend the Iron Throne. He would have made a great king, with you as his Queen."

"You deceived yourself. My good-sister died with her children, the day the city fell. The Pretender you served was a monster, who burned children for his amusement"

"And are you any better? Who crucifies her enemies and dances on their gravestones?"

"We'll see. One thing's for certain. You won't."

"Then, make an end. I've nothing to live for, now."

"Unfortunately for you, I shall not. Tyene Sand is on board ship, about to be taken East, to face judgement at the hands of Cersei Lannister. You shall join her."

"Killing me would be more merciful!"

"It would. But, I am not a merciful woman. Take him," she ordered, and three guards led him out of the room.

"What is your excuse Magister Mott?" she enquired.

He stared up at her, defiant. "I hate you - your Grace. You serve a vile God. You bring savages to our lands. All the city hates you, too. The rich and the poor. These councillors, here? They hate you, also. So does the man you're about to wed. Littlefinger?" he nodded at the man, who admittedly, Jon loathed. "He'd sell his own mother if the price was right. Myrcella Lannister? The Tyrells? The Starks? You think for one moment they could ever trust you? They're using you for their own ends, each and every one of them. They'll turn on you, soon enough. Whichever of the Seven Hells I may be in, at the time, I'll be waiting for you."

"It will be a long wait." She turned to the councillors, "I suggest these gentlemen be put to the Question. Are you in agreement?" There was a chorus of "ayes."

"It's not true, your Grace" said Lord Willas, after they had left. "We are all of us loyal to you."

"You took me and my mother in when we were hunted", said Myrcella. "That is a debt that can never be repaid." The others joined in with profuse agreement. Yet, there were surely traitors too, among the councillors, thought Jon as he descended the steps that led down to the place of woe, a long night's Questioning ahead of him.

Chapter Text

"There you are, every inch the royal princess", said her mother, as she finished dressing Missandei's hair. She wore a gown of cloth of silver, specially made for her mother's wedding to the Northman, Jon Snow. Daenerys then carefully placed on her head, a tiara made of Valyrian steel, studded with rubies and diamonds. "You're growing into a real beauty", said the Queen, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

”Do you think I’m doing the right thing, sweeting?” she asked. Missandei thought hard. She’d talked to Jon a few times. She’d also talked to Ygritte, Gilly, and Lady Irri.

She turned to face her mother, who wore only a cream petticoat and silk stockings.

”I think he’s tricky, a deceitful man. I know what he did to Ygritte and Gilly. Oh, I’m sure he persuades himself he acts righteously. Even when he doesn’t. I wouldn’t want to marry him, but I’m not you. I can see why it’s important that you should. He’s a mighty warrior. He brings you the North, and his sister will bring the Riverlands. From all I can tell, he's quite typical of this realm's magnates.”

Truth be told, her mother's love life was a bit of a mystery to Missandei. She was already married to one man in the East, Jelme, as well as being the lover of two women, Lady Irri and Auntie Cersei. She had no real idea how two women might go about loving one another, and she had no great interest in finding out. Now, her mother was marrying another man. She'd liked the tough old Dothraki khagan well enough, and she'd adored his daughter, Khaliun. Jon? Well, she didn't trust him.

"Well, forewarned is forearmed, I suppose. You're right, this is a political marriage, although I do enjoy his company."

"What if he tries to usurp you?"

"I have an army. It’s an ill thing to quarrel with the mistress of sixty thousand soldiers. And, I'm the Queen. Why do you think I've not made him a king? If I did, the lords of this country would treat him as the ruler, bastard or no, while I'd be relegated to the role of dutiful wife. Do you know, in this land, a woman, even a queen consort, can be whipped by her husband, so long as he strikes her no more than six times?"

"Are you sure you want to rule over them?"

"That ship has sailed.” There was a knock on the door, and then two maidservants entered. One bore a dress, in the Targaryen colours of black and scarlet, the other a cloak in the same hues. They dressed her swiftly, before she put on a pair of scarlet shoes. One of the maids placed a similar tiara on Daenerys head. Unusually, she her hair was tied up in a bun.

They left the chamber together, and made their way towards the Godswood. It was a couple of hours after Dawn, and pleasantly warm. Jon Snow was already waiting for them, standing next to his beautiful sister, Lady Sansa Stark, who had arrived the day previously. The Small Councillors, Magisters of the Guilds, and other assembled courtiers were gathered, to witness the proceedings.

The weddings (there would be three today), had been the cause of a rare disagreement between the pair. Although gifts of bread, meat, and wine, would be distributed to the people, the ceremonies themselves would be low-key. Daenerys thought the people would resent a huge celebration, as they recovered from war and blockade. Missandei thought it would cheer them up. She acted as secretary and advisor to her mother, although she had no doubt Daenerys kept some of the harsher aspects of her rule well-hidden from her. She'd heard from others, about the people being trampled to death, by elephants in Volantis, and the prisoners being driven through the Badger's Pass. People largely approved, saying it showed she was not a monarch to be trifled with, but Missandei wasn't really sure if those acts could be justified. However, people also said Auntie Cersei was the most evil woman in the world, and yet she had been lovely to her, and the other girls who had lived with her, for a year and a half. She'd taken them out on picnics, and rides, and nature walks, and had told them funny stories about her life in the Seven Kingdoms. And, most scandalously, she'd taught them how to cheat at cards. But, just the once, she had said, at dinner,

"My doves, I was once a Queen, and I did a great many terrible things. Never follow my example."

She turned her attention back to the ceremony before the great tree. She understood it wasn't a proper Heart Tree, like the ones they had in the North, but it would suffice. The Northern religion was a strange one. As far she could tell, the spirits of their ancestors went into the trees, and were worshipped by the living. She watched, as Lady Sansa led forward her brother, who stood to the right of her mother, flanked by Grey Worm.

"Who comes before the Gods?" intoned Prince Jon.

"Daenerys of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Astapor, and Yunkai, and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and royal, she comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” replied Grey Worm.

“I do” said Jon. “Jon Snow, Prince of Summerhall, Lord of Winterfell, and Protector of the Realm.” Jon was confident, yet when Missandei glanced at his sister, it she looked as if she was wincing in pain, for some reason. "Who gives her?"

“Grey Worm, Commander of the Imperial Guard and Sirdar of the Unsullied.” He turned to the bride. “Your Grace, will you take this man?” She raised her eyes to Jon's, smiling, and Jon and Daenerys joined hands before kneeling before the tree, bowing their heads in token of submission. The old gnarled oak almost resembled a bearded face, staring down at them. After a moment of silent prayer together, the Queen and her husband rose again. Jon undid the her mother's cloak. In its place he fastened a cloak of grey, red, and black, combining the colours of the two houses, Stark and Targaryen. The crowd applauded politely.

Well, that had been short and sweet. They moved on to the Royal Sept, where one of the Most Devout, Gyldane, wed the pair. She knew it to be a bone of contention that the High Septon, or High Sparrow as his enemies called him, in Oldtown, had refused to perform the ceremony. Not only did he view her mother as an unbeliever, it appeared the silly old goat objected to the very idea of a woman sitting the Iron Throne. Oh, retribution was surely coming for him swiftly! Daenerys Targaryen was not a woman to be slighted. Finally, they made their way to the small Red Temple that had been established within the Red Keep. It was clear that some of the witnesses were uneasy about this part of the ceremony. She knew that the Red Faith was viewed with suspicion throughout much of this Realm, although there were believers in every port, as well as in Dorne and the Riverlands. She herself found it the most interesting of the three. The Priest, Moqorro, spoke at length, of how R'hllor was the liberator of the downtrodden, who had chosen her mother as his champion in this world. Obviously, that must be true. Even if she found some of her methods dubious, it could hardly be denied that Daenerys Targaryen had freed millions of people. "The Shadow of God upon Earth", was how the priest described her, to the congregation. Then, he summoned the the two of them. She gasped as Moqorro conjured fire from his hands, a blazing orange inferno. The pair stepped forward, vanishing into the flames, as Missandei's heart leapt into her mouth. Then they emerged, unharmed, hand in hand, as the worshippers applauded. This was a true miracle! No wonder her mother had eventually converted.

It was past Noon, by the time they returned to the Great Hall, where the wedding banquet would be served. She took her place, at the end of the high table, seated next to her friend, Myrcella. Her husband, Orhan, sat on the other side, saying little to his wife. She knew it to be an unhappy marriage, but at least it meant she got to talk to her friend throughout. Musicians played a mix of Western and Eastern tunes, from the Gallery above them. The first course, was a delicious, cold, tomato and cucumber soup, popular in Meereen.

"A week hence, I'm leaving for Casterly Rock", said Myrcella. "I can hardly remember what it was like. I won't be sorry to leave this place. Too many horrid memories." It must be hard for the poor girl.

"But, I'll miss you."

"You'll always be welcome at the Rock. Gods, who will I even know at the place?" Missandei doubted if Orhan would spend much time at the place, which might be no bad thing, but Myrcella would be desperately lonely. Almost all the Lannisters were dead, and her uncle, or rather her father, Jaime, had vanished, presumably for good.

"At least you'll have Joy?"

"She'll be ruling Faircastle. That's one hundred miles and a sea voyage away, but yes, we'll remain close. " The Small Council had issued a decree, legitimising Lady Joy as Lady Joy Lannister of Faircastle. She would now be one of the most sought-after brides in the Seven Kingdoms. They carried on talking, as successive courses were served, of roasted venison, pork, lamb, game birds, a subtlety made from spun sugar, and a succession of fruits and wafers. Each course was served with its own wine, and the last with pear brandy from Tyrosh, but Missandei was careful. Once, and once only, had she got drunk in Meereen, and she had been violently sick. Auntie Cersei had found it all most amusing. She'd recommended what she called "the hair of the dog", as a hangover cure.

After the last course, the dancing began, something which Missandei enoyed very much. She danced with Prince Jon, and her mother, old Yohn Royce, Lady Sansa, the big thuggish Ironborn, Victarion, and his wife, Lady Sylvia. Daenerys had described Victarion as an ale-sodden brute, but he seemed a changed man since his wedding. He had only eyes for his wife, and she, quite plainly, had him wrapped around her finger. She noticed that Lady Sansa and Lady Irri seemed to be dancing a lot together. When they were seated, she overheard them talking:

"I don't know who I'm more jealous of today", remarked Lady Sansa. "Daenerys, marrying Jon, or Jon, marrying the Queen?" Then, she giggled. "Oh Gods, that's the pear brandy talking." Lady Irri laughed, before remarking, "I think perhaps, we'll need to fashion another set of wine glasses , 'ere long." She saw the Northern woman blush at that, although she wasn't sure why.

The only unpleasantness occurred, right at the end, when Ser Harold Hardyng, Lord of the Vale, begged her to accompany him, in a polka. As they danced, so he bragged, first of his prowess as a warrior, then of his wealth, and finally of his skill as a lover.

"Oh, Princess Missandei, you are a maiden fair, grant to me the gift of your sweet innocence", he pleaded. She had a sudden, horrid memory of that vile, bald, sweaty old man, assaulting her all those years ago, and backed away. "I think she'd rather fuck a porcupine, Harold", said Lady Sylvia, quite sharply. Missandei was shocked by such crudity, and even more shocked, but also relieved, when her husband appeared on the other side of the Valeman. "A word to the wise, Harold, make yerself scarce, or I'll pull yer guts out through yer arse.” Ser Harold fled, as the couple laughed.

"Men like that should be gelded at birth", said the Braavosi woman. Well, it was hard to disagree.

Chapter Text

On the third morning after the wedding, Sansa awoke, feeling confident, relaxed ... content, for the first time in many years. Jon lay on one side of her, in the vast four-poster bed, Daenerys on the other. Irri had vanished in the night, presumably returning to her own chambers. She had spent half the night fucking her brother, her Queen, and the Dothraki princess. She ought to be wracked with guilt, at violating every taboo in the Seven Kingdoms, but just for once, she felt good. If she was destined for hell regardless, she might as well enjoy her time in this world. Once, as a girl, she had asked Septa Mordane how many would enter the Seven Heavens.

"Few, very few, will be saved, whereas the damned will be many, very many. And the blessed shall rejoice all the more, as they witness the sufferings of the damned”, had been her response.

Neither the Queen’s, nor Irri's, religions condemned wanton behaviour. The Red Clergy even had brothels attached to some of their temples. But, she doubted whether the Seven would forgive her, if she turned apostate.

She thought back on the night's events. Irri had approached her, smiling at dinner, before saying, "The Queen and the Prince Consort bid you join them in their chambers." For a moment, she had thought about saying no, but honestly, she couldn't. Daenerys Targaryen had taken her breath away, when she first set eyes upon her, a woman of unearthly beauty. And of course, she lusted after Jon. Not to mention, Irri had been flirting with her shamelessly since she arrived at Court. Heart pounding, she'd nodded, risen from the table and followed Irri to the royal apartments. Away from prying eyes, Irri had taken in her arms, and started to kiss her passionately. The Dothraki's mouth was impossibly hot, and soft, and Sansa wanted to stay there forever. But, she had to pull away first, light-headed from the lack of air and from something else, and Irri moved her lips to the edge of her jaw, pressing them in a trail down her long neck. Eventually, Irri broke off, smiling, then took her hand, and led her into the bedchamber.

Jon and Daenerys waited on the bed's silk coverlets, completely naked. Jon's body, she was quite familiar with, of course, but the Queen's .... she could only say, she looked even more gorgeous, unclad, than in all her robes and gowns and jewels. Daenerys smiled, before saying:

"Have a little wine, Sansa." Irri handed her a glass.

"From Cersei's breasts?" She giggled nervously. She drained the glass straight off, noting a strange tang to the flavour. No doubt, the drink contained an aphrodisiac. The Dothraki stepped behind her, and began to unlace her dress, something which excited her tremendously. The gown fell to the ground, leaving her in petticoats and stockings. The fire inside Sansa moved lower, beginning to pool somewhere in her belly, delicious and familiar. Then, Irri drew her petticoats over her head, running her fingers lightly over Sansa's breasts for good measure. Instinctively, she covered the spot where the Beast had carved his initials into her stomach.

"Your scars are nothing to be ashamed of Sansa", said the Queen. "They prove that you're a survivor, strong." Irri knelt down before her, slowly, tantalisingly, peeling off her stockings, and then her smallclothes, leaving her naked, before the others' eager gaze. Still kneeling, the Dothraki leaned forward, placing a long kiss on her woman's place, causing her to give a little squeal.

"Would you like to wear a blindfold, Sansa?" enquired Daenerys. She smiled. "That way, you're going to have to guess which one of us is pleasuring you?" Sansa could only nod. Irri rose, took a silk scarf from the Queen, then tied it around her head. She led her forward, towards the bed.

Quite suddenly, she felt a wave of guilt, and stopped. "I'm so very sorry, your Grace."

"Sorry for what? You may call me Dany, for that matter, in private."

"I've said terrible things about you, in the past. Things that were foul, unjust." She was nervous, waiting for the Queen's response.

"I'm well aware of the things you've said about me." Now, she started to worry. "I know you'd have not a qualm about putting me to death, if it served your purposes, and I were in your power. Fortunately for both us, it doesn't, and I'm not. I like to feast with panthers, but remember this, Sansa, I'll always be one step ahead of you, should you ever seek to betray me.”

”I was wrong …. Dany. Please allow me that.”

”Then of course, I accept your apology.”

Relieved, Sansa stepped forward, and then, for several hours, abandoned herself to the pleasures of the flesh.

She rose from the bed, and made her way to the bathroom. A bath had been drawn, presumably by the Queen's Dothraki handmaidens, who could be trusted to be discreet. She entered, and luxuriated in the water, eventually drifting off into an erotic dream. Only to be wakened, as Daenerys herself climbed in behind her.

"I prefer my baths to be scorching hot, but I have to make allowance for you and Jon", she told her. Sansa sighed as the other woman began to soap her back with a sponge. A thought struck her;

"Tyrion Lannister would be spurting in his smallclothes if he could see the pair of us, together."

"The Imp?"

" I was forced to wed him. I was twelve years of age, and he made me strip for him, before he molested me. It was only a matter of time before he'd have raped me. He had a mind like a cess pit. I'm very happy you had him put to death."

"Well, this is a small world. Yes, he was a rapist. And, a slaver. I gave him to his victims. I've only just found out what General Malazza did to him. She cut out his tongue with a breadknife, before turning her attention to ... other parts." Sansa burst out laughing.

"Your turn now." Dany turned around, so that Sansa could wash her in turn. "So, were you able to work out when I was pleasuring you, and when it was Irri? I'm sure you could tell when it was Jon." Sansa blushed to remember the things she had enjoyed having done to her, and had done in turn.

"Honestly, no. But, I enjoyed every moment of it."

"I should hope so... you know, I'm sure it fuflills any man's fantasy, to share a bed with three lovely women. But, for some reason, we never get to see the reverse. Wouldn't you like to watch Jon with some handsome young guardsman?" Gods above, she'd never thought of such a thing, but it did seem appealing!

"There's this pretty steward up at the Wall, called Satin. He was raised in an Oldtown brothel, where he was trained to work as a whore. Perhaps we could bring him down here to serve Jon; in more than one capacity."

"We think alike, Lady Sansa."

Jon was adamantly opposed when they returned to the bedchamber, and put the suggestion to him. "That is just not happening', he insisted.

"But Jon, nobody's expecting you to play the "woman's part" said Dany, as she smirked. "I mean, what else do the hard men of the Nights Watch get up to, on those cold, lonely, winter nights? It's nothing to be ashamed of. In Volantis, there's even a regiment of Tiger soldiers, who are lovers. They are considered to fight the more bravely, such is their devotion to each other."

"Go on, Jon, it would be very amusing", said Sansa. "I'm sure that Satin would be eager to oblige his Commander. " Jon shook his head again.

"Spoilsport. You see how it is, Sansa. I'm Queen of this Realm, and you will be Lady of Riverrun, and even so, we can't expect to be treated equally to the men."

Sansa would spend the next fortnight, in a kind of haze of lust. Looking back on it, it was the happiest time of her life. Even after all the bad things happened, she never ceased to hunger for Daenerys, as she did Jon.

Chapter Text

“Behold, the head of a traitor”, roared the executioner, as the man displayed Randyll Tarly’s head to the cheering crowd, gathered outside the walls of Highgarden. The day was warm and the mood festive. The Tyrells had provided bread, ale, cider, and sausages to the spectators, most of whom were quite merry, as a result. The man's head would be displayed on a spike above the main gate, while the rest of his body would be quartered, and the pieces distributed throughout the Reach. His dying had been prolonged and painful, much to Olenna's satisfaction. A servant had brought her wine and pastries, as she watched. Tarly had been taken captive, with his family, three weeks previously, then led to Highgarden on a donkey, wearing a surcoat with his sigil reversed, as a mark of shame. As his captors approached each village, they would announce their arrival with drums and trumpets, so that the loyal villeins of House Tyrell could turn out to pelt the man with shit, and other kinds of rubbish. He'd tried to starve himself, but nourishing broths and watered wine, had been forced down his throat. He looked like a shit-stained ghost, upon arrival at the castle.

As an outlaw, he had not been permitted to speak in his defence, simply brought before her grandson, Ser Garlan, who had pronounced the dread sentence. He had been deemed guilty of theft (for stealing Highgarden, and pillaging its lands); treason towards House Tyrell, and murder of their retainers. Her grandson concluded,

"Randyll, as a traitor you are found, and as such are judged by all the good people of the Reach, great and small, rich and poor, and they cry out for justice against you. By common assent, you are found as a thief and a criminal, and for this you will be hanged. And because you are found a traitor, you will be drawn and quartered, and the pieces of your body sent throughout the Reach. And because you aided the Pretender who styled himself King Aegon, you will be beheaded. And because you were always disloyal and a sower of discord and a murderer, you will be disembowelled, and then your entrails will be burnt. Withdraw, you traitor, tyrant, renegade; go now to your own judgement, evil man, murderer, thief!"

With that sentence, a great roar had gone up from the assembled worthies. Sadly, they had received word from the Small Council that his wife, son, and daughter, were to be sent to the capital. She would rather that Dickon had joined his father on the scaffold, with Melessa and Talla being bound to stakes, there to endure the full agony of fire. But, they had been made to witness the proceedings, in chains. Willas would grant Garlan Horn Hill, making him a lord in his own right.

The crowd was dispersing now, as Olenna made her way back to the castle. If only poor Margaery could be present. She wouldn't rest until her granddaughter's murderers had been brought to justice. From Willas, she'd learned that Jon Connington and Tyene Sand were being shipped East, to face judgement at the hands of Cersei Lannister. Much as she loathed the bitch, she had to admit that their dying would be suitably horrific at her hands.

It was a steep climb, back into the castle, and she leaned heavily on her stick, catching her breath, at the end of it. "My lady" said one of the guards solicitously, offering her his arm, but she waved him away. She wasn't too old to be able to manage on her own.

It was time to have a long discussion with Garlan. He shared her views on the stupid “reforms” being mooted by Daenerys, unlike foolish Willas. That one had spent so much time with his books that he might as well live in an ivory tower. Now, it was time to reveal just who Jon Snow was in reality, and how they might turn this to their advantage.

_____________________________________________

Oblivious to the intended treason of Olenna Tyrell, Daenerys was bidding fairwell to two old friends and one new one.

”I’ll miss each one of you”, she told Myrcella, Joy, and Sansa. A troop of cavalry was mounted and ready to escort them all to Riverrun, whence the two Lannisters would ride West to their own seats. She had come to love the two girls, and would miss them dearly. Sansa, too, albeit for different reasons. On meeting the proud, Northern lady, for the first time, she’d thought her a very cold fish. Yet, in the bedchamber, she was transformed. She doubted if even Cersei could match this one’s passion.

”Promise me, Daenerys, you’ll fly to Riverrun, before too long”.

”Of course.” Sansa embraced her, before turning to leave with the others.

Sansa had told her one night, as Jon lay fast asleep, that she loved her, as much as she did her brother.

Oh sweetling, you should never have said that. You’d slit my throat without a qualm if it served your purposes, as I would yours, if I had to.

She’d left her thought unspoken, however, as her lover slid two perfectly manicured fingers between her thighs.

Her uncle’s son, named Walder Rivers, had been left behind as a ward of the Crown. Well, no relationship could ever have been established between the two, after Sansa had put the boy’s mother to death. Irri had offered to raise him with her own boy, and in due course, an estate would be found for him.

She walked back towards Maegor's Holdfast. The workload was punishing, she thought. The main priority in the capital was to overhaul the sewerage system, constructed in the reign of Jahaerys I, but scarcely maintained in a century. She'd got used to the city's stench, but the last thing she wanted was an outbreak of plague. Then, the Small Council had issued letters, requiring the lords and the guilds of the major towns to nominate representatives to attend her Great Council. A group of Dornish lords, led by Quentyn Martell, would attend to her later, seeking pardon for having supported the pretender. That would be granted, upon pain of forfeiting half their estates to the Crown. Lord Willas was busily interviewing men of learning, to serve as judges in capital cases. It was actually Sansa who had changed her mind, on one point. Theft would remain a capital crime, albeit, a thief would be allowed to take the Black. Her lover had insisted that the peace and harmony of each manor depended on the most severe form of punishment for thieves. The theft of livestock, or farming implements could threaten a family with starvation.

She'd told her another interesting tale, too. About the need for absolute discretion. She'd turned up in one village, where the people had angrily demanded the execution of two young women, who had been found rolling in the hay together, both unclad. It was their own families who had denounced them. Sansa had pointed out that there was no law against such behaviour, yet the reeve had counselled her to hang the pair, for the sake of peace and good order on the manor. Thinking fast, she'd said their actions were a crime against the Gods, and they must be executed before the Heart Tree at Winterfell. That had mollifed the people. Later, she'd sent them on their way to White Harbour, warning them they'd be safer in a city, and on no account must they ever return home.

"That was kind of you", Dany had remarked.

"That's not the point. The point is, neither of us wants to end up on the wrong end of a pitchfork." That was true. A certain latitude was allowed among the nobility of this land, but many of the smallfolk would happily tear apart those who violated the will of the Gods. This was a strange country. One that strongly condemned slavery, yet was fiercely judgemental about the way women lived their lives, in a way that was simply not true of so much of the East.

Finally, her hardest task. Ending the system of villeinage. She would have to wait until the Great Council had debated the issue, she realised, but she could make a start on the Crown's demesne lands. Some of her tenants were not bound to the land as villeins, but rather they took leases of varying terms, paying a mix of cash rent, and produce. A similar system had prevailed in Meereen, once the estates of the Great Masters had been confiscated. She had instructed her bailiffs to make that the rule across all estates owned by the Crown, including the forfeited lands in Dorne.

As she made her way to her study, she heard a loud commotion. A group approached her, led by a stony-faced Ygritte, and a grief-stricken Gilly. "That boy that was sent back with Lady Shireen", said Gilly. "It weren't my son; it weren't even human. Moqorro said it was glamoured, a creature of darkness. Those bitches murdered my boy!" Then she burst into tears.

Chapter Text

Gilly had anticipated this time, eagerly. The day she’d be reunited with her son, after more than a year, and with poor Shireen. Of course, Shireen would now be one of the great Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. Men would now be vying to wed her, greyscale or no. Would she even want to talk to the likes of her? Yes. There was no arrogance to the girl. Gilly knew she’d still treat her as a friend. She’d had nightmares about her own boy being sacrificed, and the princess being burned, but thank all the Gods, both of them were safe!

"Their ship will dock today. Take the day off, to greet them both," Andrastos had told her. She wondered what the future would hold. She'd intended to go and live in the lands the free folk would receive in the Gift, but was that truly what she wanted now? She'd spent too long, living among the kneelers, and that had changed her outlook. That, and reading. There would be no libraries, and precious few books of any kind, among the Free Folk. And then there was Ygritte. She knew that her friend was torn, like her, between the old ways and the new. She would not wish to abandon her daughter, who one day, would be a great lady among these people. Even if Ygritte and her daughter were to go North, with the girl as yet unnamed in accordance with custom, they'd have to return sooner or later. That reminded her, it was long overdue for her to give her own son a name, once she met him again. The boy would be nearly three years of age.

The docks stank, like the rest of this filthy city. Of salt, and sea, and tar, and spices, and of course, of shit. The city’s sewers, such as they were, emptied into the Blackwater. She couldn’t believe that people would actually fish, and the Gods forbid, even swim in this tide of slurry. Thankfully, the Red Keep had running water, drawn from Springs on the hill, and bathhouses, yet she knew that many of the city’s people bathed infrequently, if at all. She’d often wondered what drew people to live in such a dirty place. Andrastos had once told her that half the capital’s children died before their fourth year, such were the conditions they grew up in. The Queen was drawing up plans to put this right, with new sewers, and great stone bridges they called aqueducts to bring in fresh water, but it would take years before they bore fruit. Nor would it stop the people of the city from hating her, she reflected sourly. They despised anyone who didn’t follow their Faith.

She waited a couple of hours, until she saw the ship, the Perfumed Seneschal, rounding the headland on which the palace stood, and approach the docks. It flew the banners of the Three-Headed Dragon and the Stag in rut, showing that it bore Princess Shireen. The Queen had been kind, to allow her to inherit her family's castle, after the things her uncle had done to her family. She'd read enough history now, to know that most rulers would have forced the girl to enter a motherhouse, in a similar situation. Some would not even have been that clement. But, if anyone deserved mercy, it was that gentle, sweet, girl.

At last, the ship docked, and a group of sailors came down the gangplank, led by Ser Davos Seaworth. She'd barely known the man, but he had the reputation for being decent. Then her heart leapt, as she saw Princess Shireen, still wrapped in furs, no doubt as protection against he cold sea air. She called out to her, waving, and the girl ran over to her, embracing her as Ser Davos and the guards grinned. “Thank all the Gods you’re safe, Princess.”

“Lady, now, not Princess”, she replied. "The Queen's Grace has granted me pardon, so that I may rule at Storms End. " She sighed, shaking her head. "I wouldn't know what to do, but Ser Davos will be my Steward. I'm so grateful to him. And, to her Grace."

"Queen Daenerys doesn't blame children for what their parents did.” There was an awkward silence, before Shireen remarked,

"My mother wanted to burn me. She was quite mad, by the end. She did burn Patchface." Suddenly, there were tears in her eyes. "But, enough of that, you must meet your own son. She turned and gestured to the ship, as a young woman led her son down the gangplank.

"My love", she cried, as she ran over to embrace him in turn.

This was the happiest day she'd enjoyed, since she arrived at the Red Keep. She led her son back up to the palace, as she walked with the others, before reintroducing him to Ygritte, and the Mance's boy. But sadly, happiness never lasts.

She and Ygritte had found themselves growing increasingly concerned about the boy, whom she had intended to name Aemon, over the course of the next few days. He seemed sullen, saying little, and then speaking only in a monotone. She wondered if he was simple, perhaps, although she couldn't remember him as such. It was troubling. Until one morning, when she was approached by Vagharo, an acolyte of the Red Priest Moqorro, as she went about her duties. He cornered her in the Great Hall.

"That thing, it's not your child. " he said, without preamble. Furious, she aimed a punch at him, which he dodged. "I'm sorry. But it isn't. What it is, I don't know, but there is a glamour upon it." She felt sick with horror. She knew that the Red Woman could place a glamour, to make one person look another, and that generally a bone, or some other fragment was needed so as to do so. “Come with me to Moqorro.” That man frightened her. He was huge and ominous, with tattoos of orange flames marking his dark face. He heard out his acolyte, frowning ever more deeply.

”Gilly, please allow me to examine the boy”, he said finally. She wanted to say no, but she had to know. If true, she knew that her boy must have been murdered by the two priestesses. And Stannis. Her heart pounded as she led them back to her chamber. When they entered, Ygritte was present, with the Mance's son. The babe slept in her cot, and her boy stood next to it. He stared up warily at the red priest, who raised his staff, and muttered a brief spell. And, oh Gods! Her boy seemed to just melt away slowly, leaving in his place... something. Hairy and simian, yet also insectoid, with a lizard's tail, perhaps three feet in height. Its yellow eyes glared at them, with malevolent hate. Moqorro stuck at it, with his staff, but it dodged the blow, scuttling across the room on all fours, before crawling up the wall. Gilly screamed, searching wildly for a knife, or any weapon, really. Even as she found a carving knife, the thing leapt, directly for the other boy, talons outstretched, yellow teeth bared. But, before Gilly could move, she saw a flash of silver through the air, and then the thing shrieked, falling to the ground with Ygritte's thrown dagger sticking out of its side. Gilly fell on the thing, stabbing again and again, drenching herself with its blood, even as she keened wildly. At last it fell still, save for its tail, which still lashed from side to side, even in death. She came round, to feel the arms of the Red Priest, holding her gently. The boy was sobbing, even as Ygritte tried to comfort him.

"I'm so sorry, Gilly', he murmured gently. "No mother deserves such cruelty. To think, that one of my order, would perform such an act." He fell silent for a while, before remarking, "the pair of them must be destroyed." Ygritte brought her a bowl of water, and wiped her clean of the monster's blood, with a cloth. When she had finished, her friend said simply, "We must seek out the Queen. She will want vengeance." The pair of them left the chamber, while Moqorro remained with the children.

They found Daenerys, outside her study, with her guards. Between her sobs, Gilly poured out the whole, horrid tale. When, she had finished, the Queen replied, "I shall take my dragons, and you as well, Ygritte, and we shall search for this pair of beasts." There was a grim set to her mouth, before she remarked, "I promise you this, Gilly, by the time we are done, we shall make them beg for the deaths that I gave my enemies at Volantis."

Chapter Text

There were times when Ygritte loved Daenerys, and just occasionally, times when she hated her. This was one of those rare occasions. She’d listened in stony silence, as the Queen had summoned her to her chambers, to discuss her plans to avenge Gilly’s son. Eventually, Daenerys had remarked:

“Ygritte, if you’re planning to cut my throat, as soon as we leave the capital, I’d rather know about it in advance.”

“I warned you. Gilly warned you, what kind of man Jon Snow is, and still you married him.”

”And I gave you my reasons for marrying him. Those two bitches lied to Jon, just as they lied to everyone else. “

”Gilly’s boy would be safe and well, if it weren’t for Jon. What part of that don’t you understand?”

”Would he? They could just as easily have taken the boy, had Gilly remained at the Wall. Or Mance Rayder’s boy. Or, they might have sacrificed Shireen. They - and Stannis - were going to murder somebody’s child, to gain victory in battle.”

”I never thought Stannis would do that. He was decent to us prisoners.”

”People can do awful things in pursuit of power, things they’d never do, ordinarily…. I know that I have. I’ve killed women and children, Ygritte. I sacrificed a woman to bring dragons into this world.”

Ygritte was silent for a while. Was the Queen actually evil? That was hard to square with what she’d seen of her. But then, her own hands weren’t clean, neither. She’d murdered a harmless old man, South of the Wall, and she’d killed folks in raids, and burned villages.

Daenerys interrupted her thoughts. “I’ve spoken to Ser Davos. Apparently, he saved the life of a young man named Eric Storm. He was a bastard of the Usurper. Stannis intended to burn him at the stake, in the hope of waking a stone dragon. His brother’s son! Had he lived, and had it come to a fight between us, I’m quite sure he would have burned his daughter, to gain victory.” Ygritte shuddered at the thought. She didn’t love the girl, the way that Gilly did, but if there was one person in this world who was pure good, other than Gilly her own self, it was Shireen. The thought of her screaming as she was burned alive by her parents! The Gods hate kinslayers, even when they kill unknowing. She'd learned that long ago. How much more would they hate a willing one!

”It may be, Ygritte, that we’re going to our deaths. But, if I can’t protect my people, I must at least avenge them. A vile man learned that lesson, long ago, on the Dothraki Sea. He raped and murdered a young woman, whose life I’d saved. I promised my followers that he would beg for the death he gave her, and so he did.”

They didn't fly North immediately. Orders were sent by raven to Winterfell, White Harbour, Castle Black, and Eastwatch, naming Val and Melisandre as outlaws, to be slain on sight, and raising the hue and cry against them, the same custom her own folk had. Then the Small Council had to be informed. They had been told that Jon Snow would govern the Seven Kingdoms in her absence. Well, the Queen knew full well what Ygritte thought about that. She had also told her she'd written out a document she called a will, which gave instructions if she died, which she'd read before the Small Council. Shireen Baratheon was her second cousin, and her closest living relative. To the kneelers, that meant she would inherit the Iron Throne, in the event of Daenerys' death. Gods, she knew that Shireen would hate that! Snow would serve as the girl's Hand - no doubt he'd cut the girl's throat and take the throne for himself - but she kept that thought to himself. And, Ygritte's own daughter would be granted vast estates in the Crownlands. Well, cunt though he was, she could at least trust the man to look after his own daughter. Lord Selwyn Tarth, and his daughter, the warrior woman Brienne, had also been named in the line of succession, as the kneelers called it. The whole idea of cousins taking the place of a dead chief was stupid, anyway. Of course, a leader of the Free Folk would favour his own son or even daughter, to take his place, ‘less they were idiots, but every chief had to earn their place.

They also spent time with Moqorro. No more than two people could ride Drogon, unfortunately, otherwise he would have come with them. If only someone had claimed one of the other dragons, but it was too late for that now. He had warned them of the dangers that a Red Priestess would pose to them, and taught them some spells and cantrips that could guard them. Finally, he had worked spells of warding, and of concealment, over them. The Queen had also practised her swordcraft, and Ygritte had lost count of the number of times she'd put her on her arse. Still, she was at least reasonably competent by the end of it.

A fortnight after the attack, she and the Queen said farewell to Gilly. She'd been relieved of her duties, and Shireen had spent a great deal of time with her, offering her what comfort she could. "Your child will be avenged, Gilly, I promise you," said Daenerys. Gilly embraced them both, before they left. As they rode to the Dragonpit, Ygritte found her heart pounding with excitement. For the first time, she'd ride a dragon! The Queen had introduced her to the beasts, but never had she ridden one. When they reached the Pit, they raised their great heads, chirruping with excitement. Daenerys walked among them, patting them. The pair wore riding leathers, lined with a thin steel mesh, and cloaks with hoods, for warmth. The Queen had warned her how cold it would get as the flew, and she in turn had warned her of the North's freezing conditions. Attendants had fitted a pair of saddles to Drogon, who stretched himself out, along the ground, so they could clamber aboard him. Then Daenerys locked the chains that kept them in place, and Drogon leapt for the sky, wings beating fiercely. The three great beasts circled up into the air. Gods, this was exciting. Terrifying too, and she kept her arms firmly around the Queen's waist. Daenerys must think her an idiot, it occurred to her, as she laughed at the joy of flying, and kept pointing out to the Queen the towns, and castles, and mountains, and other landmarks. To think, she'd once thought a tumbledown tower was a castle! Daenerys had brought a map to consult, and Ygritte had brought a pack, containing a tent, blankets, some cooking utensils, in case they had to sleep in the open.

They spent the first night in a large town that her friend told her was called Stony Sept. It seemed that a raven had been sent to warn them of their coming, and a large crowd had turned out to cheer. The town's leading guildsman, a man named Matthias Winter, had the honour of hosting them, and by all the Gods, she'd never eaten so well as at his table, not even in the Red Keep! He called himself an epicure, whatever that was. He was unmarried, in his thirties, which was unusual, and he was surrounded by servants, both male and female, of exquisite beauty. Ygritte suspected they probably shared his bed, as well. They served up peacock, and venison, and tiny game birds, served in wonderful sauces, followed by delicious fruit tarts. And the wines! She tried not to drink too much, but still, she found herself getting a bit light-headed. He was well-travelled as well, having crossed the Narrow Sea, many times. Eventually, she and Daenerys retired to bed, which was a most wonderful four-poster, with a firm mattress and quilt of satin and goose feathers. She thought she should remain on guard, but Daenerys told her to sleep.

”There are three dragons outside this house. Nobody would be stupid enough to attempt treachery.”

She’d never slept with Dany before, always remaining on guard, until relieved. She’d heard tales about her … tastes, which were certainly not her own. But, the Queen had never tried anything with her. She drifted to sleep.

She was wakened by a scream. Quick as lightning, she was on her feet, dagger in hand.

”Sorry, a nightmare”, said Dany, “I get them, frequently. A punishment for my sins, no doubt.”

She returned to the bed. “Can you hold me, Ygritte,” she asked. It struck her how vulnerable the Queen was, as she took her in her arms. Even now, she wasn’t much bigger than a child.

”I dreamed of the battle. That man riding towards me, cutting down my men, and I was rooted to the spot. And you weren’t there to save me.” She sighed. “That’s a debt I can never repay.” She took Ygritte’s hand and kissed it.

”Well, now that bastard’s head is spiked on Traitors’ Walk, and the rest of him’s in pieces”, she replied, ever practical. On that happy note, they drifted back to sleep.

Chapter Text

“You’re more like a chief, than a kneeler’s queen. A chief always cooks for his named men.” In private, Dany was on familiar terms with her fiery bodyguard. They were now sitting in the dusk, somewhere North of the Neck. Earlier, Ygritte had hunted for a pair of coneys, while she had built a fire, and and made a crude spit to roast the meat on. Dany had skinned and gutted them, then dressed them with herbs. They were enjoying the roasted rabbits, along with a skin of wine they passed back and forth. The cold was livering, but they had their cloaks, and the fire gave off warmth.

"When I was very young, my brother and I sometimes found ourselves living in straitened circumstances. Often, we had to do our own cooking. Among the Dothraki, I had to learn how to dress meat, and build a fire, even as khaleesi. I've spent more than enough time in army camps, and I've learned how to sew and knit. Not that I could ever embroider like Lady Sansa." Ygritte snorted. They had stopped overnight at Riverrun, and Sansa had presented her with a silk purse she'd embroidered, a kind gesture.

"Can you tell me about your life?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything really."

"We could be up all night. But, ask away." She wondered what was coming. How many people have you killed? Do you prefer cock or quim? Were you always a murderer and a pervert?

"What was it like, before you were Queen?"

"Honestly, my best memories are hazy ones. I remember a house in Braavos with a red door, and a lemon tree in the garden, and I know I was happy, playing there. My brother was kind then, and we were guarded by a good old man, Ser William Darry." She smiled to remember such times. "But, it didn't last. We were turned out when he died, and the servants robbed us. My brother was twelve, and he'd managed to save some jewels and my mother's crown. I remember a lot of sea voyages, and then we'd stay for weeks, or months at a time, in various cities. Sometimes, we were the guests of rich men, sometimes staying in comfortable inns, but all the time, he had to keep selling what jewels he had. After a few years, we were forced to stay in cheap lodging houses, and finally, he sold the last heirloom, my mother's crown. I've no doubt he was only paid a fraction of its real value. He blew the money, on gifts and banquets, for the leaders of the Golden Company. He thought he could persuade them to invade the Seven Kingdoms. They just laughed at him. I think I was ten years of age, at that time. By then, he was already assaulting me."

”Assaulting?”

”Yes, he hit me a lot. He said I “woke the dragon”, angering him. I realise now, it aroused him. He’d make me undress, before beating me. Sometimes, he’d touch me between my thighs, or feel my arse, and he’d make me fondle him in turn. In Pentos, we moved in finally, with a great, bloated, pig, called Magister Illyrio. I had to undress for him, too, and let him run his hands over me. They’d have both raped me, had they not needed to sell me. He had beautiful bedslaves, some of them children, who had to suck his greasy cock for him.” She chuckled. “When I took Pentos, I meant to take his head. But, it turned out, his bedslaves had already buggered him to death with a steel spit from the kitchen.”

”Good for them!” said Ygritte, fiercely. “You didn’t punish them?”

”Of course not. I gave them all purses of gold, when I found out.”

”But, I’m getting ahead of myself. I got sold to a stinking brute. He did rape me, over again, not that I fully understood it at the time. I thought it’s just was husbands did. I was taught to perform pillow tricks for him - which usually meant sucking him off till he shot his seed down my throat or across my face. I even persuaded myself we were in love. I suppose I’d have gone mad, otherwise.” She went in to describe her time in the Khalasar. Ygritte took her hand, in silent sympathy.

”So, I know you have no love for Lady Sansa”, she concluded. “But, I do have an idea what she’s been through. It’s not a contest between us, but I know she suffered terribly.” She had given strict instructions to Ygritte that she must at least be polite to the Lady of Riverrun.

”Gods, I thought men were dogs, North of the Wall!”

”You’ll find men like that everywhere.”

They fell silent, before Ygritte asked again; “those lords, is it true you nailed them up”

”Yes, 163 of them. Exactly the same number as the slave children who were nailed to posts, on the march up to Meereen.

”When we catch slavers, we hang them up in the branches of a heart tree, cut out their guts, and leave 'en to die by inches. You should of killed the lot of ‘em.”

”That was my mistake. I left most of them alive, and they rose against me. It nearly proved fatal, to me and my people. I’m afraid that “mercy” was just another word for “cowardice”.

”But, you have shown mercy. To that Arianne, an’ Myrcella an’ Shireen … and the Starks.”

"They aren't slavers, my position is far stronger now than it was then, and they aren't to blame for what other family members did. Well, Arianne is to blame, in part, but even then, she got in over her head."

"I'd have opened Arianne's throat, in your place. I think that one's a snake."

"Perhaps. I've spoken quite a lot to her, and I think she's genuinely remorseful. And Lord Willas, and Lady Myrcella, who have most reason to condemn her, they spoke up on her behalf."

"You're nowhere near as hard as you want people to believe. Mercy will be the death of you, one day, Dany." She shivered, to hear Ygritte repeat Jelme's exact words, that night in Pentos.

"Well, at least I have you. When you're with me, all my fears vanish. Come, let's get inside our tent, before we freeze." The snow had begun to fall again. With three dragons, there was no need to stand guard in the freezing cold. They curled up together, under the wool blanket.

They reached Winterfell, at mid-afternoon, the following day. An honour guard was formed up to greet them, and they were welcomed by the castellan, who introduced himself as Benfred Tallhart. He introduced the commander of the guards, a lady of Bear Island, called Dacey Mormont, and the castle's maester, Wolkan. She and Ygritte thawed out in a drawing room, enjoying goblets of mulled wine. After exchanging pleasantries, they got to the business at hand, namely, the dark priestess Val, and her followers.

"As far as I know, she's long fled, with her closet followers", said Tallhart.

"In the direction of Barrowtown, and the Rills", said Wolkan. "It's bandit country, basically. After the fight outside Winterfell, many of the remnants of the enemy fled that way. "

"We chased after Ser Aurane Waters, when he fled there", said Dacey. "We killed most of his band, and found his body in the end. By the looks of things, his own men turned on him finally. Well, that kind can never keep faith with each other. But, it's a vast area, and barely pacified. We'll need to go in force afer 'em."

"What have you got? "

"Sigorn and Tormund will join us, with around sixty horse. We've got a hundred and twenty of our own, with remounts. We've got plenty of cured meat and other preserves. Oh, and we'll be bringing a couple of woods witches. Who knows what magic Val will try to use?"

"Good. I'm sorry Ygritte, but you'll have to ride. " She knew how much the woman hated it. "I'll ride too, from time to time, and of course, we have the dragons. "

"They'll be invaluable", said Benfred.

"Any news of the Red Woman?" aske Ygritte.

"We've heard she disappeared from Castle Black, weeks ago. No one has a clue where she went."

"Well, we'll hunt down Val first, and worry about her, later", said Daenerys. "What I need above all right now, is a hot bath."

"That can be easily remedied", said Wolkan.

"And I want to have a talk with the Red Spear" said Dacey. "You should have been brought up on Bear Island". Dany smiled to see Ygritte blush bright red.

Three days later, at dawn, they left Winterfell in hot pursuit.

Chapter Text

"Har, I reckon the Red Spear would bear me some strong children."

"Use your right hand, Tormund, if you’re that desperate”, she replied. They'd ridden for ten days, now. Gods, her arse and thighs ached. Every part of her ached, really. She, Tormund, Dacey Mormont, and three other riders, were scouting, a few miles ahead of the rest. Somewhere above them, Daenerys was flying, but they were riding through vast forests, and she couldn't see everything from the air. They'd stopped in some one-horse village, where at long last, they'd got some news of their quarry. Tormund was annoying as ever, but she'd got quite close to Dacey Mormont.

"Be honest with yourself, Tormund, not every woman is after your mighty pecker", said the daughter of Bear Island. "And, in my experience, men who have to boast about their … size tend to be ... lacking, when it comes to performance. Any woman will always choose quality over quantity." Ygritte laughed, and to be fair, so did Tormund.

”What about that big woman, Lady Stark’s bodyguard? Brienne? She’d be up for it, I reckon.”

”Turns out, she’s third in line for the Iron Throne”, said Ygritte. “A long, long way out of your league. She and the Queen have got some great great grandfather in common, and the kneelers think that gives you the right to be their chief. I know it's fucking stupid, but that's the way they does things. Anyway, every kneeler lord who wants a wife will be getting down on his hands and knees to that Brienne, telling her he loves her and wants to tongue her quim."

”You’re shitting me?”

"I shit you not."

Before they could continue, a couple of the villagers returned with the reeve, who introduced himself as Godric Haraldrson. "You want news of this white witch? She came to this village several weeks ago, her and her followers. Thank the Gods we had warning, and fled with our belongings, and our animals. Well, most of us did. A few wouldn't leave, and when we came back, and saw what they'd done to them ... well, you don't want to know. How many of you are there?"

"Nigh on a couple of hundred horse", Dacey replied "an' the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, an' her dragons."

"Dragons? You serious? " Dacey nodded. "My Maisie said she seen dragons, and I gave her a clout, told her not to tell lies. Looks like I'll have to make it up to her. But, the Queen you say? Whatsher name, again? That Cersei?" They laughed. Obviously, news from the South travelled very slowly.

"Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of King Aerys. I'm her sworn sword."

"The Dragons are back in charge? My older brother went South, years ago, with the Ned, and fought against Rhaegar the Raper. Won't this Daenerys be coming after us? Her old man was mad as a coot, they say."

"She's very different", said Ygritte. "She's not out for revenge. She even let Cersei's daughter take her family castle, and the Ususper's niece take hers. And, she married the Ned's son," she added. No need to tell this man what a fucking stupid idea that was. Up here, they'd think it great news. The man exclaimed in wonder.

"These have been hard times. Fucking Ironborn, and Boltons, and now this witch. Maybe she can put it right then."

"Tell us about the witch," reminded Dacey.

"They say she's taken some old fortress, South of here. With an outlaw called Walton."

"If we find it, the dragons can burn it from the sky". The man shook his head. "She's taken women and children, so they say. Try to rescue them.” No need to ask why Val needed children. Or women, for that matter.

"Weapons it is, then", said Tormund, with a grin of satisfaction. Plainly, he was looking forward to a fight. So was she, in truth. It might be fun to watch a castle being burned, but nowhere near as good as putting a spear through some bastard's black heart.

They rode back to the the main company, to find they'd stopped for a meal, and Daenerys had rejoined them. The horses were nervous in the presence of dragons, and whinnied and shied away. Even so, they told the Queen, Tallhart, and Sigorn what they'd learned. "Well, I'd better fly South," she said finally. "Even in forest country, a fortress is hardly something you can keep hidden. A pity they've got women and children, it would have been so much easier to burn it from the air. " They agreed to wait at this spot, till she came back. She returned to Drogon, and he leapt for the sky, followed by the other two.

She returned, just before dusk. Some of the men had been out hunting deer, while she was gone, which were now roasting on spits, and she was looking forward to the evening meal. Dried meat was all very well, but it got boring quite quickly.

"I found the place. It's on a wooded hill, maybe three days' ride from here. It's quite primitive, an old ring fortress, with a couple of towers. I tried to get close, but couldn't. It was like the dragons were running into some kind of wall, they kept shying away from it."

"Val's no idiot, your Grace", said one of the woods witches, a woman called Thistle. "She would surely cast spells to keep the dragons away. They're creatures of magic, and it works against them. Me and Rowan," which was the name of the other witch, "we could counter the spell, maybe, but then you've said, you don't want to kill her prisoners."

"That means, she knew we were coming", said Dacey.

"Oh, she'll have known alright", replied Thistle. "She'll have been using the long eye."

"The long eye?" enquired Daenerys.

"It's a charm, your Grace, lets you see people from a distance. You can't track all their movements, but she'll have seen us leave Winterfell, have no doubt of that. And, she'll have guessed what direction we're heading in."

They questioned the Queen closely about the approach to the fortress, before discussing battle plans.

"I want to be clear about one thing", said Daenerys. "I'm joining this fight. Ygritte's trained me, at least to a reasonable level of competence." The others began to protest, but she was firm. "I'm not sending others to do what I'm not prepared to do myself."

Chapter Text

Life had been good for Arianne, these months past. She’d feared that her sisters would hate her for her misdeeds. But in truth, the sisters and novices of the Sleepless Order had made her welcome. Her life was now a daily round of worship, study, both secular and devotional, tending the gardens of the Motherhouse, and performing good works. Many of the young women were of similar background to hers, which meant that conditions were not too austere. The Rule of Saint Catherine of Oldtown, the founder of the Order, prohibited meat and wine from being served in the Refectory. But that did not prevent them being served in the Misericord, 180 days in each year. And, as it turned out, seabirds and river fowl were classed as “fish”, and therefore, perfectly acceptable as fare in the Refectory. Her “cell” had turned out to be a comfortable chamber, with a featherbed, and a separate privy. Queen Daenerys provided her with a modest pension, which enabled her to enjoy a variety of comforts.

No doubt, St. Catherine would have thoroughly disapproved of such excess, but she had been dead, for two hundred years.

The Motherhouse, where the Order was based, was situated on the coast, several miles from the city. That too, was a blessing. Kings Landing was not only a filthy hive, it held some very bad memories for her. Here, the sea air was clean and fresh, and she had the peace and quiet she needed, in order to come to terms with her past. Once her novitiate ended, she would take her vows as a sister of the Order.

Arianne was tending to the herb garden, when she heard the bells tolling for Matins. She made her way to the chapel, and took her place in the pew. No longer did she fear to enter a place of worship. The Seven might not yet have forgiven her sins, but she hoped she was at least on the path to redemption. She sang, and prayed with the rest. As ever, they prayed for the Seven to grant wisdom and mercy to the Queen's Grace, and to strengthen her government. She noticed sideways glances towards her at that, from some of the others. After all, not too long ago, she had been the Queen's Grace. Then, the Elder Sister, Malora, got up to preach to them. The sermon was a political one. She spoke in detail of the Queen's record, in the East, of how she had freed slaves, which was an act applauded by the Seven, for holding men and women as chattel was a sin that cried out to Heaven for vengeance. Malora reminded them that she had tolerated all faiths, despite herself being a pagan. She pointed out that it was their duty to pray earnestly for Queen Daenerys’ conversion, so that she might eventually turn to the light of the Seven. But, that it was also their duty to obey their sovereign, even a pagan sovereign, so long as she did not command them to act in ways contrary to the laws of the Faith. Arianne wondered at this. Yes, the sermon was indeed, in accord with the teachings of the Faith, but why now?

She found out later that day, when the Elder Sister summoned her to her study. Maegelle and Rhaena were also present, and an elderly Septon named Merribald, who ministered to the district.

"His High Holiness has returned to the capital", he told them, without preamble. A man best avoided. He had excommunicated Arianne, following the murder of Margaery Tyrell, and the rest. For that, she could hardly blame him. But his views on women generally, and other religions were sour in the extreme.

”Old cheese rind”, remarked Maegelle.

"Please, Maegelle", exclaimed Malora, shocked. Merribald chuckled.

"Old cheese rind sums him up. But, if I were you, I'd worry more about the young cheese rinds. The Sparrows returned with him. The Gods alone know what foolishness they're preaching in the city, as we speak." Vile, lice-ridden fanatics, is how Arianne remembered them.

"They are ... a problem", said the Elder Sister. "They loathe the Queen's Grace, because she is both a woman and a pagan. They stray perilously close to treason."

"Perhaps a night or two in the Black Cells would help them see the error of their ways?" suggested Arianne.

"I fear that would only encourage them", replied Malora. "That kind will view persecution as a test of their faith. An object lesson that the leaders of the Faith must remain drawn from among the highborn. " She sighed, before saying, "Well, we must all return to our duties." Arianne thought about the Sparrows, during the day, while she planted herbs, but in the end, she concluded, they were not her problem. As it happened, she would be very wrong about that.

They were summoned to the Great Sept of Baelor, a week later, where the High Septon would be conducting his first service, after returning to the city. As they entered the city, she could sense that something was wrong. There was an air of tension about the place. Many of the shops were shuttered, and people went about their business hurriedly, heads down. There were clusters of Sparrows on the street corners, preaching dire sermons to the people. Soldiers too. Some she recognised as Imperial Guards, others as Goldcloaks, the city's police force. From time to time, pairs of them would descend upon the preachers, arresting them, and hustling them away. Like as not, the crowds would react angrily, chucking stones and shouting abuse. "Heathens", "foreign whore", "Eastern slut", were all among the insults she heard spoken. Were they mad, to speak of the Queen in such terms? Quite suddenly, she wished she were anywhere but this stinking city. Sensing her alarm, Malora turned to her. She was an old lady, quite frail now, a cousin of Lord Bar Emmon. "I've heard the Queen has flown North. Her absence emboldens the rabble." In that case, her husband, the Prince Regent, ought to have locked the city down, and imposed a curfew, thought Arianne. By the time they reached the Great Sept, the square outside was thronged with thousands of spectators. They entered the building, which remained a place of wonder. Great windows of stained glass filled the place with the lights of the rainbow. Here, even more than Oldtown, was the heart of the Faith of the Seven, the place of its holiest icons and statues. The building was full, of highborn, clergy, Sparrows, and even some of the smallfolk. The High Septon appeared, a small man, clad in sackcloth, and wearing rope sandles. Supposedly, he had almost fasted to death, before returning to this place. It honestly would not have surpised her if he privately indulged himself with wine and whores. Public asceticism, and private vice was, after all, the oldest of tales.

The service proceed uneventfully, for perhaps thirty minutes, before he rose to preach. The crowd of worshippers fell silent. He stared around, gazing fixedly on Arianne, for a moment. Then, he quoted from the Seven-Pointed Star:

"My head, my head aceth." She wondered what was coming. "When the head of the kingdom becometh sick and diseased, it must of necessity, be cut off. " There was a sudden intake of breath, before he continued. "The Realm has been ruled by tyrants, sodomites, and whores, for more than a generation." He then detailed at great length, the shortcomings of the various rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, including Arianne herself. "Yet, the present occupant of the Iron Throne is worse than any of these. Her predecessors at least professed to follow the Faith of the Seven, however much they sinned in the eyes of the Gods. But this Daenerys, this Queen of Whores, follows the demon of the East, R'hllor. Smeared with the blood of infants, she couples with men and women alike, on the very altars of her false God, while the ladies of her Court touch themselves and each other, in lewd and lascivious ways. "

Worshippers were on their feet now, some yelling abuse at the High Sparrow, but most, as far she could tell, were shouting their agreement. "A man who sits the Iron Throne may choose to sin, and be judged by the Gods accordingly. But a woman who sits the Throne mocks the Gods by that very fact alone. It is not the place of woman, who brought sin into this world, to rule over men. And, most certainly not this woman. Her woman's parts drip with the seed of a thousand men, her mouth, also. Nor does she indulge her lusts with men alone, but with her own sex as well, in defiance of the holy will of the Gods. In better days, her kind were not permitted to rule. Nay, they were cleansed in the holy flames of the righteous, for is it not written, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live?"

"But there is more", and here his voice fell, so that all must strain to hear him. "Her husband, to whom she is unfaithful, is the lawful monarch of this land. He is known to the world as Jon Snow, supposedly raised as his own bastard, by Lord Eddard Stark. But, his true identity is Aemon Targaryen, the son of Prince Rhaegar, and Lyanna Stark, wed by High Septon Maynard. Lord Stark feared that King Robert would have him slain, so raised him as his own. I say, let King Aemon take his rightful throne, and cleanse the land of all unrighteousness! " Arianne felt sick, as the crowd roared with approval, echoed by the crowds standing outside. "Aemon, Aemon, we will have King Aemon", they shouted. She felt someone tug her arm. It was Maegelle.

"We have to get out of here, Arianne, it's going to turn very ugly. " They began to hurry away, only to hear the booming voice of the arch bigot yelling after them. "And is that not the worst blasphemy of them all? That a Dornish whore should wear the holy robes of a novice!" Faces turned toward the pair, contorted with hatred, even as a group of the Sparrows, clad in black robes, blocked their path. Oh Gods, quite suddenly, Arianne realised she was about to die. She saw Maegelle draw a dagger, driving it into the heart of one of the black brothers, before she went down under a hail of kicks and blows. Then rough hands grabbed her, dragging her through the entrance into the square. "Dornish whore is all ye are", said one "and as Dornish whore ye shall die." She struggled fruitlessly, seeing to her horror, that a stake had been erected before the jeering crowd, with logs and kindling piled around it. Two sparrows bearing torches, waited expectantly. She was to be burned alive, just as they wished to burn the Queen! "Make it slow for her!" shouted one of her captors.

And then for the first and last time in her life, she was to witness a miracle. The crowd gave way as Merribald emerged from the ranks. No longer the kindly old man who ministered to the smallfolk. Now, he seemed the very personification of the Father in Judgment, stern, bearded, Ruler of All. "Let the woman go!" he commanded her captor.

"She's a whore", yelled one of them.

"As if you were not a frequenter of whores, in your past life, Gwillym ap Llewellyn," he responded. "And, you, Robert Fletcher, were whipped bloody as a thief. And you, Jon of Rosby, were a common murderer, who escaped a hanging by joining the army." Plainly, the men were known to him.

"She must die", said the one named Gwillym, but half-heartedly now.

"There is a furnace, thrice-heated in the Seven Hells, that awaits you, Gwillym. Harm this woman, and I promise, you will burn there through eternity, and your screams shall not end until time itself is no more. You shall disgorge toads in their slime, and worms shall breed in your belly." She sensed the fight going out of them, and then, they let her go. Merribald took her hand, and then led her calmly away. What magic he wielded, she could not even imagine, to awe a crowd in this way. But, then he reminded her of their peril.

"Walk calmly, don't run", he hissed at her. "They could turn at any moment."

Then, thank all the Gods, a great company of Goldcloaks and Guards cavalry appeared.

Chapter Text

"I'll say when we fucking go", ordered Tormund. He led the small party that planned to infiltrate the fort, him, the Dany, Ygritte, Dacey, and three other Northmen. Ygritte seemed disposed to argue, but they'd all agreed he'd lead them. He had plenty of experience of raids and ambushes, after all. Dany wanted to laugh at the very idea of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms joining a raiding party, but this was what she'd signed up for. She peered up at the fort, from the edge of the woods that grew up to the hill.

"The moon's dropped" hissed Ygritte, "Let's go, let's fucking go". Tormund nodded, and he set off up the hill, vanishing into the night. Dany expected to hear a cry, as he was shot from the Walls, but there was nothing. "You next, Dany", she murmured. Normally, her bodyguard remembered to call her "Your Grace", in public, but pressing danger is a great leveller. Dany ran, getting halfway up her hill, before falling flat on her face, after slipping in wet mud. Gods, surely the guards must have heard that, but no arrow came whistling out of the darkness, no torch was thrown over the wall. She stumbled up, then ran again, joining Tormund, hidden in the shadow of the wall. Moments later, Ygritte joined them, noiseless as a cat, then the others in turn.

"What now", she asked.

"Now we wait", replied Tormund.

Patience is a deadly weapon, in the right hands, but one that few warriors learn how to master. Dany doubted if she ever would learn, but the others were still as stone, even as it began to rain steadily, chilling them all to the bone. They wore brigandines, which gradually became soaked. At dawn, the rest would mount an assault on the gates of the fortress, drawing the attention of the defenders. As they waited, they heard the sound of guards walking the parapet above them, more than one cursing the rain. Eventually, the rain stopped, and it began to grow lighter. From the other side of the fort, they heard quite the commotion. A bell sounded the alarm.

"Okay, now we go" said Tormund. The wall was a low one, and he and Ygritte threw grappling irons over it, before darting up with ease. Dany herself was puffing by the time they reached the top. Perhaps, it had been a mistake to join them. She might, indeed, be nothing but a liability to the rest of them. Two men emerged from a turret a few yards away, staring in horror, only for one to get Dacey's thrown knife in his throat, and the other, Tormund's sword through his guts. The first toppled to the ground inside the wall, the other opened his mouth to scream, only for the giant red-head to pick him up bodily and toss him over the wall. She heard a horrid crunch, as the man's head struck solid rock.

"Tie us up" said Tormund. He was bound to be recognised by enemy guards, as no doubt, she herself would be. So, Ygritte wound aa couple of ropes loosely round them, to give the impression they were prisoners. Their hands were still free. Ygritte and the others then drew short swords. It would give them a brief moment of surprise, should they encounter enemy guards. "Now, let's go kill a witch", said the giant wildling. They trotted towards the Great Hall, in the centre of the fort, a long wooden building. Rethatched and recently repaired, Dany noticed, as they drew close. A pair of women emerged, carrying water pails, followed by two guards.

"Look who we've got", said Dacey. "Tormund the Tall Talker, and the fucking Dragon Queen herself."

"You're shitting me", said one of the guards, surprise on his stupid face. He still looked surprised and stupid as he died, with Dacey’s sword through his heart. The other turned to flee, but Ygritte was on him in a trice, yanking his head back and slitting his throat.

The two women were rooted to the spot in terror. “Be quiet, and you’ll live”, said Dany, gently. “Now, where are the children?” Killing the witch was the plan, but so, very much, was rescuing the children.

"I'll take you to them", whispered one of the women. They entered a passageway, which led to a flight of stairs, leading towards a cellar. "Down there", she said. "Take Thorvald, and Geric, Dany" said Tormund, nodding to two of the Northmen, "and secure the children. We'll finish Val." Well, that made sense, they were the most experienced fighters, after all. Rescuing children, at least, should be within her capabilities.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Ygritte crept into the main hall, with the others. Carved wooden pillars supported the ceiling, making it easier for them to steal up on the witch, undetected. And there she was. Val was sitting by a firepit, singing a charm, like a lullaby. A quick rush, and then put a knife through the back of her head. She was a rare beauty, though, it had to be admitted, and it seemed a right shame to kill her. Suddenly, Ygritte realised, she didn't want to kill her any more, and she wondered how such an awful idea could even have entered her head. She looked towards the others, and knew they felt just the same. Val turned her head, looking her in the eye.

"Well met, Ygritte" said Val, as she smiled. "Tormund, too, but no Dragon Queen, still I daresay she'll be along shortly. And may I know who you are?" she asked Dacey and her colleague.

"Dacey Mormont, and this is my friend, Rickard".

"How sweet", replied Val. "Now, I rather suspect you came here with the intention of killing me, just like your friends out there who are trying to batter down the gate. But, why would you want to do a thing like that?" Ygritte found herself shaking her head, along with the others.

"Dunno, I guess", said Tormund. "Stupid idea, really."

"Yes, I want us all to be friends, and friends don't hurt each other, not unless they have to. Did you meet the children, earlier?" asked the witch.

"The Queen's Grace, she went to see to them", said Dacey.

"Oh yes, she would. She has a kind heart. We'll give that kind heart to the Gods shortly, along with other parts. As for the children, well they are such sweet little things. My Gods *just adore* children, as I'm sure you know. You remember Gilly's boy, don't you, Ygritte? Such a little dear. I cherished him just like I would my own son, if I had one. Even Lady Melisandre and King Stannis wondered if I was doing the right thing, by opening his throat for him, but the will of the Gods always has to come first. I promised them Mance's boy as well, and they granted us victory at Winterfell. I understand you saved the boy's life, Ygritte, and there's a price to be paid for that, but we'll come to it presently."

"I'll need you to join the fight at the gate. The Red Spear would be a useful ally, but first, you've got to make something up to me. You saved a life that was promised to the Gods, so now, you have to take one. What I'd like you to do, is to plunge your dagger into Tormund's heart. You're happy with that, aren't you?" she asked him.

"Of course Val." She saw the man remove his brigandine, then unbuttoned his shirt to make the job easier for her. Almost as if she were watching from a distance, she saw her right hand reach down to her boot in search of a dagger. For a moment, she wavered.

"Do it!" snapped Val.

"Right you are". She drew the dagger, preparing to stab Tormund. Then, to her horror, she saw Dany step from behind a pillar and plunge her own dagger into the back of Val's neck. The witch shrieked, and she twisted furiously, breaking the spell. Quick as a snake, Ygritte flung herself forward, slicing the woman's throat, with her own knife. Val slumped forward, into the fire, her pale hair igniting, immediately.

They stared at each other, amazed, as the room filled with the stink of burning flesh, before Dany finally remarked;

"That bitch talks too much."

Chapter Text

Sansa ignored Kyra's inane chatter as the handmaid dressed her hair. The girl was feather-brained, like so many of the smallfolk, but she was gentle, and she performed her duties effectively. In some ways, she resembled a docile horse or cow. The Lady of Riverrun was in a fine mood this morning, which matched the sunny weather outside. Daenerys had given her good advice back in the capital. Sansa's ... appetites were better sated with whores, well paid for their discretion, than with servants who were bound to gossip. She had summoned the bawd who ran the brothel that her uncle Edmure had often frequented, on the pretext of discussing a renewal of her lease. And, then she had stated her requirements. An attractive young man, and woman, were each to attend at the Tullys' hunting lodge, a couple of miles outside the castle, on a specified day in each month. If the madam had been surprised, she hid it well.

"Can you find a pretty girl who will lie with another woman"? she'd enquired. "By "girl" I don't mean a child", she'd added hurriedly.

"Gods yes, milady. You should see some of the dregs what comes through our doors, meaning no disrespect. The gels will be queuing up for this job. Young men, too. 'ow many of my boys and gels do you think actually enjoys sucking off some fat old knight, or taking it up the arse? Your ladyship wouldn't believe what things some clients demand - but I do draw the line. No violence, an' nothing to with children or animals. All they need to know is you're a wealthy woman, what requires their services, discreet like ." They had agreed a fee sufficiently high to assure discretion, and then the other woman had made the necessary arrangements.

Under cover of darkness, the whores had gone to the hunting lodge. Wine, and a light meal, had been left out for them. Sansa had left her guards, outside, before joining them. She had worn a mask, and had commanded them to disrobe. She was not displeased by what she had seen, and she had then indulged herself for a few hours. The young man had shown impressive skill and stamina, while the girl could only be described as “silver-tongued.” After dozing for a while, Sansa had left before dawn, leaving a hundred silver stags in a purse for them, as a gratuity. Yes, this would be something for her to look forward to, each month. Better still, it would shut down for good, any temptation she might have had, to make Kyra serve as her whore. The girl had given no sign that she shared Sansa's own dark proclivities, and she would rather have willing partners.

Once Kyra had finished with her hair, she thanked her, then left the chamber to break her fast with her steward, Utherides Wayne, and Maester Vyman. They shared a meal of bread, cheese, wine, and olives in her study, as they discussed the affairs of Riverrun. She liked this castle better than Winterfell. It was decorated with tapestries of silk and cloth of silver, and filled with costly furniture and paintings. Unfortunately, some of the former commemorated House Frey, after the seat had been awarded for a time, to Lord Emmon. Like the other Freys he had fled, rather than face her judgement. His wife, Lady Genna, and her children, had been granted permission to reside at Casterly Rock, with dear sweet Myrcella, upon condition they renounce the Frey surname, in favour of Lannister. Pointedly, Lord Emmon had not been included in the pardon. The tapestries would be sold, just as soon as fresh ones, commemorating the Starks and Tullys had been woven.

Wayne had a broad grin on his face. "I bear you glad tidings, my Lady", he began. "Your friend, Lady Lannister, has apprehended the outlaw, Emmon Frey, and she is sending him to you, under guard, to face judgement. And, Lame Lothar and his band were hunted down and slain by Jonos Bracken, three days hence." She smiled, thinking how eager the Lannisters were, to cut their Frey relative loose.

"Welcome news indeed, Ser. I shall hang him from the Wheel Tower, and fix his head above it." She could tell, this was going to be a very good day. They discussed the fortunes of the Tully estates, which had been hard hit, in the wars. But, the holdings of House Bolton were being sold swiftly, providing her with substantial cash sums. "Sufficient to restore Riverrun to its former glory", she told them.

"That will be most welcome, my Lady. Will you adopt the Stark or Tully name?" enquired Vyman. She had pondered this.

"I think both. I cannot allow my mother's and uncle's names to perish. But, nor can I dishonour my father. The arms of both Houses shall be quartered as my personal standard. " A nagging thought reminded her that she had usurped the rights of her uncle's very son. But, he was half a Frey. His blood was tainted, and his mother had been hanged, on her orders. Besides, the boy would be provided for.

"Doubtless your ladyship has considered marriage?" suggested the Steward. Well, she could hardly tell him that she had exchanged vows with her own brother, in mockery of the Gods, the very man who was wed to the Queen.

"A second son from a lesser House, I think." A man who would know full well that his status would depend entirely upon her goodwill, The steward understood this. She would make it very plain to the man, in private, that her bed would be her business, after they had wed. If would be a marriage after the Dornish fashion. She would, of course, need an heir. It was immaterial who provided that heir, so long as they were acknowledged as legitimate.

”We may have news of Lady Arya”, continued Vyman. Her heart leapt. She had offered vast rewards to anyone who might have news of her sister, although she'd long been resigned to her murder. "A Braavosi ship's captain, put in at Saltpans. Says he transported a girl to Braavos some years ago, who matched her description."

"Bring him here. He'll be well fee'd if he has anything useful to tell."

The meeting ended, and she went for a walk in the Godswood, and the gardens fashioned by her grandmother, Minisa Whent. There was a wonderful fragrance, in the air, so different from the omnipresent smell of shit, in the capital, and she inhaled deeply. She thought of poor Myrcella. That lovely girl was so unlike her foul mother - the Gods alone knew what she must be like in bed, to have ensnared Daenerys. She and Myrcella had become friends at the Red Keep, and even more so, on the journey to this castle. Myrcella and Lady Joy had stayed for a week, before heading West, and the three had shared the vast bed that stood in her chamber. That sweet girl was still disturbed, and the three of them had wept, as slowly, haltingly, she had described having to watch, as her brother, and dear, lovely, Margaery, her ladies, and cousin Rosamund, had been burned alive in front of her. She could even pity Cersei for that!

But for Sansa, this was a very good day. Until it wasn't.

First, a bedraggled group of villagers presented themselves at the Water Gate. They were followers of the Red God, and lived thirty miles downriver. For some reason, the new faith had made converts in the Riverlands. Sansa wasn't concerned one way or the other, but that was not the general view. It turned out that a bunch of zealots called Sparrows had burned down their chapel, and for good measure, had thrown a dozen of them into the flames. They sought protection, and justice. She made plain to her steward that a flying column must be sent to hunt down the Sparrows. Daenerys would demand no less, given they were co-religionists. That had been an easy enough order to give.

But, then came the news from the capital, relayed by a succession of ravens, from the maesters in the Red Keep. And, the news was dire. There had been days of rioting across the city, led by the Sparrows. Soldiers, followers of other religions, foreigners, people from the islands, of obviously Valyrian descent, had been lynched, in an outpouring of hatred, hundreds of them. The army and goldcloaks had secured the Red Keep, the docks, and adjacent districts, and had fought a running battle to regain control of the city, but whole neighbourhoods had burned. The Great Sept remained in the hands of the chief fanatic, the one they called the High Sparrow. And, oh Gods! Arianne Martell had nearly been burned at the stake, by the mob! Princess Missandei and Lady Irri had been out in the city, when they'd been pursued by the crowds, and nearly been murdered. Irri had been "badly injured", and Sansa shuddered to think what that meant.

It was clear what had to be done. Summon her banners, and march on the capital, like any loyal vassal, and then clear out that nest of rats for good. But then came the final message, from Jon himself. Lord Leyton Hightower, and other Reach lords, had apparently proclaimed him King Aemon, in the Starry Sept at Oldtown. It was claimed that he and Sansa had not shared a father, after all, but rather, Prince Rhaegar had taken Aunt Lyanna as a second wife, and he was their son. The Patricians of the capital had likewise, urged him to assume the kingship, if only to appease the mob. If he did, he wrote, he would stress that Daenerys remained co-ruler, in her own right. Her mind reeled. If true ... then their relationship was acceptable in the sight of the Gods, after all. That was a huge relief. And a source of great fear. Daenerys could not fail to see this as treason, when she learned of it. Would she, indeed, think that Jon, the Reach lords, and maybe Sansa herself, had entered a conspiracy against her?

It was the worst of days, after all.

Chapter Text

Orhan spat, in disgust, at the sight that greeted him. The remains of ten riders of his tuman, hanging upside down from the branches of trees, with their heads a few inches above the smoking remains of the fires. That is, if you can call them heads, after they've burst open.

"They stayed long enough to enjoy themselves, General," remarked Lewis Lanster, the dashing, golden-haired, cavalry captain, who led his scouts. The man had insisted he must come and see. The general felt nothing but a cold rage. He'd pursued the remants of the Usurper's forces through the foothills of the Red Mountains, whittling them down, but now they had struck back! Well, there would be a reckoning.

"No quarter for the rebels", said Orhan. "Each one we capture is to die slowly."

"Begging your pardon General, but this is Sparrows' work", said Lanster. "Look closely." They both rode up to the dead men. "Look", he pointed to the chest of one of the corpses. On it was branded a star, with seven points. They looked at the other bodies, similarly marked.

"Fools", said Ser Lucifer Strong, one of Lanster's officers. "This makes the work of retribution so much easier. There's a septry, just five miles away."

"What have these Sparrows got against us?" asked Orhan. He'd encountered them along the way, ragged holy men and women, who seemed unfriendly, but hardly a danger to armed men.

"They preach against the Queen's Grace. They condemn her as a pagan. Well, most of our army are pagans. Me? I was brought up in the Faith, but honestly, I've spent so much time in the East, I think it's only good manners to show respect to any God who I think has power. Besides, I don't think the Sparrows would really approve of the way I live my life. Tell the truth, the Sparrows hate anyone who doesn't worship the Seven or follow the High Cunt, or whatever they call their leader."

Orhan knew his captain favoured pretty boys. It was hardly unknown among his own people, and shameful only if a warrior took the woman’s part. But, he was heartily sick of this country. Heartily sick of having an immature wife, who simply shut her eyes and remained rigid, whenever he ploughed her, without ever getting into the spirit of the thing. She hadn't even borne him a son yet. Gods, how he desired her mother, a shameless whore with insatiable appetites! His father had enjoyed Cersei Lannister, more than once, but that bitch had turned him down flat, back in Meereen. As her husband, his father had also enjoyed his gorgeous step-mother, whom he wanted above all. More than once, he'd been tempted to force himself on her, but that would be a death sentence. If she didn't kill him, his father would. He was heartily sick, too, of the attitude of the people. It was well past time they learned who was master.

"Lead me there." He and Lanster rode with three hundred men, leaving the rest encamped, after having ordered that the bodies of the murdered riders be decently burned on pyres. Nearly an hour later, the septry came into view, a complex of grey stone buildings, with green tiled roofs. A fair-sized village, made of wattle and daub cottages, thatched with straw, had grown up around it. Goats and sheep grazed in their hundreds, around the place, but there was no sign of people. That was ominous. As they rode up to entrance to the septry, a party of holy men and women emerged to confront them.

He stared down at them, not bothering to conceal his scorn for the rabble.

"A party of my riders was brutally murdered, five miles hence. Their bodies were branded with the mark of your Faith. I understand that the guilty men came from this place."

"And, they performed a righteous deed" responded the leader, an old bastard with wild grey hair, and a long tangled beard. "It is no crime to slay the heathen. Nay, nor is it a crime to slay the pestilential whore you call your Queen. Begone, foul cobbold, pagan wretch, and take your dogs with you!" There was a whistling sound, and the Sparrow fell dead, with an arrow in his throat. One of his men had shot him, for his insolence, without even waiting for orders. Good! He drew his own blade.

One of the holy women screamed, drawing a seax, and leaping at him, intending to gut his horse. He blocked her blow with his arakh , then deftly cut her throat with it. A great howl rose about him. As if from nowhere, scores of men and women, in ragged Sparrows' robes, and hundreds of peasants, poured out of the village and septry, to attack them. Desperately, he turned about, cutting down, even as they swirled about him. He saw first one, then more of his men, going down under the press of the enemy, who beat, trampled, stabbed them without mercy. For a few moments, he thought they'd be overwhelmed, but that was before their discipline and training kicked in. He and his men cut down, slashed, and stabbed, hard and fierce, with their blades, watching each other's backs, and their horses themselves were trained to fight. They bit, kicked, and reared up, using their hooves to smash their assailants' skulls like eggshells. After a few minutes, it became a slaughter, as the enemy turned to flee, leaving dozens of their number dead and injured.

Orhan had had enough. "Kill the men, make use of the women, and burn this fucking place to the ground!" His men were only too happy to respond, hunting the villagers down like rats, through the buildings. If anything, his anger grew as he killed, alongside them. He dismounted, after riding into the main courtyard of the septry. His horse's flanks were spattered with blood, he noticed. It was time to clear out this nest of vermin, once and for all. Everywhere, his men were cutting down their foes, children among them, but why spare them? They'd only grow up to avenge their parents. He heard a high, keening, sound, and realised quite suddenly, that he was screaming with joy, as he killed. Men were dragging women to the ground, ripping off their clothes, prior to fucking them, and that was to the good! Far too long, far too long, Daenerys had kept her soldiers on a tight leash! Well, she wasn't here now, and it was well past time to show these people how his own people dealt with traitors!

"Kill the women, once you're done with them," he shouted, above the screaming. His men were starting to set fire to the buildings, on his orders. The last of the enemy took refuge in the Sept, but that only made their job easier. "Burn it down", he commanded. Swiftly, men piled brushwood around the building, before setting it alight. He saw Lanster approach him, handsome face spattered with blood, and a wild look in his eye. "We aren't so different, you and I", the man said, as he grinned, before turning back to the burning Sept. "Shoot them", he commanded, as people began scrambling out of the windows.

They rode away, the settlement still burning fiercely in the background. His riders looked up at him, expectantly.

"Well done men, a good day's work", he said, nodding with approval.

Chapter Text

Castle Black

Ygritte had never felt such cold rage, before. Her anger was usually a thing of passion, it came and it went. But, she had felt chill fury, ever since Daenerys, in a state of shock, had read out to her the despatches that had been sent by ravens to Castle Black. It was the first time she'd ever seen her friend and Queen looking truly shaken, as if she'd aged a decade. Edd Tollet, the Deputy Commander of Nights Watch, had left them alone, in their chambers at Castle Black.

"They'll be coming for me, sooner or later", Dany said eventually, in a monotone. "You too. Thank the Gods that we have the dragons, here. Otherwise, we'd be dead by now, or locked into an ice cell."

”Edd, he gave us bread and salt. He's not a Frey. Or a Stark... The Gods know, I think the worst of men, and I've got my reasons for it, but ... him? No, he wouldn't break guest right. ...Perhaps, Val was in league with them?” she continued. “To get you up here, while they seized your throne. Jon, maybe he fucked her, at some point.”

”Possibly. The Gods know what’s happening in the South. There's one last despatch, I haven't read you yet, from Sansa Stark."

"Your Grace. These events will have come as a shock to you, I know, they did to me. Please accept my assurances that neither Jon, nor I, are seeking to overthrow you. Jon has accepted the offer of kingship solely in order to keep the mob at bay. I loathe the Sparrows as much as you. Come to Riverrun, and we can discuss how to restore order in the capital and the Reach."

"You think because the two of you ate each other out, you can trust her?" She saw Dany start with surprise. "Dany, you and I, we've got to be frank with each other, if we wants to get out of this hole. I ain't judging you for it. I don't care what folks get up to in bed, but people murder an’ betray their lovers an’ friends, all the time, for gold an' power. An' I'm telling you, if you go to Riverrun, you ain't ever coming out of there alive. You've got the dragons, but how many hundreds of archers do you think she'll have waiting, or scorpions? Maybe you can burn the place, but all it needs is one lucky shot to take you down."

“We were ... intimate, Ygritte. And, no, I don't trust her because of that, not for one minute. It may sound silly, but it was the purse that she gave me. That she embroidered. That was a gesture of real affection .... or so I thought at the time."

"An' maybe she meant it, at the time. But, things has changed. The Red Witch has vanished from this place, an' we have to forget her for the time being. First, we've got to get back to the army. Second, we've got to get Gilly, an' my daughter, an' the Mance's boy, an' Irri, an' Princess Missandei to safety. After that, we gut the bastards."

“Do you think Myrcella and Joy are loyal?"

“If anyone is, they are. But, who knows if they're fighting the Sparrows?"

"I wonder what they did to Walton, in the end" mused Daenerys, going off at a tangent. They'd dragged Val's body out of the fire, and Tormund had cut her head off, sticking it on the end of a spear. The fight had gone out of the defenders at the sight of it, most of whom had thrown down their weapons. Walton and a handful of men had damned the rest as cowards, but they had no chance. The Queen left it up to the captive women, and the people from Winterfell, to choose who should be punished, and in what manner. After a long bath, they'd flown on to Castle Black.

"Cut his guts out, most likely, or perhaps flayed him. That's how the Free Folk would do it. The Northmen do the same.”

"Yes of course" she said, coming back to the matter at hand. “We'd better keep away from any major settlements, as we return South. We can live rough, till we reach the army. Maidenpool, and Saltpans, that's where the nearest detachments are going to be. Malazza's in the vicinity. We'll catch up with her, and then take stock. And, we'll consider how best to rescue our loved ones. I'll make Jon Snow rue the day he was born, if he harms a single one of them.

The Red Keep

"I suppose you're keeping us as hostages, now?" The situation was a rapidly-developing nightmare. Upon the urging of the City's leaders, Jon had accepted the royal title, King Aemon, first of his name, while stressing that he was not staging an uprising against his wife. Both Missandei and Irri, who was recovering in her chambers, had laughed that idea to scorn. Missandei had insisted on barging in to the meeting of the Small Council, to confront him.

"Please your highness" Littlefinger replied smoothly, "You are well-guarded here. You are being kept in the Red Keep for your own safety."

"Oh shut up, you snake! No one believes a word that comes out of your lying mouth!" Despite it all, Jon couldn't help admiring the way she slapped the man down. The Master of Coin looked as if he'd swallowed a wasp.

"Your highness, I have every intention of evacuating you, and others to Dragonstone", said Jon, truthfully. "First, I need to calm this city. I don't want to endanger anyone, by sending them out of this place, even with an escort. You and Lady Irri were almost murdered, the last time you left these walls." The riots had simmered down, but still, the High Sparrow preached his incendiary sermons in the Great Sept, before thousands. Vast numbers of Warriors’ Sons, the armed wing of the Sparrows, guarded the approaches to the place of worship. Still, the news came in, of risings across the Reach. He had his suspicions as to who had sparked it all off.

"My grandmother, the Redwynes, and the Hightowers, I very much fear. They hate the land reforms that the Queen's Grace intends. What have they unleashed?", Lord Willas had said, sadly, earlier. The Lord of Highgarden had offered to travel to the Reach, in order to persuade the rebels to stand down. Jon had warned him that it might well be a suicide mission. One thing had puzzled him.

”The Sparrows want me as king, but I’m just as much a pagan as the Queen is.”

”They think the faith of the Old Gods is moribund. Nobody practices it in the South any longer, outside of the Blackwood lands. Even in the North, most of White Harbour’s people now follow the Seven, and new septs are being built all the time. But, the Faith of R’hllor? That they fear. R’hllor is making converts, not in huge numbers, but steadily. And with a Queen who is pledged to the God, they expect many lords to convert, and where the lords lead, they fear that the smallfolk will follow."

"But, Daenerys has pledged religious tolerance for all. And the Faith will remain the established religion of this land. The Septries own vast lands, they collect tithes, they have their own courts."

"Ah, but don't you see? That is fine, when perhaps nine parts of the people follow the Faith. But, what if millions should convert? Why should they be bound by the laws of the Faith, or pay them tithes? They'll have their own priests and temples to support. And, of course, the Red God has millions of followers in the East. What if they were to descend on us? That's what they fear." Lord Willas was plainly a most thoughtful man, unusual among his class.

”Your highness, may we discuss this privately”, said Willas to Missandei. She at least trusted him, and left the room with him.

”Insolent child”, muttered Baelish, after she had left.

”Has the High Sparrow shown any inclination to moderate his demands?” enquired Jon. Littlefinger had met the man.

”Alas no, he’s a fanatic. He still demands that you set the Queen’s Grace aside, and that she departs the Realm.”

”Then, peace is impossible. I must think further on this.” He rose, and returned to his chambers. Melisandre! That red bitch had seen the future, and as so often, had interpreted it wrongly. He would be king, but he could only pray that his wife would see the necessity for it, and not as a betrayal. As for the fires of sacrifice? That was the fault of the Sparrows, not the followers of the Red God.

As he pondered, he was interrupted by a servant, who handed him a letter received by raven from the maester at Horn Hill. His heart sank as he read it. Daenerys’ step-son Orhan was conducting a campaign of terror through the Dornish Marches.

The crisis would only deepen.

Chapter Text

"This is not revenge, this is justice", proclaimed Malazza in the common tongue, before the crowd of townsfolk. She wore a fine suit of black steel plate, and a general's scarlet cloak, intending to impress. A bunch of ragged men and women, calling themselves the Sparrows, had come to Maidenpool, preaching revolt against the Queen's Grace, and provoking a riot. Thankfully, the local garrison commander, and the district's own liege, Lord Mooton, had responded effectively, putting down the riot with sufficient, but not excessive, brutality. She had ridden hard for the town, from Saltpans, upon being informed, and had set about the work of retribution. A score of the rebels were to be hanged, in the market square.

It was a fine day, she noted. A fresh breeze came in off the sea, bringing with it, the tang of salt. The executions troubled her not at all. This was nothing, compared to Volantis, after all.

She addressed the condemned. "If you have any last words, now is the time." That was apparently, the custom, in this land.

"There are millions of us, pagan", said the first, a man in Septon's robes, "You can't hang us all." She nodded to the masked executioner, who pushed him off the scaffold. The man twitched and danced for a bit, before falling still. Then came the next, a young woman, who cursed the Queen as a whore and a tribade, before she was pushed off in turn. Each followed, variously cursing, praying, or sometimes saying nothing at all. She scanned the crowd. None seemed unduly troubled by what they had just witnessed. Judging by their clothing, they seemed the more respectable elements of the population. Disturbing tales of revolt were coming in from the Reach and capital, but here the people seemed to have quietened down. She spoke to the crowd again.

"Time and again, the Queen's Grace has made plain that every man and woman, in this Realm, is free to worship as they choose, and that no one will be forced to follow any God that is not their own. In particular, the Faith of the Seven will remain the official religion of this land. There is no ground for revolt. May the Old Gods and the New, and the Lord of Light, save the Queen!" There was a cheer, before the crowd stated to disperse, only to be interrupted by a great screech from the air. People fell to their knees, as the Queen's very dragons descended into the square.

Thank all the Gods! She’d heard the Queen had gone North to hunt down some traitor. A foolish notion! That was best left to her soldiers and servants. What if she’d died? Still, she was alive and well, and that was all that mattered. The tiny silver-haired figure dismounted from the black beast, along with her read-headed bodyguard, the one they were calling the Red Spear. She threw a smart salute, and her soldiers snapped to attention. The Queen gestured to the kneeling townsfolk to rise.

"Your Grace, I trust your mission was a successful one," she began.

"Partly, General. We killed one of the murderers and her followers. The other remains at large. But, I'm sure you're aware what has now broken out. " They began to walk towards Lord Mooton's castle, which overshadowed the square, and where she had been staying. "I flew first to the Twins, and there were several hundred of the Sparrows and their followers laying siege to the place, most sloppily, as far as I could see."

"I left a small garrison there, your Grace. What happened?"

"I now have several hundred fewer enemies", she replied, with a smile that resembled a Skaagosi winter. Malazza noticed that her silver hair was flecked with ashes. "They did not expect us. The garrison is safe." She had the impression that the Queen would not be famed for the quality of mercy, from now on. Old-fashioned severity was to be the order of the day, and not before time. "Ygritte and I need to rest and bathe. We shall continue this conversation later."

They resumed their discussion over the noon meal, in Lord Mooton’s solar.

”What is your current order of battle, General?”

”Three thousand foot, and a thousand horse at Harrenhall. Eight hundred foot and five hundred horse, in this town, five hundred of each at Saltpans, three hundred foot, at Lord Harroway’s Town, another six hundred in smaller garrisons."

"And my own levies, your Grace", added Lord Mooton.

"Quite sufficient to hold the Eastern Riverlands, then?" Malazza nodded. "But, what of the West? I have no soldiers stationed there. "

"There's talk that Lady Stark will summon her vassals to Riverrun. By all accounts, the Sparrows are causing more trouble, upriver."

"But, to fight on which side? That's the question."

"You think she's turned traitor. And, your husband?”

"I don't know ... I'll write a decree, under seal, appointing you as Warden of the Riverlands. That gives you complete command in the region. My lord, your scribes can make copies, to be despatched to the Great Houses. Lady Stark is no soldier. If indeed, she is loyal, General, she can have no objection to your authority."

"Your Grace, I believe the heartland of the rebellion is the Reach, and who knows if they'll join up with the remnants of your enemies, in Dorne? The Spider, Nymeria and Obara Sand, other outlaws, they remain at large, don't they?" Daenerys nodded.

"It makes sense. The Reach is the heartland of the Faith of the Seven. Oldtown was a holy city, long before Baelor built the Great Sept. And, the home of the wealthiest lords in this land. I know what so many think of my reforms... Are the Reach lords using the Sparrows, or are the Sparrows using the lords, I wonder? They don't seem like natural allies."

"Your Grace, you are their common enemy", replied Lord Mooton. "If they succeeded in destroying you, it would only be a matter of moments, before they turned on each other."

"Ygritte and I shall rest here, for the night. Then, fly for the Crownlands. Grey Worm has at least twenty thousand there."

"So, far as I know, there is little trouble in that region, your Grace", she replied. "Lord Celtigar wrote that when the Sparrows came to his island, his own people tore them apart. The mobs in the city have been stringing up anyone who looks Valyrian, and that's put the fear of the Gods into a lot of people on the islands and coasts. They're loyal, I'm sure."

"The first piece of good news I've had in days." The Queen smiled at her. "Thank God I reached Daznak's Pit before the Imp murdered you."

"That fucker!' Those were the first words Ygritte had spoken. "The Queen's Grace told me all about that little bastard."

"Killing him gave me nothing but satisfaction," replied Malazza. "I cut off the two things that mattered most to him in life. His tongue, and his cock."

"Do you know, he was actually wed to Lady Stark?" said the Queen.

"You think she might want to avenge him?"

"Oh no, she hated him. She was kept a prisoner by his family. Lord Tywin seemed to think that he could take control of the North, if the pair were wed. And, Lady Sansa is a rare beauty. I think it appealed to his twisted humour, to wed her to a man who whose ugliness matched his soul. And then," and Daenerys couldn't help chuckling, "the Imp repaid him by poisoning his own nephew, and then he shot his father as he shat himself. So, Lady Cersei has told me. She was delighted to learn of her brother's end."

"That family was a byword for depravity" remarked Lord Mooton. "If I may ask your Grace, why did you spare Lady Cersei and restore Casterly Rock to her daughter. That family butchered yours."

"I had my reasons." Well, Malazza now knew just why Lady Cersei enjoyed the Queen's favour. She herself had never been attracted to her own sex, especially not after the Imp had forced her to pleasure other women, while he watched and fondled himself. "Besides, Myrcella is a sweet child." That was true, but perhaps too sweet to survive in a world as dark and depraved as this one.

Chapter Text

Cersei had lit candles in Meereen's one and only Sept, to give thanks for her lover's victories in the West. One day, she could dream that Daenerys would return to her, and they would live out their days together, but at least her daughter would inherit her ancestral home. A lioness would rule in the West. Daenerys had made plain that she herself could never return to the Seven Kingdoms, and perhaps that would be for the best. There were worse fates, far worse, than to be sitting on the veranda of her manse, in early evening, enjoying the scent of jasmine, bougainvillea, and coastal pine, while consuming mint tea and pastries. She was joined by Jelme's daughter, Khaliun. She had grown very fond of the girl, who had been so close to Myrcella and Missandei. How she missed that pair! Would she ever see them again? It was the fate of noblewomen to be separated from their children, once they married. They talked for a while, and then her maidservant approached.

"Your Highness, My Lady, your carriage awaits." The pair rose, and Cersei thanked her. Being polite to servants was something that would never have occurred to her, back in the days of her power. Maybe, just maybe, the teachings of the Faith were having an impact. She and Khaliun were travelling to Meereen, to attend a service of thanksgiving for Queen Daenerys' victories, at the Great Temple, which would be conducted by the Volantene Red Priestess, Kinvara. Although neither was a follower of R'hllor, it was courteous to be present. Most of the freedmen in the city now followed the religion, and even some of the new nobility had followed their Queen's example, and converted. As they trotted through the gates to the estate, accompanied by guards on horseback, she called a halt. Her paupers knelt in the dust, as supplicants. She provided them with alms, from time to time, as an act of charity. She descended from the carriage, bearing a parcel of cook’s leftovers from the kitchens, and a small purse of silver coins. "May the Gods bless your ladyship", said the leader, in Valyrian, knuckling his forehead.

They resumed their drive, reaching the Temple a little over an hour later. Newly-built, it had to be twice the size of the Great Sept of Baelor. An enormity of pillars, steps, buttresses, bridges, domes, and towers flowing into one another as if they had all been chiseled from one collossal rock, the Temple of the Lord of Light loomed like Aegon’s High Hill. A hundred hues of red, yellow, gold, and orange met and melded in the temple walls, dissolving one into the other like clouds at sunset. Its slender towers twisted ever upward, frozen flames dancing as they reached for the sky. Fire turned to stone. They climbed the Temple steps, huge nightfires burning on either side of them. The Red Clergy might preach that there was neither rich nor poor, slave nor free, among their congregations, but there was as much a hierarchy in the Temple as in any Sept. Enough people recognised Khaliun and Cersei, to bow and curtsey as they passed up the aisle, before reaching the seats reserved for the highborn. They both wore gowns of scarlet damask, each worth a year’s income for a labourer, along with red-gold necklaces. Khaliun’s brow was adorned with a tiara of diamonds and rubies. As the daughter of Jelme, Regent of the East, the girl was royalty.

Kinvara appeared, clad in crimson silk, with her acolytes, in robes of orange and yellow. Behind them were men in lacquered armour, the Fiery Hand, the warriors of the Red God. She summoned more fire in a great central pit, with a snap of her fingers. There was little in the way of music. Rather, the Red Priestess conducted prayers, and the congregation intoned their responses. Finally, she began to preach to them. By some art, her voice carried throughout the building. She jabbed a finger at the flames made a fist, spread her hands wide. When her voice rose in a crescendo, flames leapt from her fingers and made the crowd gasp. She could trace fiery letters in the air as well. Valyrian glyphs. Cersei recognised two of them, Doom and Darkness. She spoke of the prophecy that Azhor Ahai had been reborn as Daenerys Targaryen, the Shadow of God upon Earth, the Commander of the Faithful. She gave thanks to the Lord of Light for her victories in the West, but,

"The Great Other is cunning beyond measure. He has raised his thrall to the throne of the High Septon of the Seven, a demon wearing the form of a man. Daenerys stands in peril. The dark eye has fallen upon her, and the minions of night are plotting her destruction, praying to their false gods in temples of deceit. " There were shouts of rage and excitement among the congregation. "Yet, there is worse. This demon commands others of its ilk, lesser, yet serving the same evil master. They call themselves the Sparrows, professing holiness but practising foulness. Our Queen has promised her people that there shall be no compulsion in matters of worship, but the Great Other and his thralls know that, in the end, the truth of the Lord of Light must prevail in the West. They know that soon, the peoples of the Seven Kingdoms shall acknowledge there is no God but the Lord of Light. And, so, they murder our brothers and sisters, slaying them with every refinement of cruelty. Our brothers and sisters who came to them in peace, and offered the hand of friendship! All this I have seen in my fires. I would tear out my eyes for what I have seen, did I not need them to serve the Lord!" There was real anger now among the congregation. Some wept, but more, led by the soldiers of the Fiery Hand, began to chant, holy words of war and vengeance.

"O sons of damnation, who art to be destroyed; happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us. Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones."

Cersei felt her skin prickle. She'd thought the High Sparrow and his followers were no more, but it seemed they had returned. After having been paraded naked through the city by them, she'd very happily see each and every one put to the sword. But, she feared terribly for her beloved. And, she was most uncomfortably aware that in the eyes of the worshippers, she and Khaliun were unbelievers. Surely, no one would dare threaten the Queen's own step-daughter, nor her dear companion, but she well knew how fickle mobs could be.

"For those who can fight" continued the Priestess, "Join the Queen's Grace, who broke the chains of so many, in her struggle. We shall feed you and transport you. For those who cannot, give generously. " Ah, time to take out a binder.

"Take off your necklace, Khaliun."

"Why, Auntie?"

"You'll thank me later for this. We need to remain on good terms with the red clergy." She removed her own necklace, too. As the service ended, the worshippers began to disperse, many of the men approaching the warriors, to offer their services. She approached the priestess. "Your holiness", she said, "please accept our gifts for the war to come. We do not follow your teachings, yet we serve the Queen's Grace most fervently."

"Lady Cersei, your Highness", replied Kinvara. "The love the Queen bears for you both is well known. We thank you kindly" She took both the necklaces. "I have more news for you. Two of the murderers of your son are being transported hither, to face your judgement." Well, that was most satisfying, although she still feared for Daenerys.

Her dreams were disturbing ones that night. Of a land roiling with the smoke of sacrifice. Of men and women being burned on pyres. And of millions pouring across the world, slaying unbelievers, with the name of Daenerys Targaryen on their lips.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep

"The Queen’s step-son has gone rogue", remarked Yohn Royce, to Jon, or was he supposed to be called Aemon now? They were breaking their fast together, in his chambers. "He has sacked eight septries, slaughtered scores of the clergy, burned villages, and massacred the smallfolk. In one village, it’s reported he locked the people in a Sept, and set it alight. You can't let all that pass."  

"Men think Prince Daeron a hero, for doing the same at Bitterbridge”, replied Lord Willas, drily. . He continued, “my brother writes that he and Lord Rowan have assembled a force of eight thousands to hunt him down. Lord Hightower leads another four and twenty thousand to this city. The Reach is in uproar.”

"Have they any idea what it is to fight the Queen's Grace?" Jon replied. "I was at Rosby. The Pretender got lucky. He nearly succeeded in killing Daenerys, but his army was destroyed in the end. Hers is an army, the likes of which this Realm has never seen. And, she has dragons. They are not Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes, but they are growing all the time. ... Let's be clear about this, gentlemen. The Lords of the Reach, the Sparrows, between them, they've placed my head in a noose. They're trying to leave me no choice but to fight my own wife. And, if they should fail, no doubt they'll say I led them into treason, and hand me over to her in chains."

A vile thought crept, unbidden, into his mind. Had Daenerys been lost in the North, well, it would have been much easier to reunite the opposing factions. But, Daenerys was very much alive. He'd received a raven from Harrenhall, making it plain that in her eyes, there was but one sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms. She'd told him to choose very carefully, between peace and war. The Reach was the home of chivalry and honour ... and overweening arrogance. So many of their lords thought of war as a romantic adventure, and they thirsted for glory. Well, I've seen enough battlefields, and watched the men crying, with their guts hanging out of their stomachs; dismembered corpses; panicking soldiers shitting themselves. And, what of Sansa? She'd sent ravens to the Red Keep, writing of the divisions among her lords, between those who supported the revolt, and those who were hostile, but she had given no signal of her own plans.

"Can this affair still be resolved peacefully?" said Yohn Royce.

"Not according to my brother, nor my grandmother", replied Willas. "The Reach lords detest any lessening of their hold over the smallfolk; the Sparrows fear the religion of the Red God; and both groups object to rule by a woman. And, General Orhan's cavalry have made a settlement very much harder. They'll want his head for what he's done." 

"My wife gave refuge to Lord Hightower, your grandmother, and others, in Volantis. She avenged your sister. This is how they repay her!" What is it about the lords of this land?  Whatever they have, it's never enough.  There always has to be another round of war.  We have this unerring instinct, as a race, to foul our own nests.

"I must be clear. My grandmother is a wretched woman, selfish, bitter, addicted to intrigue. My brother is merely her catspaw. The other lords of the Reach? They're opportunists and weathervanes, without loyalty. But, not the Sparrows. They're fanatics."

"We could leave the city. Unite with the Queen, and crush the rebels."

"And can you be sure that her Grace won't just clap you in irons?" replied Willas. I can't. "Look at it from her point of view. She left the capital in your hands, and no sooner had she left, then a rebellion broke out in your name. And, you've taken a royal title. Even the least suspicious monarch would assume she was being usurped by her husband. Or the Sparrows and Reach lords will seize the city, and proclaim another in your stead. You have to stay here, to keep the lid on things. Allow me to travel to the Queen, and assure her of your goodwill, and try to see if a peace can be achieved. Would she surrender her step-son to judgement, do you think?"

"Perhaps. I know that she dislikes him intensely."

"Well, that could be useful, then. "

"I'll slip away through the Mud Gate. No one will care much about me." Willas rose and left the room.

"He's a good man", remarked Jon. "Where do the Vale Knights stand, do you think?"

"Baelish and Lord Harold? They stand where they always do. With the winners. They'll be hedging their bets, trying to work out who's going to end up on top. Most of the rest will follow them. “

Jon poured himself wine, after Lord Royce had left.  Gods, where had it all gone wrong, thought Jon, as he poured himself more wine, after Lord Royce had left. When the man I never knew as father thought it a brilliant idea to kidnap the daughter of the Lord of Winterfell.  What a stupid, selfish man, Rhaegar Targaryen was, and how we've all bled for his folly, this past quarter century.

Beneath the Red Keep

She'd had enough.  Enough of living in fear, trapped in a great castle, under the dubious protection of a man that she hated.  Jon Snow had never intended that her boy should die, but he was still to blame, nonetheless.  

"He's not a traitor, he's trying to prevent an explosion in the city,” Andrastos had insisted to her, a few days previously.  She'd started working for him, as a scribe. She liked the old eunuch, but as far as she could tell, the whole Realm was already gone up in flames. Thank the Gods that Daenerys was alive at least. A hard, brutal, woman, but one who had done right by her and Ygritte, and altogether better than the lords of this land, or the stupid fanatics who infested the city. And, if her people were to have a land of their own, she wanted the Queen to prevail.

She'd approached Princess Missandei, to find that the young woman shared her own fears. Even if Jon Snow were not playing them false, there had to be a risk that the Sparrows would storm the castle. She was in no doubt what the fate of any foreigner would be in that case. And, to the mobs, the free folk were definitely foreign. Nor were Lady Irri, or Lady Arianne unaware what would happen to them, when she spoke to them. Irri wouldn't talk about what the mob had done to her, but Gilly could guess. Arianne had told them about the King Maegor, a brutal bastard, who'd built a network of tunnels, leading from the Red Keep, and out of the city. Of course, he'd then gone and thrown a banquet for the workers, before murdering all of them. No one but his family must know this secret. Still, servants of House Targaryen had needed to make use of them, too, and it turned out that a rough plan had been made. Missandei had found a copy among the Queen’s possessions. None of them had any idea how good it was, but they'd take their chances. So this was how they came to be underneath the Red Keep, some time before Dawn. Moqorro had insisted that his place was with his worshippers, but he'd given them a couple of the Fiery Hand, as guards. They'd all come armed, but none was a fighter, really. They'd asked Lady Brienne to join them but she insisted that her place was defending the Keep, The Mance's boy, and Ygritte's babe had been given wine, laced with sweetsleep, to shut them up, so Arianne carried the first, and she carried the second. Irri’s son was old enough to walk.

"We're below the Tower of the Hand" whispered Missandei. They all carried torches, and she saw on the floor, a pattern of mosaic that showed a triple headed scarlet dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen. This, she understood, was the place of torment, from which no one emerged alive. Moqorro had promised to deal with any guards that might be present in these depths. Quite how he had dealt with them was not something that Gilly needed to know about.  At the far end of the chamber, was an iron door.  Missandei produced a key, and unlocked it.  A draft of cold, dank, air hit them, carrying a whiff of something unpleasant.  Sewage presumably.  No doubt, they'd be wading through shit at some point.  They all went through, and one of the guards closed the gate behind them.  On they walked, down a rough, unpaved passageway, narrow, but high enough for them to stand. From time to time, other passageways branched away, and at last, they took a left turn, after Missandei had consulted the plan again. She wondered how long they had journeyed. It seemed like hours. Somewhere off, she heard the sound of trickling water. Did it take them under the river, she wondered? Then, they came to a place where the passage branched in three directions, and here, Missandei halted.

"Fuck!" she exclaimed, shocking Gilly. She'd never expected to hear such a word on the gentle Naathi's lips. "This place, it's not on the plan! Give me time to think. " Gilly fought down the urge to panic, but she couldn't help recalling a nasty tale that Ygritte had once told her, clearly relishing every word of it. The tale of Gorne and Gendel, two chieftains, who had led the free folk beneath the Wall, to fight the Northmen. Gorne had slain the King in the North, but he'd died in turn, and Gendel had led the survivors back into the tunnels. Only Gendel did not know the caves as Gorne had, and took a wrong turn.  Deeper he went, and deeper, and when he tried t' turn back, the ways that seemed familiar ended in stone rather than sky.  Soon his torches began t' fail, one by one, till finally, there was naught but dark.  Gendel's folk were never seen again, but on a still night you can hear their childrens' childrens' children, sobbing under the hills, still looking for the way back up ....Some have searched for Gorne's path, and them that go too deep find Gendel's children, and Gendel's children are always hungry." 

She shuddered, but no, she must remain calm. Missandei was smart. She'd find the way out.

Chapter Text

A year back, it would have been so easy. Support Jon as King, wed him in the light of the Seven, and lead the country against the Eastern bitch. If it were truly the case that he was her cousin, not her brother, then they would be committing no sin, in the eyes of the Gods, and she could be his Queen, and bear his children, uniting the claims of Stark and Targaryen. As a girl, she had dreamed of being the Queen, before finding out just what a monster Joffrey was.

But, the Gods were - as ever - using her for their own sport.

She fiddled nervously with the diamond cluster ring she wore on her left index finger, before reaching for the flagon of wine on her desk, and pouring herself another glass. She must be careful with strong drink, but it helped her to cope. She sat alone in her study, lost in earnest and dreadful thought.

Firstly, there were the Sparrows, vile fanatics, who led the smallfolk against their betters. They might be united for now with the rebel lords, but they meant the aristocracy no good, that was for certain. Secondly, she feared, she very much feared, she was with child. Despite her precautions, she had missed her moon's blood. A woods witch might cleanse her, but she had no idea where to find one. Nor could she disclose that she was carrying a bastard, even to her own maester. Who could the father be? Jon, most likely, but perhaps the Lord of the Vale, or even that gorgeous male whore, who'd fucked her till she was screaming. Or the Queen? She laughed a little hysterically, at the thought, but who knew what sorcery her priests were capable of performing? Which led to the third problem, the most troublesome. Purely and simply, she had fallen wildly in love with Daenerys Targaryen, unnatural though such love was. This was a woman of unearthly beauty. The coupling between them had been passionate, but this went a long way beyond coupling. They were soulmates, as much as she and Jon were. Could you even love two people at once? Well, she did. It was hard to understand. The two most beautiful women in the Seven Kingdoms were ... aberrations, but there it was.

And then of course, there was Irri. Not a soulmate, but still, a dear friend and lover.

Yes - the Gods were using her for their sport. First, by imbuing her with the nature of the most wanton and depraved of whores, next, in making her a sodomite, and then by having her fall for two people who might have to kill each other, sooner or later. 

"Within this Realm there cannot be two monarchs,  two living monarchs", she recalled old Maester Wolkan telling her, during one of his history lessons. 

Aegon and his sisters, but they were exceptional, and even then, the Conqueror was plainly the senior of the three. King Robert had sanctioned the murder of children, so much did he fear their claims.  The thought, of either Jon or Daenerys being subject to a traitor's death, was the stuff of nightmares.  Or her, of course.  In her mind’s eye, she saw herself being tortured for hours, on the rack, or feeling the kiss of hot iron, as she screamed out her confession over again, while she pissed and shat herself. And then, led in rags, scarce able to walk, her tears running down her cheeks, before a howling mob, to her place of execution. Being dragged onto a pyre and chained to a stake. She could almost feel her own feet being scorched by the flames that roared beneath the platform, and smell the smoke that choked her, knowing that the pain would only get worse, as the flames rose, searing her legs, and turning the chains that bound her, bright orange. Just as poor Margaery had suffered. A truly skilled executioner, who knew how to control the fires, could make it last an hour. It must feel like an eternity.

And then, mayhaps, she would enter another, still hotter, fire, as Septa Mordane had warned her.

”The worst fires in hell are reserved for wantons.”

There were of course, worse deaths, even, than burning. Damn them to the Seven Hells, for placing her, Jon, and Daenerys in such danger! Enough! Time to put on the cold face.

She descended to the Great Hall, where the fractious lords of the Trident were gathered.

"She burned hundreds of holy men and women at the Twins", shouted Ser Marq Piper.

"Hundreds of traitors, Ser Marq," she replied.

"They fight for our Faith. Your Faith."  Why should I fight for the Seven, when the Seven so plainly hate me?

"Who is "she", the cat's mother? She is the Queen's Grace, your sovereign and mine."

"Your Queen, not mine", shouted young Patrek Mallister.

"I had expected better from you, my lord."

Tytos Blackwood strode forth. "Thank the Gods, Mallister, that our weapons were left with the guards, for I should open your throat where you stood!"

"Name the time and place my lord, you shall find me ever ready to meet you with cold steel," replied the other.

”You’d need to go through me first, Patrek,” said Jonos Bracken. “For I claim the right to champion our Faith. Tytos Blackwood, I name you the enemy of the Gods. We have tolerated unbelievers far too long, in this land.”

”A pagan and a woman sitting the Iron Throne? What greater affront to the Gods could there be?” shouted Lord Vance. “The blood runs true in your royal cousin, Lady Sansa!”

”Be silent!” she shouted, but they ignored her, yelling back and forth. She lacked their respect, she knew.

She shouted for her guards, who drew their swords, and that quieted them.

”Are you lords, or are you fish-wives? What are the Riverlands now, but a boneyard? Everywhere I ride I see burned out villages, blasted fields, blackened manors. Perhaps a fourth part of the people who dwelt here in my grandfather’s time, are dead or fled. And, you wish to bring more war and suffering to this region.”

”We will not fight for your harlot Queen”, shouted Mallister.

”Clap him in irons”, she ordered. Two guards seized him, while a third fettered him. “I trust that a few weeks in a cell will bring you to your senses, my lord.” She smiled nastily. “At least you shall not lack for water, my lord. The cells flood when the rains come.” That silenced them. “Now, my lords, I understand that Queen Daenerys has returned to the Crownlands. I shall ride thence with an escort, and see if peace can be restored.” She rose, and left the chamber. Daenerys must be persuaded to allow Jon the title of king, even if she remained the senior of the two. And she must at least pretend to convert to the Faith of the Seven, however hateful that was.

She rode East, three days later, with an escort of a hundred horse. Mallister could rot underneath Riverrun, until she returned.

”

Chapter Text

Gilly handed Ygritt’s babe to Irri, then joined Missandei, who was poring over the plan. She'd studied maps and charts with Andrastos, so perhaps she could help. She traced the passages they had travelled with her finger, trying to match them up with what she had seen in the gloom.

”We’ve come too far”, she concluded. "Look, we should go back a couple of turnings." She continued tracing a line on the map, holding the torch in her other hand, working out where they had to go. Missandei stared hard at the plan, and then she nodded in agreement. They intended to emerge outside the city walls, close to the Blackwater Bay and the Rosby Road. There was a garrison in that town, and no doubt other soldiers would be patrolling the main road. It was the clearest route to safety. Gilly told the others, and they turned back, the way they had come. Irri's torch guttered and failed. She felt a moment’s panic, but Arianne was able to relight it, from her own. Still, they must needs escape this labyrinth before long. If the torches failed, and they were left in pitch darkness, they would surely be doomed. Once again, she remembered Gendel's children.  Why must Ygritte tell me that fucking story.

They reached the turning, that Gilly was sure led them to safety, but Gods, how the breeze coming out of the tunnel stank! An odour of shit, sulphur, and filthy water. It stinks like the breath from a tomb, she remembered the verse, from an old text that Andrastos had shown her.  All about some king in ancient times who'd sacrificed his daughter, and been murdered in turn by his wife.  She strongly identified with the wife.

"Are you sure we have to go down there, Gilly?" asked Arianne.

"Certain of it my lady." She gritted her teeth, raised her torch aloft, and led the way. The passage led downwards, narrowing steadily, to the point where she had to stoop slightly, and she wasn’t the tallest of them. They reached the source of the stench. A pool of filthy water, plainly coming out of some breach in the city's sewers. She hoped to the Gods it was passable. Then, she stepped into the slurry, not wanting to think about the things she was stepping on. Like the rest, she wore high boots, having anticipated running into filth at some point. The sewer water rose as she walked on, until she was wading through it knee-high. She could only breath through her mouth, the air was so bad. But, at last, there came a point where the water rose no higher, and she could lead on. The torches faded in the filthy air, but without going out completely. She wondered how many hours they'd been down here. Is this where they would die? There were things - she didn't like to think what they were - living in this sewer. She heard them scurrying and splashing about. More than once, she spotted pairs of eyes, staring up at her, out of the filth, bright and malicious. She fought down the urge to scream. The others sloshed through the dirty water behind her. At last, at long last, she felt the floor of the passageway begin to rise, and finally, she returned to dry ground. She turned, waiting for the others to catch up. Her torch had started to burn a little more brightly.

"I'll never be doing that again", said Arianne.

"I hope you never have to." As they continued, she started to hear a curious roaring sound, but faint, and muffled, which puzzled her for a time. It rose and fell. Then, she realised what it was, the sound of the sea. She had been right, and they were slowly approaching their destination. At last they reached the exit, which was blocked by a solid iron door, similar to that which had led them into the passageways from the undercroft. She uttered a silent prayer to the Old Gods that they'd brought the right keys. It was a secured by a deadlock, and a pair of bolts that had to be drawn back. Missandei tried a key, which turned, with agonising slowness. The last thing she wanted was for it to snap in the lock. Then, they'd be fucked! Irri's torch guttered out, then one carried by a guard. Once again, she had to fight down the urge to panic, the terror of being lost in the darkness. Finally, the lock turned, but drawing back the bolts was hard. They'd corroded with age, and dislodging them was far beyond her strength. One of the Fiery Hand came forward, using his sword as a wedge, finally dislodging each bolt. Oh, thank all the Gods, she thought, as she inhaled a draft of fresh salty air, straight off the sea.  Missandei managed to lock the door behind them, after they had emerged.  "I doubt if anyone could find their way to the Red Keep, but why take a risk?" she explained.

They emerged in the middle of a small wood, of coastal pine.  A light rain was falling steadily, but even rain was a blessing, compared to the tunnels. In front of them lay a beach of rock and shingle, leading down to the Blackwater Bay.  On the opposite side of the wood lay the Rosby Road.  The sooner they were away from the city the better.  Her spirits had soared, on escaping that filthy maze.  The road was busy, but no one seemed to pay them much attention. She had a sense that a lot of people wished to leave the city. No doubt the Sparrows were not to everybodies’ liking, and doubtless there were those who feared Queen Daenerys' retribution. They'd walked for perhaps a mile, talking excitedly among themselves when trouble appeared, in the form of four men, wearing Sparrows' robes.

"Well, look what the wind's blown in," said the leader, grinning from ear to ear, and raising his cudgel menacingly.

"We don't want any trouble", replied Irri, who spoke the common tongue perfectly. She gently lowered the babe to the ground , then drew her short sword.

"Ah, but trouble has a habit of seeking you out. Somehow, I doubt very much, if you know how to use a weapon, whereas, my friends and I, we're well-used to it. We've cut a few throats in our time, before we saw the light. Now, we cut them in the service of the Seven. I recognise one of you - the Dornish whore. She's due a burning. Give her to us, and the rest of you can go free."

"Gwyllim ap Llewellyn", she heard Arianne mutter behind her. Well, there's a time to talk, and a time to fight. Proud words and hard stares never won a fight, but they've likely lost more than a few. so Ygritte had told her. However brutal this cunt might be, he plainly liked the sound of his own voice. She could only trust the Red guards would strike without hesitating. It was the work of a moment to draw her own dagger, and drive it into the man's gut, just the way her friend had shown her. Gwyllim collapsed to the ground, gasping and puffing like a carp. She wanted to laugh. She heard a shriek from Missandei, behind her, before the others joined in. One of the Sparrows had a sword, aiming a clumsy blow at the head of one of the guards, who neatly side-stepped it, before thrusting his blade deep in the man's chest. She turned to see a third sparrow, lying prone, while the fourth was running back towards the city, robes hauled up around his scrawny legs. Only for Irri to sprint after him, leap on his back, and then drive her dagger into his back over and again. A couple, with a horse and cart, stared at them open-mouthed.

"You didn't see nothing, understand", said Gilly, as she approached them, showing them her own gory blade. They both nodded.  She turned back, seeing Gwyllim on his side, wretching blood as he lay dying.  She hoped it would take him quite some while, before he finally kicked the bucket. Stomach wounds were the worst. "Let him linger", she said out loud. And then she saw the worst sight of all.

Missandei, lying by the side of the road, the back of her head a red bloody ruin, where one of the bastards had struck her with his cudgel. And, plainly, she was very dead.

Chapter Text

How simple it had been to run the enemy down, thought Ser Garlan, as he surveyed his army from horseback. He'd taken up his position on the right flank. Two thousand of the savages, led by the worst of the lot, the Dothraki General, Orhan. And nearly a thousand guards cavalry, commanded by that golden-haired boy-fucker, Lewis Lanster. They'd laid waste the Dornish marches, but he'd been waiting for them, at Horn Hill, the seat he'd taken for his own, after having executed the traitor, Randyll Tarly. The castle lay just five miles to the North, and to his surprise, the enemy had chosen to offer battle, rather than withdrawing. He certainly mustn't underrate either the savages, or the guards cavalry, but he outnumbered them more than two to one.

He'd held a brief council of war, the night before, with Matthis Rowan, and Ser Bonnifer Hasty, the Grand Commander of the Warrior's Sons. Hasty commanded six hundred knights and esquires, men who had forsaken lands and family, and had taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, in order to serve the Seven. He glanced to his left flank, where they were stationed, nearly a mile distant, mounted on beautiful steeds, and clad in steel plate, with the Seven Pointed Star emblazoned in white, on their black surcoats. Seasoned warriors who, he knew, would neither panic, nor lose their heads, in the fight. The army was full of fury towards the enemy, who had left a trail of devastation behind them.

"And that's the big risk", the Grand Commander had counselled him. “Your men will want revenge, they'll see we outnumber the pagans, and they'll want to take the fight to them. I'm warning you, that's what the enemy want. Make them come to us, let the foot gut them, then release the horse on the flanks and finish them." That was good advice. He had never been especially religious, but he'd accepted the man's invitation, to take communion with his followers. It had comforted him, to watch as the chaplains performed the Mass. He had come forward with the others, to be shriven of his sins, and to receive the blessings of the Seven. No doubt the majority of the army had spent the night drinking, whoring, and gambling, and he would not condemn men who might lose their lives, the following day, for pursuing such earthly pleasures. But, he felt calm now, at peace.

Horn Hill was well supplied with caltrops, and these had been hidden in the grass, in front of the foot, who held the centre. Their officers had been warned not to advance, until the word was given. His army made a brave sight, with the banners of the noble and knightly Houses of the Marches. A far larger force was marching on the capital, while a further army was being mustered at Highgarden. He feared for his brother, Willas, and had sent word, urging him to return to Highgarden, and lead his people in war. It troubled him, somewhat, to be fighting against a woman who had avenged his poor sister, and cousins, but news of the savages' cruelty had dispelled those qualms. And besides, she was a pagan, and according to Hasty, she practised unspeakable vices. He saw the enemy riding into view, behind the banners of three-headed dragon, and the horsehair standards of the Dothraki. His own men stirred, horsemen trotting into position, and raising their lances, the front ranks of the foot drawing arrows, or raising spears and pikes. The morning was cold but clear.

The enemy trotted forward, moving to a canter, and then quite suddenly, a couple of hundred of their number galloped forward towards the footmen, forming a column like an arrow shaft. Fools! They rode over the line of spikes, and then dozens were going down, horses screaming, men being thrown to their deaths. Behind them, the lines of horsemen ground to a halt, yanking savagely on their reins. Most of those who had ridden over the spikes lay dead or crippled on the ground, a handful riding back to their fellows. The enemy were now milling about in confusion, panicking, some riding back through their own ranks, even as their officers struck at them.

He jerked round in his saddle, and oh, for the Gods' sake. The front ranks of the infantry were stepping forward, straining like dogs on a leash. He could sense the blood lust rising in them, and knew it had to be controlled. "Stand!" he screamed, "Your orders are to stand!, Get over there", he told his gallopers, "Make them bloody well stand!" The men raced off. But, they could not be held. The whole mass of infantry, four thousand men, was now surging forward. He saw the cavalry on the left flank begin to move forward to keep pace with the foot, then some on the right. Only the Warriors' Sons remained impassive. For the Gods Sake, he was losing control of this fight. He rode forward himself, bellowing at his cavalry to hold steady, glancing again at the footmen, who crossed the line of spikes, gutting the surviving horsemen, as they vented their fury. A great cloud of dust rose about the men, who were cheering as they killed. Desperately, he tried to block his own horsemen, but too many were trotting forward now. They shared the same desire as the infantry, for revenge on those who had ravaged villages, farms, and septs.

Glancing again at the enemy, Garlan saw a sudden change, before any of the advancing infantry did. Quite suddenly, the rout vanished, and perfect new lines formed, the discipline terrifying. The guards cavalry trotted forward in the centre, the Dothraki on the flanks, already fitting arrows to their composite bows, as they guided their horses with their thighs. The footmen had come forward, perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead of the line of caltrops, only quite suddenly, to face a confident army of horsemen. Thousands of arrows came whistling in from the flanks, one bouncing off his own breastplate. Their own horses were going down, disrupting their advance, even as he saw the Imperial Guards switching to a fast canter, couching their lances as they charged the footmen. Caught out in the open, fear swept through their ranks. Some of the archers shot back wildly, some spearmen stood their ground, others edged back, some of them even running, as the cavalry hit their front ranks at the gallop. Men on horseback went down, some gutted on spears, but even they opened up further gaps in his own ranks. Everywhere, the enemy horse broke through, spearing his foot with their lances, before cutting them down with sword and axe. And still the storm of arrows continued, mowing down horse and foot alike. Quite suddenly, the infantry broke, throwing down their weapons, and fleeing the enemy, simply making it easier for them to cut them down. First hundreds, then thousands streamed back, leaving dead and injured in their wake. He burned with shame, as he gave the only order he could, to the cavalry on his own flank. "Sound the retreat" he commanded his own trumpeter, before turning about. At least he could reach Horn Hill, with any luck, and the bastards had no siege equipment that he knew of. Ser Garlan the Gallant, he thought bitterly, as he rode away to safety, champion tournament fighter, who suffered a crushing defeat, the first time he led an army into battle.

Later that night, he waited in his solar for Ser Bonnifer, dreading the encounter. Perhaps a thousand horse, and a similar number of footmen had made it to Horn Hill, when the surviving Warrior's Sons rode though the gateway into the castle. He had learned from other survivors that Ser Bonnifer and his men had covered the army's flight, but at great cost. No more than two hundred had survived the fight. He'd learned too, that Matthis Rowan had been slain, another blow.

Gingerly, he offered the Grand Commander wine, when he entered his chamber, The man had a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his head.

"What do you call that my lord? This wasn't a battle, it was a rout. Did you even listen to the advice I gave you, yesterday?" He nodded, racked with shame.

"And, I gave orders to stand firm. The fools disobeyed me."

"When soldiers disobey orders, the fault lies with the commander who cannot control them. From now on, I take command, do you understand."

"Of course, your eminence."

"Thankfully, the enemy can do little, save ravage the countryside. Our strongholds are secure. I daresay that more men survived the fight and will straggle into this castle in coming days. We'll bring reinforcements from Highgarden. But, the first step is to restore discipline in the ranks. Our forefathers knew how to instil obedience in men who disobeyed orders. You will, I am sure, have heard of the punishment of decimation."

Decimation!  The dread punishment, whereby one in ten were put to death by their fellows, to expiate their cowardice on the battlefield!  Was it necessary. One look at the Grand Commander's face showed him he would brook no refusal.

"Your will, Eminence", he replied with resignation.

Chapter Text

"I believe your husband to be an honest man, your Grace." She could readily imagine what Ygritte thought about that. She was standing impassively at the door to the chamber, the perfect bodyguard, and now a dear friend. She was utterly loyal, intelligent, a superb fighter, who had saved Dany’s own life. And - there was not much point denying it - Ygritte was highly attractive. She could understand Jon's feelings for Sansa, a truly beautiful woman, but still, he had been foolish to discard his first lover. She was, after all, the mother of his daughter, if nothing else. A daughter who actually would have a viable claim to the Iron Throne, should Ygritte agree to her legitimisation. She could imagine her friend's reaction to the prospect of being mother to a Queen of the kneelers!

Lord Willas continued "He is not a traitor, but rather, he acted to lower the temperature in the capital. To many of the people, it is unnatural not to have a king. But, there is no reason why you should not be the senior of the two." Perhaps he was correct. King Aegon had reigned, along with his sisters, but,

"And, what of your own family, my lord? I granted asylum in the East, to Lady Olenna. I avenged your poor sister and your cousins. I granted Horn Hill to your brother. And, they have repaid me with treason. How would you expect any monarch do deal with such ingratitude?" She had flown to Rosby castle, a week hence, to take stock of the situation. Ten thousand soldiers were stationed in and around this town, where she had defeated the pretender. "I do not doubt your own loyalty, my lord, but your family's treason cannot be forgiven." She saw the man wince, knowing he could not justify their behaviour.

"Your Grace, I cannot defend my grandmother's conduct. I can only repeat what I told your husband. She is a selfish, bitter woman, and she is addicted to intrigue. If you deem her life forfeit ... well, I fear that is only justice. My brother? I believe he was led astray. I would beg you to spare his life, should he submit. Perhaps, sentence him to a period of exile. I have failed you too. I have lost control of the Reach. By law, my own lands are forfeit. But, this was all against my will. I could return to the Reach, seek to make my vassals and the clergy end this madness."

She smiled. She had come to respect the honesty and goodwill of her Master of Laws. "Willas, you are an able jurist, and scholar, and a man of honour. I don't blame you in any way. But, what you are not is a warrior, and a warrior is needed to bring the Reach to heel. There's every risk that if you returned home, the Sparrows would tear you to pieces. Fortunately, my step-son commands an army, somewhere in the Reach."

"I was coming to that your Grace. I regret to say ... General Orhan has committed dreadful deeds. Murders, rapes, burning septs and villages." Her heart sank. By all the Dead. I found a halfway decent man, and I made him an evil one..  The time she had driven the prisoners through the pass, as "Living Boards", had proved a turning point. But, how else could she have won that fight?

”Are the rebels’ own hands clean?”

”Of course not, your Grace. But, justice has to be blind. If you are to execute some of the rebels - and I don’t see how you can avoid that outcome - then, men who commit crimes in your name, must also be punished.”

”His father is Regent of the East. I could not simply execute his son, without his agreement.” But, a letter from her to Jelme, detailing his son’s unwelcome advances - her worries that he might try to force himself upon her - that might well secure such agreement. “I’ll think this over.”

Willas bowed and left the chamber.

”I don’t think Lady Myrcella would be upset if she became a widow”, remarked Ygritte, drily. Dany laughed.

"To the point as always. No, I don't think she'd be unhappy. Marrying that couple was a mistake. Myrcella deserves a lot better. " There was a knock on the door, and servant entered, bearing a letter, sent by raven. It contained good tidings. Myrcella and Joy had both raised their banners for the Queen, at Lannisport. It seemed that some of the Western houses, those closest to the Reach, were in revolt, but most of them had remained loyal. Myrcella wished to know if she should lead her forces to the capital, or invade the Reach. Dany was increasingly hopeful that the crisis could be resolved. Throughout the Crownlands, it seemed that the Sparrows had very little support. Indeed, many of the smallfolk had been forming armed bands, in support of their Queen. Some had even converted to R’hllor, as proof of loyalty. She had stressed, more than once, that was not required of them.

”Orhan’s a cunt, right enough”, continued Ygritte, “and maybe you has to give him up to get peace, but he can still do your dirty work for you, before you get rid of him. Tormund, Sigorn, other chiefs, they has their thugs, who put down their enemies for them. Beasts in the woods, they call them. But just occasional, if they goes too far, or becomes a danger, they get killed by their chiefs, as a peace offering, to those enemies.”

”You should be a politician. Most rulers have a minister, who does the things they don’t want to be associated with. He (occasionally she), is hated, and can always be thrown to the wolves, if needs be.”

"You need to be wary of the Red priests", volunteered Ygritte. That was true as well. She'd learned - upon arrival at Rosby - that across the East, thousands of volunteers were planning to sail to the Seven Kingdoms, to fight for her cause. Which was good in one sense, but alarming, too.

"The last thing I want is a holy war. What I want is to put this revolt down, with the backing of loyal lords, execute the most prominent rebels, and then to put an end to the matter. I'd like to put this so-called High Sparrow to death as well, but that would only make a martyr out of him. But, if I send him and his chief supporters out to serve lepers, or the stone men, the people will soon forget about him. They claim to be holy men, so let them do what holy men are supposed to do." Ygritte nodded.

"That leaves Jon Snow, or Aemon, if that's now his name", said her friend, pointedly.

"And, I know what you'd be suggesting to me. But, how could I tell your own daughter, when the time comes, that I'd had her very father executed?"

"You could leave it up to me. An' Gilly."

Before Dany could reply, there was a commotion from outside, and this time an aide entered, a son of Lord Bar-Emmon. He bowed, before informing her, "Your Grace, Lady Irri, Lady Arianne, and others have escaped the city. " Another source of relief.

"Then, I must see them at once".

She left the chamber with Ygritte, entering the main hall where the escapees awaited her. One look at the expressions on their faces, and her greetings died on her lips. "What is it?" was all she could ask. As they told their dreadful tale, she felt her mind go blank. No, no, this was impossible! Not her daughter! She felt a wave of nausea, then collapsed in a faint. Thankfully, Ygritte caught her before she could hit the floor.

Some hours later, Sansa led her party through the castle gates, having gone over, once again, her plan to achieve peace in the Seven Kingdoms, the arguments which she would make to the Queen. But, from the moment she saw the expressions on the guards' faces, she knew some calamity had befallen. It was Willas Tyrell who informed her of Missandei's murder.  The news could not have been worse.

"We can forget about any prospect of peace, now", he concluded. "The Sparrows, they've taken the chance for peace, torn it to shreds, and set it ablaze for good measure". She remembered a Valyrian verse, she'd read once;

As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; They kill us for their sport.

They were all of them, damned.

Chapter Text

Ygritte had been badly torn. She'd enjoyed an emotional reunion with Gilly and her daughter, but she shared the Queen's horror at the fate of Missandei. Daenerys had been given a large dose of sweetsleep, and had been out cold for at least six hours. After she had nursed her infant, she had returned to join Irri, Arianne, and Gilly, by the Queen's bedside. There was a hesitant knock on the door and she'd risen to see who it was. Next to Jon Snow, it was probably the person she least wanted to see in this world. His sister, or perhaps his cousin, Lady Sansa Stark. Plainly, the proud, cold, beauty was no happier to meet her, but she composed herself, fast.

"Might I see the Queen's Grace."

"The Queen's Grace ain't receiving visitors, my Lady."

"I wanted to see how she is."

"You a healer? If you ain't, I'm not sure what use you'd be to her, my Lady." She shut the door to the chamber behind her. There was really quite a lot she needed to get off her chest. Daenerys might not like it, but sometimes, you just can't let things fester for ever.

"I'm not an enemy to the Queen's Grace. Nor to you, Ygritte."

"I believe you, my Lady. But, hundreds wouldn't." She saw the other woman flush.

"Ygritte, you're a part of my family, now. I share the same blood as your daughter." Ygritte felt her temper rising.

"I'm a part of your family, now that you see I have the Queen's favour. I'm a part of your family, now that the Queen's going to give vast estates to my daughter. Not that I ever wanted that for her. Back at the Wall, I don't ever remember you ever thinking of me as family. Back at the Wall, I was just your brother's whore, who was stupid enough to get herself with child. Back at the Wall, I don't think the Lady of Winterfell would have wanted a common drab as part of her family, now would she?"

"That's not how it was and you know it.  My ... brother... Jon, he sent you away for your own safety, and your child's.  Oldtown was the safest place to be, back then."

"Your brother gave me three gold dragons, and a hundred silvers.  I didn't know how much that was back then, but I've been told it's about a year's wage for a common labourer.  That were a whore's payment, and that's all I ever was to your brother.  And, I ain't ashamed, neither. Better to be the whore to the Lord Crow, than raped by half the little crows. But, don't pretend you was an innocent, my lady.  You wanted to take my place in your brother's bed, and you wanted me out of the place.  An' I don't begrudge you, neither. You're welcome to that wanker." Sansa was bright red by this point.

"I tried to resist the temptation, Ygritte", she said finally. "Incest is a dreadful crime in the eyes of the Gods. I believed we shared a father at the time, and perhaps we do. I don't know what to make of this tale of him being the son of Prince Rhaegar, and my aunt. I ... I just needed comfort, after ... the things I had suffered. I thought of him, every day I was held prisoner, at Winterfell." Ygritte felt her heart soften a little. Ramsay Bolton had, without question, been a monster, a man who raped, tortured, and murdered women for his own pleasure.

"I heard some of what was done to you. Jon never told me, but the Crows, and the servants, they talked about it. Nobody deserves what happened to you, is all I'm saying."

"Thank you. Perhaps that can melt the ice betwen us?"

"How much did Jon tell you, what took place between us."

"You became lovers, when he was on a mission, North of the Wall."

"Aye. He captured me, an' 'is commander, a man named Qhorin Halfhand, he told him to cut my head off. Jon refused and let me go."

"So, why despise him, Ygritte? That was an act of kindness."

"I'll come to that. Among the free folk, when a man takes a woman captive, and spares her, it means she's his wife. That's how it was to me, and to the rest. We captured Jon, later, an' I told the others we was husband and wife. They didn't believe me at first, but I didn't want them to kill 'im. So I said, we fucked each other, and they let him be. Then, it became the truth. Your brother couldn't get enough of it, an' I enjoyed it too, I won't deny that. Your brother knows what's he's doing, not like most men. But then he betrayed us. Not just me, but all of us. We was fleeing the White Walkers, and we wanted to get over the Wall. Your brother fled back to the Wall, and told them our plans. A lot of good men and women died, because of your brother. An' of course, the others thought I must be a part of it. I was kept prisoner for a time. There was talk of burning me, as a traitor, or staking me out in the forest, for wild animals, or the White Walkers to find. Some wanted to give me to the Thenns. They likes to rape young women, then roast them and eat them afterwards." She saw Sansa's face screw up in disgust. "In the end, the chiefs said we needed every fighter. But Sigorn also said, they was putting me in the front wave of attackers, and I was expected to die. Somehow, I lived. I told Jon, I forgave him, 'cos I needed protection, and he wanted a woman in his bed. But, I hated him."

"Oh Gods, Ygritte, I'm so, so sorry". She took Ygritte's hand. There were even tears at her eyes. Genuine, or just a clever bit of mummery? You could never tell with the highborn Southrons. "Jon ... I'm sure, he felt terrible, but it was his duty to return to the Wall."

"I ain’t innocent. I murdered a harmless old man ‘cos Jon refused. But, ‘e could 'ave took me with him. " There was no answer to that. Nor could there be.

"You can go in to see the Queen's Grace", Ygritte finally relented. "But only for a short while".

She led Sansa back into the chamber, carefully drawing one of her daggers, and concealing it in the palm of her hand. Perhaps the woman was honest, but let her even hint at any harm to the Queen, and she'd open her throat on the spot.

Chapter Text

Her Lord husband grunted with satisfaction as he spilled his seed down her throat. She knew she had to feign delight, even as she wanted to vomit. She would surely vomit, after he had left. Her babe would be due in less than a month. She saw him, as he was destined to be, a young man with copper skin and silver hair - before he dissolved in a burst of orange flame.

Now she laughed as she stifled her husband with his own pillow, free of him at last. Or was she crying? She couldn't tell which. A witch sang, as the flames consumed her, her song changing to screams, as the fire took hold. Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen fell to her armies. A filthy old man, sword set at his feet in mark of contempt, cursed her, cried out in agony, and proclaimed his love for her, as the fire reached his legs. She begged a lovely Naathi girl that she'd rescued, to become her daughter, only to see her lying dead at her feet. She wanted to scream but no sounds came out. Men, women, children, all wailed in terror as they were driven through the Badger's Pass, by Dothraki riders, falling to a hail of arrows and stones. She thought she was to blame, but how?

And now, everywhere she looked, there were signs of war. In Qohor, the Temple to the Black Goat burned fiercely into the night, a great inferno of orange, gold, and white. For days, the followers of Shubb Nigurath waged a desperate, losing, battle against the Fiery Hand, until the latter were victorious. As the night finally gave way to dawn, so smoke rose above the devastated city, the streets of which were choked with corpses. The victors raised the triple-headed dragon standard, and the burning heart of R'hllor, high above the city's battlements. She stared down at the remains of their enemies, impaled and burned, on hundreds, no, thousands, of stakes.

All the power of the East was in motion. Legions of the Fiery Hand marched, rode, and sailed, to war, burning towns, razing the temples of the unbelievers, and leaving pyramids of skulls in their wake. An unquenchable fire, raging across the world, they chanted hymns of victory and praise to the Lord of Light and His champion, Azor Ahai reborn, The Bride of Fire, The White Flame. And, they slaughtered their enemies, with the name of Mhysa upon their lips.

She flew West, her dragons now grown to monstrous size, all of them with riders of their own. A great port city loomed in the distance, overshadowed by an immense Tower of black stone, from which burned an eternal beacon. The air was hot and heavy, presaging a storm. Beneath her, marched her faithful, the Imperial Guards, the people of the islands and coasts, the battalions of the Red God. Cavalry, uncounted, rode beneath her banners, as they closed on the stronghold of her enemies. Bolts flew from great engines of war, positioned on the walls, but the defence was futile. Those few that struck simply bounced off the dragons' scales, enraging them without harming. They flew on, and Drogon circled the great Tower, the seat of her enemies, before withering it with his fire, Rhaegal and Viserion joining him, their flames black, Green, and white. The stone didn't burn, so much as melt, running down the very walls, in a great cascade, like wax pouring from a vast candle.

Daenerys could hear it, above the screams of her enemies. The songs and prayers to the Lord of Light, resounding in a great triumphant chorus that echoed across the land, as her people surged into the city, sweeping away the defences, purging the streets with fire and blood.

"Daenerys Targaryen, Bride of Fire. Thou hast trampled the wicked and blind. The unbeliever hast thou trodden underfoot!",

sang the Red Clergy, their voices heard even above the screaming, the storm, the fire, the voices of her loyals.

With the eyes of her people watching, Daenerys commanded Drogon to descend just before the great steps leading up to the Starry Sept, the greatest shrine of polytheists and unbelievers. Bodies were scattered on the steps, many charred beyond recognition.  

The black dragon landed, followed by his siblings, the ground shuddering beneath them.  She waited for the other riders, all of them like her, dressed in black armour, with the sigil of her House, denoted in rubies.  They wore scarlet cloaks, the mark of conquerors.  One was a beautiful girl, with hair kissed by fire, like her mother, and the icy grey eyes of her father.  The other could only be her own son!  The witch had lied!  He had his father's long face and grey eyes, and her own long hair of silver-gilt.  They ascended the corpse-strewn steps, acclaimed by their followers, then passed the entrance to the temple of unbelief.  There, waiting for her, was the high priest of Volantis, Bennero himself, thin and lean, face marked with tatoos and flame. With him was her own priest, Moqorro, and a beautiful woman with copper hair, all clad in crimson robes. They gazed on the three of them with adoration, almost as if they were in the presence of R'hllor Himself. Followers surrounded them, clad in robes of yellow and orange. They waited her command.

"Commence the work of the Lord", she cried.

And, so they began. Destroying the altars and icons of the false gods, their treasures, and their holy books. Her enemy, the one calling himself the High Sparrow, cried out in fury and anguish, but he could do naught, for Bennero had commanded him to be nailed to a stake, erected in the very centre of the Sept, surrounded by lesser sparrows, and false knights, likewise nailed. They had been brought to witness the destruction of their world.  And so the work of purification continued, until Bennero claimed the temple for the Lord of Light.  Then, each in turn of the captives was set alight, their leader forced to watch to the last, before he met his own fiery end.  They had served the Great Other, yet their souls were destined to spend an eternity in the flames of hell.  

At last, Daenerys woke, to the anxious gaze of her friends. She felt a rush of conflicting emotions. Exhiliration, and terror, at what she had witnessed. Horror and grief for dear Missandei. But gratitude to the Lord of Light, for blessing her with a child.

Dragonstone

Sam Tarly watched in dismay, as the icons of the Faith burned in the noon Sun, outside the castle sept, before the cheering crowd.  Years ago, he knew that the locals had attempted to resist, when Stannis Baratheon and his red witch had done the same. But times were different now. Almost overnight, it seeemed, the people of the island, the majority of them, at any rate, had converted to R'hllor.  A company of the Fiery Hand had arrived from the East, a short while previously, accompanied by priests, who had performed miracles and wonders before the smallfolk. Some were convinced, others, it seemed, had converted to show their loyalty to their Queen.

"A wonderful sight, Master Tarly", remarked Monterys Velaryon, himself a recent convert, and filled with the zeal of all his kind. Sam had been raised in the heartland of the Faith, and saw no reason to change his beliefs. "I pray that I may live, to see the Seven Kingdoms follow the true path."

"The Queen's Grace has said that all are free to worship as they choose, my Lord. And, that the Faith of the Seven will remain the established religion of this land." Once, he would have lacked the courage to answere back to a man like Velaryon. But, his work as a quartermaster had given him a confidence he'd never possessed before. "This is my religion, Lord Velaryon." The other man smiled.

"And all are free to worship as they choose. Nobody compelled the folk of this island to convert. They came to the Light of their own free will. As I trust, will you, before long. " It was true, no physical harm had been inflicted upon the followers of the Seven, and that the Septons and Septas had been left unmolested, even as their flocks deserted them. But, still, the sight filled him with foreboding and dismay. He turned and walked back to the castle, fearing he'd made the wrong choice, when he jumped ship in Pentos.

Chapter Text

They mourned Missandei for a week. Her companions had buried her, in the woods by the Rosby Road, and then had accompanied a cavalry patrol to the spot. She had been burned on a pyre, three days previously, before a vast gathering. In due course, a tomb would be built for her at Dragonstone, and the ashes interred there. Sansa had watched as Daenerys wept copiously, during the ceremony, but there were no tears now. She wondered if all mercy had been scoured from the Queen's soul. She could hardly blame her.

She had been treated …. courteously … by the Queen, since her arrival. Truth be told, that hurt her, a little. They had spent a fortnight as lovers, in Kings Landing, yet she was quite plainly not a part of Daenerys’ inner circle. Quite unlike Irri, or Ygritte, or even Arianne Martell, a woman who ought surely to have been put to death. Gods forbid, even that silly drudge, Gilly, seemed to enjoy a warmth from the Queen that she herself was denied.

She was treated with all the honour and respect which was due to a peer of the Realm, but not with the intimacy that was granted to a lover. Why must her love, so intense and passionate, go unrequited? She sought out Irri, who invited her to dine in her chamber at the castle. The Dothraki beauty plainly doted on her son, a sturdy lad in his fourth year. After they had put him to sleep, she invited Sansa to join her in bed. For the next hour, Sansa forgot her cares, as she enjoyed the delights of the flesh.

Afterwards, she lay sated, relaxed, in Irri’s arms, her worries temporarily banished. They sipped a sour red together, from the same glass, fashioned to the shape of Cersei Lannister’s breast. Irri spoke.

”I like you Sansa, I mean I really like you. When this is all over, will you take me back to Riverrun with you. It sounds delightful.”

She gazed down at her friend’s body. Gods, it was rather tempting, to defy those old prudes! On the other hand, those old prudes might just string up a Lady of the Trident, who openly consorted with a Dothraki woman, or else, the Sparrows would burn the pair of them at the stake. Nor was she Daenerys.

”What would the Queen say?”

”She doesn’t expect fidelity, from either of us. My boy plainly likes you. We could raise him together.”

”Won’t you remarry? Any man would want you.”

”But, I have no interest in any man.” Now that was a surprise. “I married Lord Skahaz because I wanted a child, that’s all. He would never have tolerated what took place, between me and Daenerys.”

”How long have you and she been lovers?”

”Since she was sold to Drogo. One of my duties was letting myself be raped by him and his blood riders. That started, the moment I and my sister were captured. The other was to “prepare” Daenerys for him. There was a beautiful girl named Doreah, who was bought from a brothel keep. She had to teach us both bed tricks. Drogo loved to watch, as we pleasured each other. It turned out, we both enjoyed it a great deal more than we ever enjoyed sex with the great khal. Of course, we had to pretend we wanted nothing more than have him shove his sweaty cock inside us.”

”Gods, it sounds like a nightmare! Is there any woman in this world who isn’t abused?”

”A lucky few, I imagine. Your mother was one?”

”Father would never have hurt her. They did love each other. But, looking back, our castle was full of servants. If a guard or scribe took a fancy to some maidservant, well, I doubt she had much choice in the matter. As for my brother’s soldiers …they raped their way across the Riverlands and the West. I refused to believe it. I thought our men fought with chivalry, and only the Lannisters did that. In the songs, gallant knights rescue young maidens. But, I’ve met enough women, now, who had children raped into them, by my own people. Worse. They hanged young women who “lay with lions”. As if they could say No!”

Just like Roslyn Frey, said her conscience. She had a nagging suspicion she’d done wrong, by inflicting a dreadful death upon her.

”It’s the way of war, Sansa. Your knights, and our warriors, they’re the same men, inside.”

”I just can’t reconcile my noble brother, with the man who would let his soldiers do such things. Granted, they’re baseborn and lack-witted, but that’s no reason to be wantonly cruel to them. Mother would have helped them. I’ve given them some money, to help them raise their children.” Irri squeezed her hand, gently. At last, Sansa came to the issue that worried her.

"Have I offended the Queen?"

"What makes you think that?"

"She keeps me at arm's length."

"She's grieving."

"But, I could help her mourn."

Irri stirred, and looked her in the eye.  "Despite your enjoyment of each other, she hardly knows you.  Not the way she knows me, or Ygritte, or even Gilly. And, she doubts the loyalty of your brother ... or is he your cousin?"

"I am no traitor, Irri. And, nor is Jon, I can promise that."

"You came here, of your own free will. She accepts, that you are loyal. But, she can't assume that your brother is. They barely knew one another, when they wed, and it was a marriage for politics, not for love. And see now, many lords have risen in his favour, as have the leaders of the Faith. Perhaps Jon is entirely innocent. I hope he is. But, Daenerys has been betrayed before. All her life, she's been one step away from being murdered. She knows, if she makes one false move, she'll end her life being tortured and burned, in front of the Great Sept, just as Margaery Tyrell and Tommen were. She has to be careful."

"I fear the same fate awaits Jon. And me."

"Join us, tomorrow, for tea. We can talk things through. Come up with ideas to bring this war to an end.

She and Irri joined Daenerys for tea, in her solar, the following afternoon. For a time, they discussed trivia. She noticed there were lines around the Queen's face that had not been there when they had last met. She sensed a deep rage within her. At last, she suggested that the Queen convert to the Faith of the Seven, to please the majority of her subjects.

"That is never happening", was the blunt response. "God has chosen me, as His Anointed. They have chosen to rebel, without cause. To rebel against me is to rebel against God. They have murdered a dear child, who did them no harm. The leaders of the rebellion, the High Sparrow, and his followers among the Most Devout, will surrender themselves to my judgment, if they wish to save the lives of their followers. I will not prohibit the followers of the Seven, nor any other religion, from worshipping as they choose, but the Faith and the people of the city, will pay an indemnity. An indemnity which will be used to build a Temple to the Lord of Light in Kings Landing. And my husband, the father of my child, will stand by my side and enforce my will. Those are the only terms I shall offer."

Terms that the Queen's enemies can not possibly accept, she thought, her heart sinking.

Chapter Text

"I pity you, you little whore," sneered Desmera Rowan. "Oh yes, we all know who your true father was. Not King Robert, no, but your so-called uncle, Jaime, the sister-fucker. You aren't just a bastard, but a bastard born of incest. They say your mother prostituted herself to the Dragon Queen. Did you serve as her bitch, as well? Maybe she enjoys mother and daughter, together. I suppose if you opened your mouth, there'd be gold and silver cunt hairs, stuck between your teeth. My husband will show no mercy to you or your people, when he returns."

"You demean yourself, Lady Rowan", replied Myrcella coolly, keeping her temper under control. It was difficult, but she had to make allowance for the fact that her soldiers were thoroughly sacking Goldengrove, the ancestral home of the Rowans. Before she left, they would burn the interior of the castle. Desmera and her three children would accompany them on the return home, to be held for ransom.

"Custom obliges us to hold you and your children captive, my Lady", remarked her commander, Ser Harys Swift. “How gentle the conditions of your imprisonment will be, is entirely dependent upon your own behaviour. We can make you wear a bridle, parade you through the streets of Lannisport, should you continue to insult your captor." That shut her up, and she was led away, under guard.

"I'm sorry you must listen to such filth, milady. To think that a woman of noble birth could conceive of such depravities! The lowest bawd in Lannisport would scarce utter such things. The Seven alone know what takes place behind closed doors in that family." Or my own. 

She loved Daenerys Targaryen, and not in the way that Lady Rowan had alleged. Still, she knew full well, and found hard to understand, what took place between her mother and the Queen. She'd been shocked, years ago in Meereen, to discover her mother, lying on a couch in the drawing room, one leg drawn up, with her skirts up around her waist, and touching herself most lewdly. Before Mass! She certainly hadn't believed her excuse that it was a cure for "hysteria". It was Khaliun who'd told her, giggling, that her mother had performed a strip tease for her father, and Daenerys, on the night of their wedding, and would sometimes join the pair in their bed. Then, there was uncle Jaime. He'd disappeared in the Riverlands years ago, but she knew the rumours about him and mother. She hoped to all the Gods they were lies, but she feared they weren't. There was a real wantonness to her mother’s behaviour. She had prayed fervently to the Seven, to return her to the righteous path, laid down for women in The Seven Pointed Star.

Yet, despite it all, she loved the mother who had offered up her own life to save Tommen’s; who had held her tight as she had cried, and suffered nightmares; who had kept her safe as they fled halfway across the world. The night before she had left Meereen, Cersei had told her:

“You are good, and kind, and pure, Myrcella. Everything that I am not.”

“Those tapestries will grace Faircastle, admirably".  Lady Joy had ridden up to join her.  They were indeed beautiful, now being carried out by her men. Made of cloth of gold and silver, they depicted scenes from the history of the Seven Kingdoms.  She recognised Nymeria, landing on the shores of Dorne, and Aegon and his sisters, destroying their enemies on the Field of Fire.  

"You're welcome to them", she replied, but of course, that was not where the real money lay.  Daenerys had insisted, and Ser Harys plainly agreed, that pillaging should be treated as a business.  Let the soldiers loot on their own account, and as much would be destroyed as taken, and the rest would vanish into the pockets of the merchants, innkeeps and brothel owners. Make the soldiers hand over their gains, in return for gold and silver coin, on the nail, and both the soldiers, and their generals profited. Merchants who had to bargain in bulk with the commander, must pay a higher price than those who fleeced the common soldier. Ser Harys was a shrewd bargainer. She could see him now, haggling with a group of merchants, even as the soliders rolled out great hogsheads of wine and ale, and carried vessels of gold and silver, books with jewelled covers, artworks. Yet, even that was not the best of it. There was an immense racket, as she saw her men rounding up herds of cattle, sheep, pigs, and flocks of chickens and ducks, most to be transported back up the river to Silverhill, on barges. But, some would be slaughtered, to feed the army as they raided. Men were even pillaging the apples from the orchards that gave the castle its name. Hers was a small army, but all were mounted, a thousand horse, and four thousand mounted infantry. That meant they could strike fast, and ride hard, pillaging the great estates, and selling the loot to the Lannisport merchants who followed in their wake.

Daenerys had sent a raven to Casterly Rock, urging her to raid the Reach, in order to draw off their forces. So, she and Joy had gathered their army at Silverhill, and marched downriver. Scouts reported that a large enemy army was mustering at Old Oak, and so they’d return the way the way they’d come. More forces were being gathered in the Westerlands, lest the Reachmen invade them in turn.

”Uncle Tywin would have acted very differently”, said Joy.

”May the Mother have mercy upon him, but I shall never be my grandfather.” She had given very clear instructions that neither the septs, nor the smallfolk, were to be molested. None of the servants at Goldengrove were to be harmed. The first couple of rapers to be caught had been hanged by Ser Harys, before the assembled army. He maintained tight discipline. “My husband, on the other hand …”. She had heard grim rumours of Orhan’s work in the South.

”Shh”, said Joy, placing a finger to lips. Myrcella loathed the brute she had wed, and the feeling was mutual. He’d told her quite bluntly, that he wanted Daenerys, or even her mother, but not her. He was quite free with his hands, too. A woman cannot pray to the Seven, not even to the Stranger, for the death of a husband. That would be a terrible blasphemy. No, for that, she must seek out the wise women, and cunning men, who have dwelt in the hills and glens, since the time of the First Men.

Joy’s mother was one such. A woods witch, once loved by Gerion, the youngest brother of Lord Tywin. She was long dead now, but she had a cousin who plied the same calling. Gray Alys, they called her. Three nights before the army rode South, she and Joy had ridden up into the hills above Lannisport, to seek her aid. She knew she must bring her three gems, and a prized possession of her husband's. She had a jewelled dagger which had belonged to him, given to her on their wedding day. She had known they were coming, and stood waiting in the door of her cottage. A woman of indeterminate age. She'd welcomed the pair, and they'd entered, leaving her bodyguards outside. She'd feared that the cottage would be filled with the grim artefacts of the witch's trade - the remains of dead infants, vile poisons, the shrivelled remains of toads and snakes. Instead, it was quite clean, smelling of beeswax. Alys brought out a bronze bowl placing it on a table. "I know why you have come, Lady Myrcella, you do not need to speak the words. Give me what you have brought." She handed her the gems, which she pocketed, and the dagger, which she unsheathed. "Now, give me your hand." She held it out, and the witch swiftly cut her palm with the knife, her blood dripping into the bowl. Myrcella hissed with pain. "All magic requires blood, to work. That, or fire." Then, she had chanted her spell.

When Alys had finished, she bandaged Myrcella's hand. "You may leave now. Your husband will not survive this war."

May the Seven forgive her, but how else might a woman escape a brute?

Chapter Text

Rosby Castle

Daenerys had summoned Sansa and Willas Tyrell, to share wine and cakes, in her solar. And also to outline her plans. Ygritte kept watch from a discreet distance, along with Rhaena. The latter had fled the city, after her friend Maegelle, had been murdered in the riot at the Great Sept. Another crime to lay at the feet of the Sparrows.

"Your Grace," said Willas. "I fear that there is little prospect of peace with the rebels, if those are the only terms you will offer them."

"Treason must be punished, Lord Willas. Let them submit now, and the rebel lords will die cleanly. Their heirs shall be permitted to inherit their estates, upon condition of pledging fealty, and upon pledging to free their villeins. The traitors will at least be saving the lives and fortunes of their families and followers. A loving father sacrifices himself to save his wife and children."

"And the High Sparrow, and his followers among the Most Devout?" For a moment, Daenerys could not speak, for the bitter rage she felt, at the mention of this creature and his followers! The murderers of her dear daughter. She had wept uncounted tears for sweet Missandei, but now, she felt nothing but hate. Nailing these snakes to posts, and setting them alight, was one part of her dream which she fervently hoped would become a reality.

"They will burn", she stated, finally, flatly.

"They will fight, your Grace", remarked Sansa. "Especially, as you plan to build a temple to R'hllor in the city.”

"There are rumours that septs have been desecrated in the coastlands and islands", said Willas.

"How many times must I promise? No one shall be forced to follow a God that is not their own. If I force my subjects to worship my God, against their own will, I am making them commit blasphemy. But, that works both ways. If the smallfolk choose to convert to my God, they shall not be compelled to return to the service of the Seven.”

”Now, I'm not asking you to risk your lives by treating with the rebels. I simply want you to inform the Small Council and the city's Patricians, that these are my terms, and I expect them to stand by their Queen. If the city has to be abandoned then so be it. We can always place it under siege. If they fear the outcome of this fight, then tell them, I can assemble an army of thirty thousand veterans, within the fortnight. And", and this was very welcome news, "there are many more arriving from the East, as well as the smallfolk of the Crownlands, who have pledged to defend their Queen. I shall acknowledge Jon as a king, but my position shall be senior."

Willas and Sansa rose, before the Lord of Highgarden replied "Your will, your Grace.  I shall relay your message to them."

"A word, Lady Sansa.  Please join us, Ygritte, this concerns you, also".  Both women sat before the Queen.  "I know that I bear Jon's son.  I had thought I was barren, but the Lord of Light has seen fit to perform a miracle, and undo a witch's curse."  That part of her vision, she knew to be true.  She had prayed repeatedly that the holy war she had dreamt of might yet be averted.  "One day, he will ride a dragon.  As will your daughter, Ygritte." 

”I don’t want that for her”, said Ygritte fervently. They had argued over this already. “I want to take her North, to live among her own kind. I know, she has to learn to read and write, but Gilly can teach her that. I know she'll be a great lady, one day. But a dragon rider? Giving her the power to kill a city?” Dany took her hand, gently.

”And what if she decides she wants that power? What if it is her destiny? Never mind, we can decide what’s best for her, when this is all over. However, this all points to the truth of the claim that Jon, or Aemon, is indeed, my brother's son.  That is good news, not bad.  I thought I was the last of my line, but instead, my family has been replenished. Willas Tyrell can relay my commands well enough, but I need you, Sansa, to stress to Jon just how important it is that he must join me. Our family must be at one."

"I have a confession to make", replied Sansa. She seemed awkward. "My parents would be ashamed - but ... I believe I'm bearing a child as well. As a girl, I was taught, the greatest shame that a woman can endure is to give birth to a bastard. That bastards are are treacherous, deceitful, because they are concieved in lust and sin. I mean no disrespect, Ygritte, this is just what I was taught", she added, hurriedly.

"And, you think that Jon is the father?"

"Probably. Perhaps the Lord of the Vale, or even a male whore". Dany saw Ygritte's eyebrows shoot up at that admission.

"Well, I'm the last person who could ever criticise you for unchastity. Perhaps, Jon will have to take you as a second wife?' She saw Sansa go white as a sheet, at that, looking very guilty for some reason. She wondered why. "But, we can work out a solution, on your return. Serve me well in this, and you will stand very high in my favour." Sansa rose and left.

"Well, well, the high and mighty Lady Stark acted like we was all something she'd scrape off her shoe, when she came to Castle Black", remarked Ygritte, struggling to restrain her mirth. "I knew she was sleeping with her brother, but this?"

"She's had a troubled life, Ygritte. You know what those creatures did to her at Winterfell. Sometimes, people seek comfort through sex. " She pitied Sansa. She knew full well, her own nature was as twisted and torn as the other woman's.

Kings Landing.

"Gods, how I hate this place, Willas!  It brings back terrible memories. They say you you can smell the shit from five miles off." Fortunately, the wind was fresh today, being blown in from the sea. Sansa and the Master of Laws both stood in the prow of galley that had brought them here. There was a light drizzle falling, but nothing too serious. They were rounding the point on which Maegor's Holdfast was built, its red sandstone battlements and towers looming above them. They'd agreed with the Queen, it would be safer to travel by ship, and make use of the Palace's small private harbour, rather than ride openly into the city. Who knew what control the Sparrows had over the streets, or the city's guards, at this point?

"I share your feelings, Sansa. I'd sooner be at home, in Highgarden, but now? My own people might tear me to pieces. What is it about us as a species, that gives us this endless desire to foul our own nests?  The Realm has been torn apart by war, for years now, yet people like my grandmother want more war.  The Reach is fair, and fertile.  Its lords live like kings, and it's still not enough for them.  

"What do you think of the Queen?" she asked quite suddenly.

"That's dangerous territory, Sansa.  The law of treason is vague, but it tends towards breadth and inclusion."  

"I swear, nothing you say will go further."

"I think she might be a very great ruler.  I think she is entirely sincere, both in her belief that her God has chosen her to rule, and in her desire to ensure tolerance for all.  She can be cruel, you and I both know that, but how can any monarch not be?  What I fear is that she, you, I, and all the rest of us, are controlled by forces that will lead us into the abyss, regardless of anything we do."  That was a sombre thought, and she was still pondering it, after their vessel docked, and she began the long climb up to the Red Keep. 

Chapter Text

The sight of Sansa, emerging naked from his private bath chamber, stirred similar emotions in Jon to those he'd felt all those years ago, when she'd climbed out of the hot pool at Winterfell. A part of him wished, truly, that they shared the same father. She smiled at him wickedly, enticingly, as she walked over to him, skin glowing from her bath, pink and lovely. The scars that had been left by the Beast, in no way detracted from her beauty.

"I've a mind to kneel before King Aemon", she whispered, before sinking to her knees, then deftly unbuttoning his breeches, and taking his cock in her fingers. She was just so good at this;  so much better than any professional could ever be.  Even better than your Queen, he thought, guiltily, as she ran her tongue down his length.  He abandoned himself to pleasure, for several minutes, before he achieved his release, flooding her mouth with his seed.  He looked down to see her grinning up at him.  She rose, and took a glass of wine, rinsing out her mouth, before wiping the mess from her chin with a cloth.  "It's time for you to repay the favour, Jon", she told him, taking him by the hand, and leading him to the bed.  She lay back, legs apart, and then he knelt in turn, burying his face in her cunt, as she cried out, hardly caring if the servants heard her.

Afterwards, they lay contentedly, in each other's arms, sharing a goblet of wine. That was when she broke the news.

"I'm bearing your child, Jon. Well, probably yours, but there are other candidates for its paternity."

"Other candidates?"

"You know I'm not chaste", she replied archly. Well, that was true enough. "But, it must be our child, in the eyes of the world. And, we're in luck. The Queen has suggested you take me as a second wife - you are a Targaryen, after all, it seems. You aren’t bound by the same laws as other men. The vows we gave before the Heart Tree, we can take them again, and make our wedding lawful.”

”His High Holiness might have views about that.”

”His High Holiness will be riding a pole before long. Oh, and the Queen thinks you’ve made her pregnant, too. You’ve re-founded House Targaryen. We've achieved everything we could ever have wanted."

"You've changed your tune. A year ago, you feared and loathed Daenerys Targaryen. You thought she'd turn the smallfolk against us."

"I'm in love with her. It's as simple as that. Just as I'm in love with you. That means I want what's best for the pair of you. And for myself, of course. She's willing for you to be titled as king, so long as she is senior. Think of it, Jon, the three of us, sharing the same bed." She smiled at the prospect. "Don't pretend you aren't aroused by the things that the Queen and I do together.” That was true enough. The image of Sansa, blindfolded and spread open, while his wife plundered her quim with her tongue, and Irri sucked at her breasts, on their first night together, was the most obscenely erotic sight he’d ever witnessed.

“Now, as for the Sparrows, I'd happily scour them from the earth. They have no love for our kind. Yes, we'll have to set our tenants free, but far better that than submitting to a bunch of zealots. The lords of the Reach are fools to side with them."

"Your own lords too. Half your vassals are in revolt." Sansa frowned.

"Then, they'll face the same fate as the Reach lords. The same fate as House Bolton, and those who were stupid enough to follow them."

"Assuming that they lose. Tell me what terms Daenerys is offering?", asked Jon.

"The rebel lords will surrender to her discretion, and be attainted. But, their heirs will be permitted to inherit, upon pledging fealty, and agreeing to free their villeins. There will be no mercy for the High Sparrow, and his followers among the Most Devout. The Faith will pay an indemnity, for the murder of Princess Missandei, which will be used to build a temple to the Red God in the city. She expects you, the Small Council, and the city fathers to support her in this."

"By all the dead, is she mad!" Sansa sat up bolt upright, and gave him a hard stare.

"And, how would you react, if it was your child who was murdered by these lice-ridden filth? I'd cut out their entrails, and quarter them, and send the pieces to every city in the Realm! Yes, these are harsh terms, but the rebels have earned them. I even suggested she might convert to the Seven, but I can see why she'd refuse." There was a real hardness to Sansa, these days. Ned Stark's little princess, who'd loved lemon cakes, and played the high harp, who'd dreamed of marrying Joffrey and bearing his children, had died a long time ago. She had positively relished the deaths of Ramsay Bolton and his paramour, judging by her subsequent performance in the bedchamber, and he suspected that Roslyn Frey's dying must been prolonged. Not that you are in any position to condemn. You sanctioned all those deaths.

"Sansa, I've received the most dreadful news. That Orhan and his riders have murdered and raped women and children, and clergy across the South. That Lady Myrcella slaughtered the inhabitants of Goldengrove." Sansa snorted with disbelief.

"Myrcella, a murderer of innocents? You don't believe that, surely?"

"Perhaps not. But, Victarion Greyjoy is assembling the Iron Fleet. We know what kind of ruin he'll bring to the coasts. There's word that thousands of the Red God's supporters are landing in the Crownlands. That septs are being burned. There's no war more vicious than a war of religion, and I've no desire to find myself fighting four fifths of the population. I loathe the Reach lords and the Sparrows for forcing this war upon us, but war is what we face. Lord Manderly has raised his banners on my behalf, and for the Faith, at White Harbour. Either we must side with the rebels, or else put them down with total cruelty, and rule as tyrants. The choice is not an easy one. Let's wait and see what the Small Council, and the Patricians say, tomorrow.

Sansa by this point had got out of the bed, and stood before him, entirely naked, and eyes blazing like blue stars. "I don't understand you, Jon. You aren't even a follower of the Seven, and many followers remain loyal to the Queen. The Sparrows don't speak for them all. The enemy have murdered innocents, just as much as Orhan’s riders. The rebels and the Faith could have had it so easy! Daenerys was no danger to them. The Red Clergy were no danger to them. Oh, no doubt they'd have made some converts here and there. But, you know what, these fools have made them into a danger. If we have to rule through terror, then so be it!"

"Sansa, I'm begging you. Let's see what they say. You say, let's rule by terror. What if we're the ones who get caught on the losing side. Do you want to end your life, chained to a stake?"

"And is that the fate you wish for Daenerys, the woman you chose to marry? I won't die at the stake, because, if all else failed, I'd take my own life. And, you know what, what has the Faith of the Seven ever given me, except guilt, and fear of hellfire? Just possibly, the Red God is the better option? We'll hear what they have to say tomorrow, but don't expect me to hold back!" She threw on a gown, and flounced from the room, making her way to her own chamber.

No man is lonelier than a king   He could only pray that the morrow would bring good counsel.

Chapter Text

Gilly was no soldier, but she’d seen and read enough, now, to be awed by the military power of the Queen. There was a great encampment, outside the town, which Ygritte had told her was built by the usurper, Aegon, for his own men. It now housed the Queen's growing army. Each day, another detachment would march or ride into the camp. There were all sorts; imperial guards, Dothraki riders, archers from the Summer Islands, turbanned horsemen, as well as the levies of those lords who had remained loyal. She'd heard tell there were nigh on twenty five thousands of them, a number she could scarce comprehend. All of them poised to unleash the Queen's vengeance on her enemies. Her vengeance, too. She would never forgive the bastards who'd murdered Missandei; and certainly not, that bastard who'd condemned her own son to death.

She and Ygritte had time off, and were standing by the roadside, watching a squadron of cavalry, riding up from the coast. They were a strange bunch. The men were clad in crimson, with long, hennaed beards, and their eyes were ringed with kohl. "The knights of the Fiery Hand" explained Ygritte. They were outlandish to be sure. Their leader suddenly caught sight of them, and called a halt. He dismounted and approached. "You are the Firehair, the one they call Red Spear?" he asked Ygritte, in heavily-accented common speech.

Her friend had gone bright red with embarassment, but replied, "Aye, that's what they call me. But, you can't believe all the tales they tell about me."

"But, you saved the life of the Queen's Grace, and slew the Usurper. That tale has crossed the Narrow Sea. For that, you have the thanks of all the Faithful." He bowed low before her. His men dismounted and followed his example. He rose, "I am the Prince Khosrou, sworn to the service of the Lord of Light. The Queen's friends are my friends; her enemies ... do I need to say the rest?

Gilly could tell how awkward Ygritte was feeling at that point. "Well, Prince Khosrou, thanks. All I can say is ... you save the life of yer mate in a fight. Men have saved my life, before. The Queen saved my life, when we went North after a witch. "

"You are fortunate to stand so high in her service."

"She's a good chief, is all I can say." He bowed again, and remounted, before riding on with his men.

"Oh Gods!" complained Ygritte. "Can't people just forget about the Red Spear?" Gilly laughed.

"No, they won't. They'll still be telling tales and singing songs about you, a hundred years from now. Andrastos explained it. He said people need heroes and legends to inspire them. It doesn't matter how true the stories really are. And, you really are a heroine. Think of the tales they tell of the Queen. She’s nothing like what they all say of her, good and bad.”

”The White Flame Who Dances on the Graves of Her Enemies, The Merciless”, well that ain’t the woman I know. I told her up North, “yer ain’t nearly so hard as yer wants people to think y’are.”

”No. She’s kind to us - and to all her people. And, she does offer mercy to enemies - but once you exhaust her patience... Well, let’s say, I wouldn’t want to be the one who did it.”

"And, there's Missandei to avenge. In 'er shoes, I'd cut the bloody cross in every Sparrow that I got hold of." Gilly couldn't really disagree with that, although she would reconsider her views, later on that day. For now, they wandered into the encampment. It seemed as much a market as an army camp, although she was used to that by now. Vendors were selling hot and cold food, drinks, and trinkets, to the soldiers, mummers and jugglers were performing, in the hope of reward. Men were bringing in horses, cattle, chickens, grain, and fodder, offering them for sale to the army's quartermasters. And of course, there were numerous whores, all plying their trade. One even came up to her, a big-bosomed red-head. "Now you're a rare beauty. I do women too, you know. I'm Ros, from Winterfell."

"Er ... thank you, Ros", she stammered. "But, I'm not buying." The other woman shrugged and walked on. She was quite striking, Gilly had to admit.

"You made a conquest there", said Ygritte, laughing. “Maybe I should tell Lady Stark and the Queen about that one.” Gilly gave her a playful slap.

”The Red Spear and Gilly the fletcher”, she heard a man call out. “I knew I made the right choice when I recruited you two.” It was the tribune, Carrullus, who’d signed them up in Pentos. They greeted him in turn, and caught up with each other’s news, over mugs of ale.

”Time to end this war for good”, he said, finally. “I can’t say I’m over fond of these Red clergy and their soldiers, but their magic is real, and they know how to fight. The rebels don’t know what’s about to hit them. Then, I’m hanging up my boots, and buying a farm. I don’t suppose either of you is interested in being a farmer’s wife?”

”We’re going North, to live with our own kind, when this is done,” replied Ygritte. They said farewell, and walked on.

After a few hours, as dusk began to fall, they heard a commotion. Crowds of off-duty soldiers and civilians were exiting the camp, chattering with excitement, like the crowds going to an army field day, or a tourney. They joined them, walking back up to the town. And, there, in a field outside the city, they discovered what had drawn the crowds. A row of six stakes, surrounded by brushwood and logs, had been erected, by acolytes of R'hllor. There was a great fanfare of trumpets, and a company of imperial guards marched out of the town, escorting Queen Daenerys herself, to the place of execution. She recognised Grey Worm. By the Queen's side, were a red priest and priestess, the latter a most striking woman with hair like beaten copper. She reminded her of the witch Melisandre, but this was another. The Queen was dressed in armour of black plate, and by some art or glamour, a golden nimbus shone about her. Her head was wreathed, seemingly, in a crown of lightning. Then, there was a howl of anger from the crowd, as more soldiers dragged forth the six prisoners, all of them wearing ragged Sparrows' robes. They were briskly chained to the stakes, the wood reaching no higher than their waists. They were sullen and defiant, it seemed. Gilly knew enough about the Seven now, to understand that they might view themselves as martyrs.

The priestess stepped forward, and addressed the crowd, her voice amplified by some art. "Behold the fate of all those who rebel against God. The Lord of Light has chosen Daenerys Targaryen as his champion upon this earth. To fight her is to fight God Himself. It is not just an act of treason, but an act of blasphemy."

"The night is dark and full of terrors, yet the Lord of Light is merciful and He brings the Dawn", intoned hundreds among the crowd. One of the condemned was raving now, apparently denouncing them as heathens and savages. The others had begun to sing hymns. "Do we want to watch this?" she asked Ygritte.

"They're getting off lightly", was the only response. She had to admit, her friend sometimes alarmed her. It was easy to forget, she'd raided villages and committed acts of murder.

"The Lord is merciful indeed, even towards these wretches. His flames will cleanse them of their sins, and purify their souls, and bring them to salvation."

"Our Gods will see you all damned to the Seven Hells", screamed one of the Sparrows. She glanced at the Queen to see her glaring like a basilisk, at the man. She saw her nod, and six acolytes stepped forward, bearing flaming torches, applying them to the brushwood. The flames leapt up, around the waists of the victims, who began to scream in earnest, now. They were writhing in their chains, desperate to escape their agony, but they were held fast. Their legs burned, yet their torsos and faces were free of the fire, so they were still very much alive, even as they cried out. It took perhaps fifteen minutes before the screams turned to choked whimpers, and then, finally, and blessedly, silence. A smell like roasted pork wafted over the crowd. She felt rather sick.

"Perhaps vengeance doesn't feel so good", she remarked.

"They fucked around. They found out", was Ygritte’s response.

Chapter Text

Orhan lay on a straw pallet, cursing himself, the Great Stallion, and his enemies. His left arm was now swollen, to twice its normal size, mottled red and white. He could smell the corruption in his wound. Twice the swelling had been lanced, and treated with boiling wine, in an effort to cleanse it, and yet the injury - and the pain - only grew worse. He could sleep, and that fitfully, only with large drafts of milk of the poppy. This was where he was destined to die. A stinking peasant's croft, in some one-horse mountain village on the border of the Reach and Stormlands.

"The arm must come off, my Lord General", insisted the healer, who attended him. A week ago, he'd taken a graze on the hand, during the course of a skirmish against Ser Garlan Tyrell, and he'd thought nothing of it. Then, his hand had swelled, and the healer had told him it must be cut off. He'd told him to fuck himself. After that, his arm had ballooned. The other man lifted his arm gently, to examine it further. He wanted to scream at the pain that ripped through him, but gritted his teeth, hissing, instead. Generals don't scream in agony.

”This is no normal wound", remarked the man eventually. "There is some other power at work here, some magic, perhaps.” Fuck it, who would be able to cast a spell against him? There was one obvious culprit. That vicious little cunt, the stupid girl his father had forced him to marry. Oh, she looked as if butter would never melt in her mouth, but she was her mother’s daughter, in terms of ruthlessness at any rate. Cersei had fucked him more than once, as well as his father, but he knew her for a snake. And he knew full well, Myrcella hated him, just because he claimed his rights as a husband, to fuck her any way he chose, and took his belt to her, whenever she got on his nerves. I'll flay you alive, you little bitch, once I'm out of here.  But you aren’t getting out of there. You’re dying, dearest, he thought he heard her say.

So many regrets, as his life ebbed. The chief was, he'd never fucked his father's wife. He'd wanted her so badly, and he should have taken her, when he'd had the chance. She might say no, but in her heart, he knew she yearned for a younger man, not one who was more than twice her age. A hard man of the steppes, not that mincing effeminate she'd taken as her second husband. For a moment, he forgot his agony, as he imagined himself ripping the clothes from her back, bending her over the painted table, and thrusting into her, not caring if her cries were ones of pain or pleasure.

I’d have gelded you, son, his father said, staring down at him, grimly. Then, staked you out for wild beasts to finish. If she didn't do it, first. You remember what the Queen did to that pig, Jhaqo, years ago? Just as well I’ve got other sons, isn’t it? Ones who won’t let me down!

Damn you, you old bastard! You gave them great estates, and what did I get?

Marriage to the richest woman in the Sunset Lands. High command. A chance to win lands at the point of your spear. You fucked up, you stupid cunt.

He’d fucked up. That was true enough.  Where did he go wrong? Lusting after his father’s wife? Oh, she’d led him on, and he’d happily murdered, raped, and tortured on her behalf, losing all restraint and sense along the way.

I’m truly sorry for that, Daenerys told him. I found a half-decent man, and I made him into an evil one. But then, that was your destiny. We can’t fight fate.

And yours is?

To be a Goddess. To burn the world. To renew it.

”The arm’s coming off”, he heard someone saying. He stared up at the speaker, his captain, Lewis Lanster.

”I’ve got an army to save, General”, said the man, and the Tyrells are two days’ ride away.” No doubt he was right. They’d led them a merry dance, but the enemy had the numbers, and they had whittled down his riders to half their number. They’d learned from their folly at Horn Hill. But, he was damned if he'd let a sawbones go to work on him.

"The arm stays, you stupid bastard!"  His voice sounded as if it came from miles away.  Gritting his teeth, he somehow rolled from his mattress, and staggered to his feet.  "I'm a fucking general, and you're a fucking captain, and that means you do as I fucking tell you, you bastard boy fucker!"  He picked up his dagger, waving it in the face of the man, who glared at him.

"As you wish, sir." Lanster turned and walked out of the hovel, followed by the healer. Somehow, he stayed on his feet. There was a pitcher of wine on a table, and he picked it up, drinking from it greedily. Then, he sank back onto the bed. A couple of hours later, he forced himself to rise again, and shuffled out into the village's Main Street. The glare of the sun in his eyes was pain in itself. And what was happening? Men were saddling up, and riding off, even his own Dothraki. He'd never given orders for this.

Lanster rode up. "As I told you, General, I've got an army to save. That includes saving them from you."

"I command you to stay", he shouted, but it sounded like a whisper.

"With the greatest possible respect sir, go fuck yourself."

"A khal who can't ride is no khal", said one of his own men. Then they rode away, with the others. He was finished, he knew. He staggered back to the cottage, lost for a way out. Then he remembered, he still had his dagger. When all else failed, that was the way out.

Chapter Text

Sansa scarce knew which Gods to pray to, these days. But, after she had risen from her bed, and washed her face and hands, she went to the royal Sept, and there she knelt before the altar.  Mother and Father, you have ordained Daenerys Targaryen to rule this land, the lords to govern it, and the smallfolk to serve and labour for the good of all.  To defy this order is a blasphemy unto you.  I have forfeited any right to salvation at your hands, and I seek no mercy from you.  I know that you will grant me none.  I beg only that you bring the rebels to submit. That you spare this Realm the horrors of war. I beg that you grant wisdom to Jon Snow. Then, she prayed for the souls of her parents and siblings, and that Arya might be found alive.

Perhaps the Seven heeded prayers uttered on behalf of others, even from the damned. She returned to her chambers, breaking her fast with bread, cheese, and small ale. She had hoped to spend the night abed with Jon, but they'd argued bitterly, before she stalked out of his chambers. He couldn't be planning to join the rebels, surely? She sought out Lord Willas, giving him a sanitised account of her meeting with Jon.

"We might have to flee, swiftly", she concluded. "Ensure that our ship is ready to sail at all times."

"And you will choose the Queen's Grace, over Prince Jon, if it comes to it?"

”Yes, and I have my reasons." Chief among them, she was carrying an heir, the last scion of House Stark. This was a precious life that she bore, and the child must be kept safe. Another reason was that if Jon was so damned stupid as to lead the rebels, she needed to be in a position to beg the Queen for his life. There could not be the slightest hint of disloyalty. She’d surrender Riverrun, her jewels, everything she possessed, to Daenerys, if she had to. She'd serve as her handmaiden, her bitch even, if that was the price she need pay to save Jon from himself.

Sufficient unto the day is its evil. She and Willas left for the meeting.

The Small Council Chamber was not large enough to house the city’s Patricians,  so they were meeting in the Great Hall. She made the cold face, as she climbed the Serpentine Steps. A place of slaughter, she recalled, where Aerys' loyalists had made their last stand against Lord Tywin's soldiers. Strange how Tywin's daughter and grand-daughter stood so high in the favour of Aerys' daughter.  Cersei must be a lover of exceptional skill. She had always loathed the woman, but she couldn't help but wonder what she looked like, when unclad.

Jon was already present when she entered, seated on a chair at the foot of the iron throne.  The Small Councillors were seated on either side of him, and she and Willas joined them.  Facing them were the Patricians, perhaps a hundred all told.  Also present were the eunuchs, Modestus and Andrastos, and the Red Priest, Moqorro.  

"Lord Willas", Jon began, "Please present the terms that the Queen is prepared to offer the rebels." The Master of Laws did so, and as he did, so she saw the faces of the Patricians fall, some of them exclaiming in dismay.

Their leader spoke first. "Your Grace, my lords, Lady Sansa, for those who do not know me, I am Godric Hornlach, Magister of the Guild of Spicers. All of the city's guilds are here represented today. May I first say, that we are all loyal subjects to the Queen's Grace. We hate what has taken place, and grieve for the death of Princess Missandei, but these terms? Forgive me, but if were were to present these to the High Septon, the Most Devout, and the rebels, the people of this city would tear us apart. Your Grace, how many soldiers do you command in this city?"

"About five thousands, Magister."

"Five thousands, sufficient perhaps to hold the Red Keep and the docks. Add to them, a similar number of Goldcloaks, who have friends and family in the city, and whose loyalty to the Queen is dubious. Perhaps half a million people live in this city. A great throng of Warriors' sons guard the Great Sept, and the Sparrows have whipped the smallfolk into a frenzy. This city will erupt, if they know their religious leaders are to die cruelly, and a temple to a heathen god is to be erected." There was vigorous agreement from the others.

Lord Royce spoke up. "Do you have any notion, Masters, of what the Queen can bring to this city? Vast armies, and her three dragons. Yes, they are small but this city is built mainly of wood. She could set it ablaze, Is that what you want for your people?"

"And thousands of men approach from the Reach, my lord" replied the Magister. "When they arrive, the people of this city will throw open the gates to them."

"Do they wish to perish too?" said Sansa at last. "Do you truly expect the Queen to forgive the murder of her dear daughter? May I remind you, Sers, of our history? When Prince Maelor was torn apart by the mob at Bitterbridge, Prince Daeron razed the town to the ground, and slaughtered the inhabitants, down to the last woman and child. Why, when they took refuge in the town's sept, he burned it to the ground. Why so? To offer violence to royalty is a sin as heinous as laying hands on the Gods. Be grateful that your Queen is of far gentler a disposition."

"I have heard that the murderers of the Princess were all slain", remarked one of the patricians. "She has been avenged".

"And what of those who instigated the deed?" replied Sansa. "Are they to go free. I have heard rumours that the High Sparrow and his followers gave thanks to the Seven for this foul deed. Is that true."

"It is, my lady", replied Hornlach, shamefaced. "They are fanatics, beyond reason, yet the baseborn and ignorant adore them. "

"Have you considered Magister", said Moqorro in his deep rumbling voice, "that your High Septon is not what he seems? Far from being an examplar of holiness, he is a servant of the Great Other, wilfully leading your people to destruction?” It was a good point.

”He is a fool, but a fool who rules the streets.” Jon rose to his feet. Sansa’s heart was in her mouth.

”Treason is a noxious weed, which must be torn up by the roots. A heavy price must be paid for the murder of Princess Missandei. I have not the men to put down the Sparrows. Nor, do I deem it wise - at such a time - to build a temple to R’hllor within the city. Some of the rebels must die, and the High Septon must be deposed, plainly. My place is by the side of my Queen, but I shall see if she will lessen the severity of her terms. I shall leave on the same ship as Lady Sansa and Lord Willas. Lord Royce, you shall command the garrison in my absence.”

Thank all the Gods!  Once Jon returned to the side of the Queen, the pair of them would fuck him senseless, and she would ensure that never, ever, would he be out of her sight.  As for the city and its vile inhabitants?  Daenerys could open the gates of the Seven Hells to them, for all she cared.

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Ygritte watched, in sour mood, as Jon Snow, his sister-cousin, Lord Baelish, and Lord Willas, rode through the gates of Rosby Castle. With her was an honour guard, assembled once word came that the party was riding up from the coast. Men were sparring with each other, in the courtyard, under the watchful gaze of their master at arms.

She'd decided that Lady Sansa might have quite a decent heart after all, underneath her arrogant bluster. The Queen had placed her trust in her, and, it seemed, that trust had not been betrayed. But, Jon Snow, or King Aemon, as she supposed he was now called, that one would always be a snake in the grass. As for Baelish … well, no one had a good word to say about him. One night, over wine, while Ygritte was present, Lady Sansa had told Daenerys that in the Vale, she had been made to sit on “daddy’s” lap, while he put his tongue in her mouth, and felt her up. “A pity you have to grow up, one day”, he’d once said to her. “There’s a real loveliness to maidens who’ve barely flowered.” No doubt, she’d had to please him in other ways, too, but the Queen had not asked for details. Being in that man’s presence must make her skin crawl. There was something very queer about these highborn kneelers, who publicly condemned all kinds of things they eagerly practised behind closed doors.

"I take it you have no plans to marry Lord Baelish?" Daenerys had asked Sansa.

"None at all."

"I need him for now. There will come a time, I think, when he has outlived his usefulness, Sansa."

"Gods, I hope so! He owns brothels. I've heard tell, you can do anything you like to the whores, if your purse is big enough. Things I can't even mention, but girls and boys without families, sometimes, they just "disappear," she'd replied. “I mean, I use whores, too”, she’d added, blushing bright red, “but never like that. I pay them well, and I always make sure they’re willing to do the things I like …”.

”Please, Lady Sansa, I don’t require details. I know you aren’t one of those monsters.” The Queen had glanced at Ygritte, and nodded. One day, this creature, Baelish, would meet with an "accident."

She addressed the newcomers. “Your Grace" (and how it stuck in her throat to utter those words), "my Lords, my Lady, the Queen's Grace awaits you. " There was a sudden cry of joy, and Lady Sansa's pretty handmaid, Kyra, ran over to greet her mistress. The servant kissed her hand, before exclaiming, "I feared you'd never return, my lady." Are they eating each other out too? Still, their bed, their business. She led them up to the Keep, where Daenerys awaited them. The murder of poor Missandei had changed her friend. There was a real fury in her, which Ygritte entirely understood. But a conviction too, that her God had chosen her to rule this land - that her enemies were the enemies of her God. She wasn't sure she liked the sound of that. Still, the burning of the Sparrows had been justice.  I'd have done to worse to 'em.

They entered the royal solar, and Daenerys rose, she and Jon embracing one another  "Dear husband, how good to see you return."  It hardly sounded the most friendly of greetings.  "Please remain, Ygritte" said Daenerys.  "You are more than my sworn sword.  You are a part of the royal family."  Gods above, she knew her friend meant well, but she hated to be reminded of that!  Still, at least Jon Snow must hate her being here, too.  There was that

"Tell me what you know, Jon", she began.

"The situation remains tense. The Sparrows mostly control the smallfolk. The city's leaders, the Guildsmen, are frankly terrified of them. They've murdered followers of other religions, and anyone who looks foreign. The Goldcloaks can't be counted upon. The soldiers I have ... they're enough to secure the docks and the Red Keep, but not the rest of the city. And, an army approaches from the Reach. Lady Myrcella has led a raid on Goldengrove, and your step-son ... he has burned his way across the South. "

"The revolt began, almost the moment I flew North. The rebels proclaimed you king, in my stead. I assume that they would love nothing more than to see me burned alive in front of the Great Sept, in honour of the Seven. My dear daughter thought it necessary to flee the city, not trusting to your protection, according to her companions. It cost her her life. Tell me, Jon, do I have any reason to trust you?" All very good points.  Open his throat, before he opens yours, and do Baelish too, while you're at it.  The atmosphere in the room had turned decidedly chilly.

"Your Grace, Jon is loyal and true", cried Sansa, passionately. Daenerys held up her hand.

"It looks dreadfully suspicious, I can't deny it," replied her husband. "But, Lord Willas will bear me out, it was his grandmother who fomented this revolt. Supposedly, she found some marriage record in the Citadel, which shows that my parents were Prince Rhaegar, your brother, and Lyanna Stark.  In the eyes of the world, though, your brother was still wed to Princess Elia.  She hates the reforms you're planning. I support them, As does Lady Sansa. Lady Olenna thinks she can use the Sparrows, as do the other high nobility of the Reach. They're fools, the Sparrows will eat them raw, sooner or later. As for Missandei, I never thought of the tunnels beneath the city. I told her, repeatedly, she was safe. But, I can see why she couldn't trust me. Believe me, I want her death avenged."

"Your Grace, this is all true, as we've discussed", affirmed Lord Willas.  "My grandmother is an evil woman, my brother, deeply misguided." There was a short silence, before Daenerys replied.

"I know that you are my nephew, Jon.  The Lord of Light has seen fit to undo a witch's curse, and bless me with a son, our son.  A son who will one day ride a dragon, and rule this land.  House Targaryen will continue, both through him, and through Ygritte's daughter. And, there is a matter we must discuss discuss privately.  Please excuse us, a few minutes." she nodded to Baelish and Willas.  The men left.

"No doubt, Sansa has told you that she too is bearing a child.  Your child, in all probability.  The child will be excluded from succession to the Iron Throne, but they will inherit Riverrun. What would you think of taking Sansa as a second wife?"

"Would it be lawful?"

"If I decreed it."

"Then of course, although I suppose the Faith will have to be brought to heel, first."

"The Sparrows, at any rate, will have to be destroyed completely. I will want the High Septon to be entirely my creature, in future." It stuck in Ygritte's throat to think of that man getting to wed a second beautiful wife. Both women deserve much better.

"Ygritte, please ask Lord Baelish, and Lord Willas to return."  She left, and summoned them.

"I want peace as much as you do.  Before I do, I plan to make a demonstration of my power, one I hope will bring the people of the capital to heel.  With my husband by my side, the rebels will see that they have no prospect of success.  My dragons will destroy an important target".

"Not the Great Sept" cried Jon, shocked.  Daenerys smiled, unpleasantly.  

"I'm very tempted, but no.  "

"The Grand Commandery, of the Warriors' Sons" suggested Baelish, a little smirk on his face.  "They've seized the armourers' guildhall for their own, on the Street of Steel.  It's not a sacred building. They boast of their prowess in war.  Let the world see that they are in fact - helpless. Let me show you on the map."

Yes, it seemed a good idea. But she could not help but feel a certain unease, for a reason she could not place, not lessened when Daenerys requested her to ride Drogon with her.

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Daenerys was woken by Sansa’s hand stroking her hair and face. The Northern beauty leaned over to kiss her on the lips. Jon was asleep, on the other side of her. The three shared a wide, four-poster bed, in her chambers.

"Promise me, you'll keep safe, today," whispered Sansa. Dany had been suspicious, to begin with, but it seemed the other woman really did love her. And she herself? She wasn't sure if it was in her nature to love anyone, anymore. She'd loved Missandei more than life, but now, she just felt numbed, jaded. When her daughter was murdered, a part of her had died. And all her life, she'd been trading her body for one political advantage or another. As Cersei put it, crudely but accurately, "There's a powerful weapon between your legs. Use it." She had. She knew she could pleasure a lover as skilfully as any courtesan of Braavos. Sansa might call herself a whore, when in reality she was just a hopeless romantic. She, Daenerys, was the true whore, the one who exacted a steep price in return for the pillow tricks she performed.

Still, she had developed a considerable affection for Lady Stark. Really, she was the cornerstone of their entire alliance. It was common for a man of their class, to wed one woman for political reasons, while being in love with another. Jon was the obvious example. He had at least provided her with an heir. Yet, it was strange to encounter a noble lady like Sansa, who loved both a man and another woman. Or women. Irri had fallen heavily for the Lady of the Trident. All their love lives were becoming very tangled, which was natural enough for a Targayen, but not, she had thought, for a Stark.

"I'll do my best. But ... there is always the risk of a stray arrow ..."

"Don't say that."

"I've had this conversation with Cersei."

"Vile bitch!” She was amused by the note of jealousy in Sansa's voice. She rose from the bed, naked as the day she was born, aware that her lover's gaze was riveted to her. She entered her bathchamber, and gave herself a quick scrub with a flannel. When she returned, Sansa got up out of the bed, and retrieved a silk scarf.

"Please, Dany, I want you to wear this, as a favour."  A favour.  Yes, Sansa did truly love her.  As did Cersei, and yes, Jelme had come to love her, even though they had wed for political gain on both sides. Quite why anyone would want to love her, as opposed to just wishing to fuck her, was hard to fathom. As hard to understand as why the Lord of Light had chosen her as his champion. But He had.

She tied the scarf around her neck, then dressed quickly, in leather breeches and jerkin. In her dressing room was a suit of black plate on a stand, fashioned to her shape. Maegelle helped to fit her into the armour. She picked up her helm, and returned to the bedchamber. Jon was awake now. "You're dressed to kill”, he remarked, rising and kissing her, as did Sansa. Then she left. In the great hall of the castle, Ygritte was waiting for her, clad in silver mail, and half helm. For a moment, she'd wondered who this handsome young officer was, before recognising her.

"You look like a goddess of war", she commented, smiling to see her friend blush. Ygritte really was quite striking. Jon had been a fool to send her away. They exited into the courtyard. It was still dark. Their intention was to reach the city at Dawn. A nightfire of R'hllor was burning, attended by the priestess and her acolytes. That disturbed Dany, for she was the very woman she'd seen in her dream. Her name was Kinvara. She had prayed fervently, to her God, that the world would not burn in her name. But what if He wills it?

"The Lord's blessings, your Grace", said the red woman. "He will welcome the souls you send him this day." The people she would kill, in other words. At least the target would be a military one. She couldn't guarantee that none of the smallfolk would die, but she hoped the number would tiny.

"My thanks, Madam." They continued on their way, leaving the castle, and coming to the spot where the dragons were chained, guarded by attendants. The beasts rose to their haunches as she approached, trumpeting their greetings. Hatched nine years ago, they were now formidable. A decade hence, they would be invincible. But, no rider is invincible.   She must ensure that her son would bond with one of them, and Ygritte's daughter, too.  She would hate it, but her daughter's destiny had to be her own.  They waited as the attendants saddled Drogon, before mounting him, and locking their chains. Slowly, he spread his wings, then flapped, before leaping into the air, followed by Rhaegal and Viserion. They rose into the air in spirals, gaining altitude, before flying slowly in the direction of the capital, eighty miles to the South. She'd received word that the vanguard of the Reach lords' army had reached the Kingswood. With any luck, this demonstration would send them scurrying back the way they'd come. Flying was exhilarating, provided there was no rain, and this was fine weather. Slightly warm, with little wind. Before long, she saw lights in the distance, the nightfires and lamps of the capital. Time now, to deliver the blow that would shatter resistance.

The Sun was up, by the time they reached the Blackwater, the shadows of the three dragons reflected in the river. They flew over the Mud Gate, perhaps a hundred feet beneath them. They were seen now. Men were pointing, and gesticulating up at them, and shouting, too, although she couldn't catch what they said. The Street of Steel led away from the Mud Gate, up to the Great Sept, easy to identify, and there it was, the armourers' guildhall. It was simple to hover above it, as the dragons unleashed their flames at close range. She heard screaming from the inside, as the windows melted, and the walls began to glow red. The building just seemed to melt inwards, as stone walls were changed to molten lava, and then the roof simply collapsed as the walls gave way. Great fires started, caused, she assumed, by the burning floors and joists. The heat was becoming increasingly unbearable. It was time to fly away, and she commanded Drogon to rise. Perhaps a couple of hundred feet in the air, she looked down again, viewing her handywork with considerable satisfaction. A clinical strike, one that targeted her enemies, without hurting the smallfolk of the city. That was when what was left of the building exploded in green flame, with a great rumble, and all hell was let loose.

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From A Great and Terrible Queen, the Life and Reign of Daenerys I, by Professor Linda Collins (The Citadel:  911 AC,  pp. 211 -216).

"Historians continue to debate the responsibility for the burning of Kings Landing, on the 11th day of the Month Without Gods, 307 AC. There are those who argue that this was a deliberate act of terror, conducted by Queen Daenerys, in revenge for the murder of her adoptive daughter, Missandei of Naath. Others point to the fact that her enemies, among the Warriors’ Sons, and the the Sparrows, had been stockpiling wildfire, for use as an offensive weapon against her, and this ignited, starting the fire that engulfed the city. Still others point to rumours that the Queen’s father, Aerys II, had stored caches of wildfire, across the city, which exploded in turn.

Nobody disputes that what followed was horrific. The explosion at the Armourer's Guildhall, which the Warrior's Sons had seized, seems to have killed everyone in the building, and many in the surrounds, leaving few to fight the fires. Thousands of wooden houses, shops, warehouses, and workshops, which ran down to Fishmongers' Square, and Muddy Way, provided fuel for the flames. It took several hours for the Guilds' firemen to arrive on the scene, by which time, whole districts were ablaze. Eye witness accounts recall that strong sea winds fanned the flames. They also tell of a great rushing sound, as the gale grew ever stronger, and the flames rose hundreds of feet into the air. Plainly, the heat of the blaze generated its own wind system, and created a firestorm. Any efforts to put out the conflagration, by drawing water from wells and pumps were by this stage, entirely futile, so the firemen resorted to pulling down buildings in the path of the flames to create firebreaks. Inevitably, this was resisted by some householders, who refused to leave their homes until the last possible moment.

The Queen was not idle, according to contemporaries. She had landed with her dragons at the Red Keep, which was safe from the fire, on Aegon's High Hill. Soldiers of the Palace's garrison were sent to assist the firemen in dismantling the structures in the fires' path, and she gave orders for her warships to ferry the inhabitants across the Blackwater, so they could take refuge in the Kingswood, which at that time, ran down to the left bank of the estuary. By early afternoon, on the first day, according to the diaries of Magister Hornlach of the Spicers, and Wisdom Hallayne, of the Guild of Pyromancers, there was hope that the fires might be contained. Sadly, further explosions occurred in the vicinity, erupting out of the very Street of Steel, according to some. It would seem that there were caches of wildfire contained in vaults and passages, underneath the road. From that point on, the fire was unstoppable, spreading towards the North of the City, over the course of the next 24 hours. The Pyrcomancers tried desperately to remove their stocks of wildfire, as their Hall lay in the path of the oncoming flames. But, in the end, they had to flee, and this building exploded in turn. Finally, the fire reached the wynds and rookeries of Flea Bottom, sweeping through the city's most extensive slum, so fast that many were unable to outrun the flames. Only the Great Sept of Baelor survived, isolated as it was on Queen Rhaenys' Hill, a miracle, according to the Sparrows. Matters were made much worse when the High Septon urged his followers to attack the royal soldiers, who were forced to retreat into the Red Keep. The fire raged for a third day before thankfully, a prolonged rainstorm damped it down. Perhaps 50,000 had been killed by that point, and two thirds of the city lay in ruins. Vast numbers were rendered homeless.

Wisdom Hallayne recounted that he had awoken in his chambers, to a sound like that of a great chest crashing to the ground. He lit a taper, but could see nothing. Then it struck him. The Warriors' Sons had confiscated vast stocks of wildfire from his Guild, intending to use it in their war against the Dragonwhore, as they liked to call her. The fools must have ignited it, despite his warnings. He hurriedly dressed, called for his servants, and ran out into the Street of Steel, making his way towards the Armourer's Guildhall.

"My worst fears were soon confirmed", he wrote.  "The Guildhall was no more, and in its place, was a maelstrom of green and orange flame.  Far worse, the surrounding buildings, constructed mostly of wood, were burning fiercely. Ahead of me, I could see only fire - everything green and orange, like a furnace.  An intense heat struck me.  A burning beam fell in front of my feet.  I shied back, but then, when I was ready to jump over it, it was whirled away, as if by a ghostly hand.  I ran back towards the Pyromancers' Hall, and I had a feeling that I was being carried along by the storm.  By the time I returned, my fellows were awake, and I set them to rounding up the leaders of the guilds, and the firemen... Later I was to witness far much worse than this.  My fellows and I had been attempting to remove our remaining stocks of wildfire, but in the end, our efforts proved in vain, and we were obliged to flee, leaving the Hall to explode in the gathering storm. Great gouts of fire flew through the howling winds, turning men into living torches, and the force of the gales even uprooted trees.  With my very eyes, I saw men and women trapped in cobbled streets, where the tar had melted.  Their feet had got trapped and then they had put out their hands to try to get out again.  They were on their hands and knees, screaming. ... Later, when the rains came, and I returned to the scene, I saw their corpses, blackened and shrivelled. Some were lying in a mass of melted body fat. May the Seven have mercy upon them."

After the fire, Magister Hornlach encountered "a deathly quiet. Here, there were no people searching for their belongings, for here, too, the people were lying burned in the remains of their own homes. Here the street was no longer passable. The houses had been levelled. Everywhere I cast my eye: a field or ruins, as still as death ... you can see the charred bodies, lying all over the street."

In the aftermath of the conflagration, the hatred of the city's population for the Queen, already inflamed by the preaching of the Sparrows, reached new heights.  Attempts were made to storm the Red Keep, and although they were repelled, she was reluctant to unleash dragonfire on the ruined city.  So, she and her followers were obliged to evacuate the capital, and return to her army at Rosby.  The course was now set for war.

;________________________________________________

Ser Garlan Tyrell was encamped in the Kingswood, when he was wakened by a loud bang.  He was resting with twenty of his outriders.  Orhan's head was kept in his saddle bag.  It had been preserved in salt, although to be honest, it still stank.  He had encountered the man's corpse in a village in the Red Mountains.  It was plain that he had taken his own life, after being abandoned by his own men, who had, sadly, made their escape.  His headless body had been fed to pigs.  Then he had ridden hard for the main army, now approaching the Kingswood.  Most of his men had also been wakened, and they all spent a tense night, wondering what had happened.  Within hours, the sky was darkened by smoke, and they could even smell it.  He feared that the city was burning.  Before long, they encountered crowds of men, women, and children, fleeing into the forest, who brought horrid tales, of dragonfire and murder.  By all the dead, Daenerys Targaryen was an evil woman, who roasted the capital's people alive, for her own amusement.  But then, it was on a par with what he'd heard, of nobles of great families being nailed alive to posts in Eastern cities;  of men being trampled by elephants.  Baseborn churls though most of the victims were, there were still men and women of quality, who would have perished in Kings Landing's fires.  Yes, he thought, as he rode back to the army, that bitch must die, publicly and slowly, and her head exhibited next to that of her vile step-son. 

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"What happened, your Grace?" Jon was standing, in the royal pavilion, in the heart of the army camp, awaiting her, as she entered.  Servants brought wine and sweetmeats.  Daenerys had earlier gone to bathe.  With him, were Ygritte, Sansa, Lady Irri, Lord Willas, the Red Priestess, Kinvara,  Grey Worm and other senior officers, and the revolting Lord of the Vale, Harrold Hardyng, who had brought them a detachment of men from that region, along with his big-bosomed wife, Lady Myranda, whom he had recently wed. He'd happily gut the man, who openly ogled, and flirted with, Sansa, much to Myranda's amusement, and Sansa's apparent enjoyment.  He felt a sudden flare of jealousy.  He rather suspected that Sansa liked that.  "I know he's a turd", she'd told him, "but few men can use their tongue as well as he does.  Fortunately for me, you're one of them." Prior to his wife’s return, awful rumours had reached Jon, that she had burned the city to the ground. Was Daenrrys truly capable of such a thing? He very much suspected that the answer to that question was "Yes." The thought of women and children being consumed by flames filled him with dread.

"They brought their fate on themselves, Jon", Sansa had told him, when they had discussed the matter. And, hadn't Sansa changed? Once, and not too long ago, she had loathed and distrusted Daenerys. Now, she adored her. And yet, there was truth in that. He should have killed that vicious bastard of a High Septon! I was given a task, to hold the city, in my wife's absence, and I failed.  He had underestimated the degree of hate that some of the Faith held towards her, and that of the lords towards her reforms.

His wife was dressed in a turquoise silk deel, the garment of the Dothraki, her hair braided.   "I did as I had planned. I flew to city.  The Armourers' Guildhall was easily identified, and I destroyed it. And then, it exploded in green flame. There are reports that the Warriors' Sons had stockpiled wildfire in the cellars.  However, I doubt if anyone was left alive in that building. The fires took hold across the city. Perhaps two thirds of the capital is now in ashes." She said it as if she were discussing the weather. He had never felt more distant from her.

"Shouldn't we be organising food and shelter, for the people?"

"We tried to help them. My ships offered them transport across the estuary, and my soldiers tried to assist the firemen.  Our reward was to be attacked by the Sparrows and their followers, who then tried to storm the Red Keep. No doubt, it's been thoroughly looted by now. I evacuated the city, with my remaining forces, before flying back. So, I think any efforts to help, on our part would be futile. Besides, in its present condition, the city is of no military value. Let the Sparrows and the rebels have the joy of it. But, first things first, Ygritte, bring Lord Baelish here, under guard. " He'd wondered why the man was absent. His former lover gave a nasty smile at that, and left.

They discussed the military situation for a while. The army, now comprising thirty thousands, would march in two days' time. Then Ygritte returned, bringing Petyr Baelish, and four guards.

"Your Grace", he began, "I am at a loss to understand why I have been brought here under guard."

"My lord", replied Daenerys, "you will recall that you advised me to strike at the Armourers' Guildhall. A pity you neglected to inform me that it was packed with wildfire. Thanks to you, two thirds of the city now lies in ruins, and thousands have perished."

"Your Grace, I knew nothing of that, I promise you! I gave you my advice, in good faith! If ... the Warriors' Sons were storing wildfire, why surely, they are to blame, not I?" Damn him, the man actually sounded sincere. Perhaps he was innocent, but ...

"The trouble is, you've lied so often, Petyr, that why should any of us believe you now?" It was Sansa who had spoken.

"What lies have I ever told, my lady?"

"You murdered my aunt, Lady Lysa Arryn, and then you told the Lords of the Vale that a young man in her service, Marillion, had done the deed out of jealousy. He was blinded, and tortured, into making that confession."

"He did murder her! You corroborated that before the Vale Lords."

"Petyr, I was a girl of fifteen years. I was in your power. You had threatened me, made me pretend to be your natural daughter, Alayne Stone, and warned me that if I was discovered, I would be returned to the capital to be tortured and burned for regicide. You made it clear that I, along with Lord Tyrion Lannister, were the prime suspects for the murder of the usurper, Joffrey Waters. A murder, which you orchestrated. I had to support your lie.” Sansa had told him of this, and yes, she must have told Daenerys. This must be a thing already decided. He glanced at the Lord of the Vale and his wife, who were staring intently at Baelish. Lord Harrold glanced at Sansa and nodded significantly. Yes. Does Baelish yet know that he is a living dead man, and the cyvasse pieces already played.  The Master of Coin shook his head, before then responding.

"Very well, yes I killed her.  And, I did it to protect you.  She had tried to murder you, remember.  Your Grace, yes, I lied. I had to lie.  I killed Lady Arryn, to protect Lady Sansa.  It is no crime to kill, in order to protect an innocent."

"You protected me?  Did that include raping me, as well?  And, handing me to Ramsay Bolton to be raped and tortured in turn."

"Rape you?  I did no such thing."

"Oh, daddy, I love your cock", he heard her say, in a little girl's voice.  "I love its taste.  I love the feel of it in my mouth.  Please, come in my mouth."  This was new.  All she'd ever told him was that Baelish "took liberties."  

"Lady Sansa, you do not need to give details about what was done to you," said Daenerys. "Lord Baelish, do you deny that you raped Lady Sansa?"

 "I deny it absolutely! Yes, we were intimate, and Lady Sansa was entirely willing. "

"A girl in her fifteenth year", said Jon. "A girl who was entirely in your power." He'd happily gut this pervert. He could see the man beginning to panic.

"I don't know what this is all about", he snapped. "There is no truth in any of these accusations, and you have no proof for any of it. And, you need me, your Grace, you need the Vale. Without our power, you cannot hope to prevail."

"No proof you say", remarked Myranda Royce sweetly. "My lord husband and I have brought proof. Ser Lyn Corbray was reluctant to part with that proof, so he parted with his head, instead." She rose, and curtsied to the Queen, and left. A short while later, she returned with a pair of servants, who led a young man between them. The man had clearly been blinded. "Kneel before the Queen", remarked Myranda. He did so.

"Your Grace, my name is Marillion. I was a minstrel, in service to Lady Lysa Arryn. Lady Lysa was jealous of Lady Alayne... your pardon, Lady Sansa ... believing that she wished to seduce her husband. She tried to throw her through the Moon Door at the Eyrie, and I ... forgive me, I played my lute so that Lady Sansa's screams would not be heard. I, I had no choice. But, then Lord Baelish threw Lady Arryn through the Door. He had subdued her, and she was no danger to Lady Sansa, by then. I was taken, and tormented. My fingers were snapped, my eyes put out ... and ... I was used as a woman, by Ser Lyn Corbray, who served Lord Baelish. I was promised my life if I would lie to the Lords of the Vale, which I did. Then, I was given to Ser Corbray, for his pleasure. I had to answer to the name "Ellaria", and wear dresses and ladies' smallclothes. And ... I had to pleasure him.  Your Grace, I ask only for a quick death, without torment." Sansa had told him some of this, and it was sickening. Marillion deserved death, for certain, but not what had been inflicted on him.

"Lies, all of it. And in any event, I am a peer of the Seven Kingdoms. I am entitled to a trial. Not whatever this farce is." Daenerys responded.

"Ah, but you forget, Lord Baelish, we are at war. You are subject to military law, so my Lord Tyrell informs me. For that purpose, the Sirdar, and senior officers of the army have been brought to determine your guilt or innocence. I am willing to leave the decision in their hands. By all means, put your case to them."

He blustered, pleaded, insisted upon his innocence, that Lady Sansa, and Marillion were liars, until Grey Worm cut him off.

"You are guilty, Lord Baelish. " The other officers swiftly concurred.

"Lord Harrold" said Daenerys, "you are the lord of the Vale. Do you concur?"

"Entirely, your Grace. I should add that a subject who murders his liege is a traitor, and merits a traitor's death. I beg your Grace, that he be impaled." The man owed everything to Littlefinger, yet turned upon him with casual cruelty.  You reap as you sow.

"And, Marillion?"

It was Sansa who spoke. "Your Grace, Lord Harrold, this man did me grave wrong, yet, I believe he has atoned. I would ask that you spare him, and keep him in your service."  This of course, has already been determined.  

"Your Grace?" Daenerys asked Jon.

"I agree entirely, your Grace."  Baelish was dragged from the pavilion.  Before too long, his screams could be heard across the camp, as a blunt, greased, pole, was hammered up his arse.

Chapter Text

"Do you think he's still alive?" asked the Lord of the Vale. Sansa knew of whom he spoke. Littlefinger, whom they'd left behind, still feebly stirring on his pole, a couple of days ago. She smiled. She'd made a point of saying farewell to Lord Petyr Baelish, before they rode away. "Please Sansa," he'd gasped out. "You know ... I always loved you." She'd leaned over, and spat full in his face. "Make sure to feed and water him", she'd told the grinning guards.

"That fucking bastard", remarked Ros, who was massaging her shoulders, most effectively. "Sorry, m’lord, m’lady, I shouldn't of swore." There was something very comforting about the feel of the gorgeous whore's ample tits, pressed against her back, as her hands went to work on her neckbones.

The three of them were relaxing in the bath at Hayford castle, after an hour of vigorous sex. Harrold had approached her, with a plan to destroy Baelish for good, when he arrived at the camp in Rosby. He'd killed Lyn Corbray, and had taken Marillion, who would give evidence against him. She in turn, had approached the Queen, who it seemed, was planning to dispose of her Master of Coin. That was before the attack on the city, which had turned so sour. She suspected that the man had actually been innocent of treason, but there had been much else to pin on him. Of course, there was a price to be paid. The Vale Lord expected her to reward him with her body. But, he'd promised her "a surprise." The surprise had been Ros, the Winterfell whore. A most welcome surprise, it must be said!

"What do you know of him, sweetling?"

"'e wanted me to work for 'im. But, in my line of work, yer get a sense - when a man is a danger." Plainly, she was perceptive, for one of the smallfolk. " I asked around about 'im."

"And you heard dreadful tales?"

"Oh Gods, yes, m'lady. They say, " and here she lowered her voice, "that the usurper, Joffrey Baseborn, 'e liked to torture and kill girls, and that bastard found them for 'im."  She had not heard that particular tale, but it didn't surprise her.

"Joffrey was a very evil man. And, Littlefinger poisoned him. "

"Not the Imp of Lannister?" 

"No.  And, you will never make such a claim, upon peril of your life."  She turned around to give Ros a very hard stare.   The other dropped her eyes, before saying "I'm sorry, m'lady."  In truth, she doubted if many cared, but she had no desire for rumours to be spread about a certain amethyst hairnet.  She knew that a grieving mother still lived in Meereen, one who would be only too happy to renew their acquaintance, should Sansa ever fall out of favour with the Queen.

 She kissed her on the lips. "You weren't to know. Just don't ever speak of it." She'd remembered Ros, of course. Theon Greyjoy had often made use of her. It turned out, she'd even paid old Maester Luwin to give her lessons in reading. She reminded Sansa of an idyllic past, when her family still lived, and life was a round of dancing, singing, and Arya putting goatshit in her bed. A time before Sansa had become evil. She would rather not murder Ros, unless it proved absolutely necessary.

"You may leave us now, Ros", said Sansa. "Collect your fee as you go." Ros climbed out of the bath, and Gods, her body was so perfect! She'd have to renew their acquaintance, before too long. Perhaps introduce Jon and the Queen to her. For that matter, she might even keep her as a mistress. The life of a whore was a dangerous one, and she’d surely welcome a safe place in her service. The young woman dried herself off, before putting her dress back on, and going to collect her purse, which lay on a small table. "M'lord and lady, you're generous!" she remarked.

"I'm paying you once, for your services, and again, for your discretion. Loose lips sink whores, remember," said Harrold.

"Of course, m'lord".

"I'd no idea there was a history between you", he said, after Ros had left the bathchamber.

"It's a small world. I was married to the Imp, who Ros once claimed was "very good with his tongue". He and I were both framed for Joffrey's murder, by the man who we last saw riding a pole. That man did unspeakable things to the whores that he ... let's tell it as it is - he owned them. "

"Well, she seemed to think you were pretty good with your tongue, as I can attest... I don't think she was faking it. Whores? Does anyone even care if they live or die? What kind of person sinks so low as to sell their body for coin?" It was easy to forget how hateful this man was, he was so handsome, until he made such remarks.

"A desperate one, Harrold. Do you think, if you or I were starving, we'd scruple to do the same? " The man simply smirked. A sudden thought struck her. "You aren't to harm her. You understand? Nor Marillion?"

"You care about him, a man who tried to rape you?"

"I've done many terrible things in my life.  I don't want to add to the weight of my sins.  I am a friend of the Queen, and she won't overlook it, if either comes to harm."

"Well, it's no matter to me.  Anyway, I must bid you farewell.  I must ride out with the King, to patrol for the enemy.  Farewell, for the nonce."  He climbed out of the bath.  In its way, he had a body as beautiful as Ros', but unlike her, a heart that was rotten to the core.

Chapter Text

While his horse plodded along, under the hot Sun, Jon turned his mind to recent events, as he sweated in his brigandine. Littlefinger's downfall had been a joy to behold, although he wished that Sansa had alerted him beforehand, rather than keeping him out of the loop. Well, maybe not. He could accept her love affairs with Dany and Irri - he found them arousing, in truth. But, Harrold fucking Hardyng was another matter! She'd said that screwing him was just a part of the plot to bring down Baelish, but what if she actually enjoyed it? The thought gnawed at him. That bastard rode alongside him, smirking. On his left, rode the Prince Khosrou, whose own tastes plainly ran in another direction.

"There's a boy across the stream,

With a bottom like a peach,

But the water level's rising,

and alas!  I cannot swim"

sang the Prince, softly. Plainly, R'hllor was broad-minded, as far as his followers' love lives were concerned. For that matter, Sansa was still nagging about wanting to watch him fuck a good-looking young man. Khosrou, honestly, was far better company than Hardyng, with all kinds of interesting tales from the Far East.

His thoughts turned to his last conversation with Dany about the war. She was adamant that no mercy would be shown to the enemy leaders, nor could any resources be spared for the people of Kings Landing, at this stage. Winning the war took priority. Achieve victory, and then they could turn their attention to helping the people of the city. Of course, most of them might well be dead by that point. “Their fate is in the hands of the Lord of Light, Jon”, a notion which worried him profoundly. A man or woman might commit any enormity with a clear conscience, if they believed it to be a god’s will. Dany had told him of her dream, a vision of a terrible future. He would never tell her of the vision that the Red Woman had given him, which was similar, but also different. Was he destined, as Melisandre had claimed, to murder the mother of his son, with a knife through the heart, and rule with Sansa as his queen?

He was to be a father, three times over. Ygritte, of course, despised him. Doubtless, she’d raise her daughter to hate him. He had given Dany an heir. He wondered if that was all that had kept him alive, rather than being put to death as a traitor. Although they shared a bed, there was little affection between him and Daenerys. Sansa, he knew, adored the pair of them. And, she’d give birth to his third child, the heir to Riverrun.

They were perhaps thirty miles West of Hayford Castle, returning from a patrol in the direction of Blackwater Rush, having camped out overnight. He had fifty troopers with him, guards cavalry mostly, and a handful of Dothraki. He knew the enemy were close by. They had spotted scouts and outriders, who had galloped away at their approach, save for one, who had been too slow. When put to the question, he'd insisted that the main body of the army was advancing up the Blackwater valley, not towards the city, as they knew it to be in ruins. Dany could fly in that direction later, to verify the man's story. They’d hanged him to a tree, before turning back. The villages he'd ridden through had all been deserted. People had fled from the vicinity, fearing the soldiers of both sides.

There was a ravine, perhaps a mile ahead, running from the North, across their way. He heard a sudden shout from ahead. One of the men riding point was wheeling his mount. The ends of his cloak gathered in his right hand, he waved them above his head.  Enemy to Hand.

"Close up.  Battle Order" he shouted, hearing men fastening their helms, and drawing their weapons. He drew his own sword, an eastern blade called a tulwar, much favoured by Daenerys' cavalry, more so than the straight swords used in the Seven Kingdoms. It was honed to a razor’s edge. He scanned the terrain.  They had to be in the ravine.  There was no other cover in sight.  He recalled there was a shallow brook running along the bottom of it.  The ravine was steep-sided, but neither wide nor deep.  How many riders might be hidden in it?

He had the answer.  Behind the scout, galloping back to the main body of horse,  came perhaps fifty riders, over the lip of the watercourse, bearing the trappings of the Warriors' Sons, black cloaks with the Seven-Pointed Star, in white. They were a couple of hundred yards away.  Suddenly, Hardyng gave a shout.  "To the right!"  More of the enemy, perhaps a hundred of them, nearly half a mile away.  Only one thing to do.

"Form a wedge on me."  Hardyng moved up on his right knee, Prince Khosrou on his left.  Relying on Harding, to save my life.   If he were captured, they'd probably give him a choice between commanding the rebellion, or being burned at the stake.  “Now charge, hit them hard, then ride for our lines”, he commanded. Jon kicked on, without looking round. It was every man for himself, now. The Warriors' Sons were almost upon them now, lightly armoured, blades drawn. They were good horsemen, he could tell. The first came at him from the left, sword cutting at his neck. Guiding the horse with his thighs, and with both hands on his blade, Jon blocked the strike, being jolted back in his stirrups. The high back of his saddle held him. Fall from your horse, of course, and it was over for you. Khosrou’s mount barrelled into that of his attacker, sending man and horse sprawling.

More Warriors' Sons were emerging from the ravine, forming up on the far side, under their commander. "Close up!" Jon shouted, getting his horse in order. They were nearly at the ravine. There was nothing for it. They had to cross if they wanted to make it back to the army. "They're only rabble, they'll break", shouted Jon, Not that he believed his own words. "Thrust at their faces". The enemy wore half-helms, as did he and his troopers. Above the thunder of hooves, some of the troopers yelled "Daenerys, the White Flame!"  

From the enemy came back a roar, "The Faith!"  as they brandished their weapons. As the drop loomed, so Jon gave his horse its head, urging it to make the leap. The ground fell away, and he leaned back in his saddle. As they landed, so an awful shock ran up his back, His horse stumbled, but righted itself. Then, he was splashing through the brook, and preparing to mount the slope on the far side. Jon stretched down, over his horse's head, clutching its mane.  Loose stones shot out from under its hooves, and then, it thrust its way up the opposite bank, before they collided with one of the enemy at the top.  He parried a blade thrust at him from his right, before lashing out.  A glancing blow struck his helm, making his head ring.  He fended off a cut from his left, but his attacker had left his right army exposed, and Jon took it off at the elbow, his blade cutting like a knife through butter.  Hardyng finished the man, and then Khorsou was on his left, driving his blade into his enemy's eyes. More of his men came up out of the ravine, and by brute butchery, they drove a path through their enemies. Then another horse, crashed into the melee, toppling Hardyng. A clumsy swordsman aimed a sweep at his head, which Jon ducked, before driving his sword into the man's armpit.

"On for Hayford," he shouted, as his riders pressed forward. Glancing about him, perhaps two thirds had survived. Hardyng was now on his feet, ringed by the enemy. Jon smiled. Just sometimes, the Gods were good.

Chapter Text

Oh Gods, oh Gods. Lord Harold knew now that he faced a terrible end, as he passed through the Lion Gate of the city, bound, with the three other prisoners, in a cart. The city stank of burning, and the scenes of devastation were beyond belief. Whole districts had been razed. Everywhere, there were burned gable ends, and the remains of chimneys. Here and there, a building of stone or brick, had at least partially survived the conflagration. It was a week since he had been taken captive.

Crowds of destitute people screamed their hatred for him and the others, pelting them with shit and refuse. He cowered down, hoping to avoid the worst. His world had constricted to an entire population shrieking for his death.

The fall from his horse had hurt him, but had left him only bruised, so far as he could tell. He'd not been unduly concerned when the Warrior's Sons had taken him prisoner. They were men of knightly birth, at least, and knights treated each other, if not the smallfolk, with chivalry. Usually. He'd offered his gauntlet to their leader, who identified himseslf as Ser John Molay of Ashford, and in turn, the man had accepted his surrender, and his pledge of honour that he would not attempt to escape. They'd disarmed him, but allowed him to remount his horse, and ride with them to their encampment. Yes, his horse, weapons, and armour would be forfeit to his captors, and no doubt Myranda would have to fork out a hefty ransom, typically a year's income, but there were much worse fates. He could have been killed in the fighting. As he rode, he wondered how to pay back that fucking bastard, Jon Snow, or Aemon Targaryen, for leaving him in the lurch, like that. First, he'd resume fucking Lady Sansa. He had a strong suspicion that she liked to join both the King and the Queen in their bed. But, she hungered for Harrold's cock, he knew full well. Next, he'd make a play for the Queen, a woman with the appetites of a whore, by all account. He'd smiled at thought of making Jon a double cuckold. Then, when the chance arose, he'd pay him back with a knife between the shoulder blades. He knew himself to be a skilled player of the Game of Thrones. Bloody Baelish had thought he could rule the Vale forever, with Harrold as his catspaw. He'd disabused him of that idea.

They had ridden, perhaps a dozen miles, in the direction of Blackwater Rush. Three other captives rode with them. As ordinary troopers, their hands had been fettered. They might, or might not, be ransomed, but that was of little concern. Eventually, he saw the river in the distance, and they began to descend. It had beendusk, when they entered the Warriors' encampment.

"Ser John", he'd called out, "a bath would be most welcome, and then perhaps, we could discuss the terms of my parole."

"Of course, my lord", replied the other. "Perhaps you would do me the honour of dining with me, tonight." He nodded.

He and his captor had dined well, together. Ser John's servants provided venison, and a variety of sweetmeats, accompanied by a succession of fine wines, as they talked.

"Have you considered changing sides?' Ser John had asked him, eventually. Now that was an idea, although it would mean foregoing the pleasures of Sansa's body and the Queen's. Not to mention, he'd face a traitor's end, if he were recaptured.

"Is that even an option?"

"We'd have to ask Ser Bonnifer, but I don't see why not. " Ser Bonnifer. The Grand Commander. A man of minor nobility. "Other than that, I think you'll have to wait until the enemy take a prisoner of equivalent rank, to be ransomed. The Lord of the Vale has few peers, among our ranks." That was true, of course, but honestly, comfortable captivity, until hostilities ceased, might be the very best option. If the Queen prevailed, she could hardly blame him for being taken prisoner. If the rebels prevailed, Myranda would pay up, and he'd return to the Vale. "Ser Bonnifer returns on the 'morrow. I'll ask him."

The 'morrow had brought him unwelcome news. He had been awakened in his tent, by a loud commotion. Ser John was arguing with another, outside his tent, before two rough-looking serjeants entered , and dragged him out by his arms, thowing him down in front of a grim old man, with a salt and pepper beard, seated on a charger.

"My lord, this is Ser Harrold Hardng, Lord of the Vale, a man of the highest birth", protested Ser John,

"A man who serves a pestilential whore. An enemy to the Gods. Throw this pig in with the rest of the herd. Let him face the judgement of His High Holiness." And, so they had bound him, and placed him in a cart with the others. The indignity of it had angered him.

"You betray your own kind, Ser Bonnifer", he'd called out, only for one of the serjeants to punch him in the mouth. They'd been led away from the encampment, down the river valley, and so to the city. He had been fed stale bread and water, with the others, and forced to relieve himself in the cart. By the time they reached the city, they were bearded and filthy. But, that was only the beginning of his suffering. By the time they reached what remained of the Square of Baelor, the Great Sept still dominating it from Visenya's Hill, he was black with filth. The four were dragged out of the cart, and thrown to the ground. There was a sound of chanting, as a procession of the Most Devout descended. In their centre, walked a barefoot man, clad only in sackcloth, before whom the people knelt. That could only be the High Sparrow.

He stared down at them, with withering contempt, before turning to the assembled crowd. "These men are enemies to the Seven, and the Father demands they face judgement accordingly. They have chosen to side with the Dragonwhore and the Eastern Demon and its followers. They merit a thousand deaths, and the flames of hell. Yet, as the Father is a stern, just, judge, so the Mother seeks mercy, for all of her children. Let them atone for their crimes, by taking service with the holy army of the Faith!" There was distinctly muted applause from the crowd, at that, but Lord Harrold's heart soared. Thank all the Gods, a reprieve.  He heard the others muttering their gratitude.

"But, for the ringleader, the man who led the common soldiers into sin, there can be no mercy!"  And at that, a great roar went up from the onlookers.  

"No, your holiness!  I'll fight for you, I promise I will!" he yelled.  The man simply stared down at him in disdain.  Rough hands grasped him under the armpits, and dragged him up the stone stairs, and before him, he saw the horror that awaited. A great fire blazed , and resting above it, on a tripod, sat a huge cauldron of black iron, water bubbling away as it boiled. He screamed, pleaded, cursed, fought as he was dragged towards it. And then, he could think of little more as he was hoisted into the air, and flung into its boiling depths.

Chapter Text

"I think you might have saved my life, Ygritte." Arianne Martell sat with her, in the chamber allocated to her and Gilly, as she nursed her daughter, as yet unnamed. The girl would have to reach her second birthday before she received her name. That was the rule among her people. Dany harboured no real hatred for the fallen Queen. But, she was at a loss to know what to do with her.

"Myrcella would never've gone through with it. She's too sweet. My view is, she should be the septa, not you."

"I suppose I'm not cut out for it. And ... well, they wanted to burn me alive, for being a wanton. I've led a shameless life."

"Perhaps, It's a sign from the Gods", said Gilly. "They don't want you to take vows."

"So, then what? Will the Queen execute me, after all ? It would be the safest course for her." She saw Arianne shudder. "I saw Baelish on his pole. I sometimes wonder if I'm next. If I have to die, I'd want it to be quick at least." This was becoming quite depressing.

"Baelish was a cunt. A rapist and murderer. I don't know what yer've done, but I'm sure it's nothing like that."

"Innocents have died because of me, even if I never wanted it. I stood by when poor Tommen, and Margaery and her ladies were burned alive. Oh Gods, I promised them all their lives when I took the city, and then I failed them."

"These are the times", replied Ygritte. "But, I've got ter be honest, my lady, when this is over and done, the Queen'll probably send yer a long way from 'ere." Arianne gave a brief burst of laughter.

"Sharing a manse with Cersei Lannister? We'd probably kill each other, unless she seduced me first." There was a gleam in the Dornishwoman's eye, before she remarked, "I've heard all kinds of saucy rumours about Cersei and the Queen. And Lady Stark, for that matter. Not that it would raise an eyebrow in Dorne, but the ladies North of the Red Mountains are supposed to be chaste and pure." For that matter, Ygritte thought Arianne’s gaze had lingered on her tits just a little bit longer than was needful.

"You don't believe that, do you, my lady?" remarked Gilly. "As far as I can tell, the nobles of this country say one thing in public, and do something completely different in their bedchambers. I've read about Queen Rhaena. She kept a collection of women at Dragonstone, who were all her paramours. And Laenor Velaryon was just as fond of other men as his wife was." Gilly had read widely about the history of the Seven Kingdoms. She’d nagged Ygritte for a while about the need to learn to read, so finally, she’d given in, and let her start to teach her. Gilly’d also begun to sound like a Southron highborn, in the way she spoke.

"Margaery Tyrell's brother, too by all accounts", said Arianne. "The amount of time he spent "praying" with Renly Baratheon, his arse must have been gaping like a cistern, by the end of it." They burst out laughing.

"Lord Willas?" asked Ygritte. She'd never have thought it.

"There was another brother, Ser Loras. He died at Dragonstone. I thought he was gorgeous, the one time I saw him, and so did every other woman there. But, we weren't his type.”

Ygritte finished giving suck, and wiped herself clean, before buttoning her jerkin. "Well, I guess we 'ave to go an' show our support for the happy couple."

"A bigamous wedding", said Arianne. " I know what the Sparrows would have to say about that. Whichever septon they managed to find to perform the ceremony, must have been well-bribed."

”Thank all the Gods I’m excused” said Gilly, with some feeling. At least Ygritte didn’t have to dress up. Even when not on duty, she wore gear that was best suited to a fight and carried her knives with her. A bodyguard always had to stay alert. She and Arianne made their way to the castle's Great Hall. The Sept was tiny, and only a handful had attended the wedding ceremony for Jon Snow and Lady Stark, but there were perhaps a hundred gathered for the feast. She was seated on the left hand table to the high table, called the First Mess. Lady Arianne was seated on the right. Both of them were places of honour. She stared up at Lady Stark. She looked ... like a goddess, is the only way she could describe her. She was wearing a green silk gown, exposing a generous amount of bosom, with her hair coiled up in a wonderful pattern. A small tiara - was that the right word? Ygritte thought it was, but she'd ask Gilly afterwards - crowned her brow. Ygritte had no interest in other women, but looking up at the pair seated together, she could see how she and the Queen might desire each other. And Jon of course. She couldn't deny that he was handsome, nor that he was good beneath the blankets.

Bastard.

She loved the Queen, and was coming, a bit, to like Sansa. But it was queer, for a certainty, that both women should be fucking a man who was their close kin. Her own people saw such unions as monstrous. So did many of the kneelers, too, for that matter. Before long, her own daughter would have maybe a brother and sister. Would Dany want to wed her son to Ygritte’s daughter? The thought of it made her gorge rise. That, she would never agree to. A voice broke in upon her thoughts.

"The Red Spear. An honour to be seated next to you.” It was Prince Khosrou.

”Yer ‘ad a narrow escape, I ‘eard.”

"Yes, indeed." He went on to describe the ambush, praising in particular, Jon's courage and abilities as a leader. As far as she could tell, Jon had done what any good chief would do in his position. "Alas, we had no choice but to ride on, after Lord Hardyng lost his mount. But, Lady Myranda is not pleased." He nodded in the direction of the woman, who sat on the table opposite. She certainly looked like she'd just swallowed a wasp, glaring up at Jon Snow from time to time.

"I guess he'll be treated alright. He's highborn." The Prince made to pour her a glass of wine. "Just a bit", she remarked. "It's lovely, but I don't want it going to my 'ead."

"You've got a bastard of a reputation. If you drink too much, will you start killing us?' he asked, smiling.

"Far worse than that. I might start singing." He burst out laughing. The fare was excellent. She also talked to Grey Worm who was seated on her left. He expected a major battle within days. The Queen had flown West, and confirmed the reports that the enemy were advancing up the valley of Blackwater Rush. That would give them the option either to turn East, or to advance into the Riverlands, where the situation was now truly dangerous. "Riverrun is under siege", he explained. "I've only just heard, even Lady Stark doesn't yet know of it. If it falls, it will block the advance of our allies in the West. The Blackwoods remain true, as is Lord Mooton, but most of the Lords of the Trident are in revolt. Malazza can hold the Twins, and other strongholds, but she hasn’t the men to crush the rebels. We need to destroy the Reach’s army.

Well, that news would spoil Lady Sansa's wedding night for certain. The Queen was more worried than she let on, too. There were lines on her face that hadn't been there, the first time they met. She'd offered her enemies the hand of peace and friendship and had it dashed aside. In the end, it always came down to the cold, hard, steel. And fire of course. The people of Kings Landing had brought their fate on themselves. She witnessed awful scenes there, but whatever pity she'd felt had dried up once they started attacking the soldiers. It was past time the lords suffered the same.

Chapter Text

It was drizzling steadily, as Jhiqui rode underneath the two bronze horses, the entrance to Vaes Dothrak. She shivered in the wind and rain, and pulled her furs up around her. Like all of her people, she could ride fast, and it had taken them a little more than a fortnight to reach the sacred city of her people, from Meereen. She had come to purchase mounts on behalf of the city's garrison, and there were few who knew horseflesh better than she did. Behind her in the city, she'd left her husband Rakharo, and their two boys. She remembered arguing over him with Irri, years back, in Daznak's Pit. That was before her sister had worked out that she far preferred sharing her bed with other women, rather than with men. Jhiqui could have told Irri that, well in advance of her finally discovering it. She and the khaleesi had scarce kept their hands off each other. Her sister's marriage to the Shavepate had been entered into, solely in order to conceive a child, and it had, not uncoincidentally, left her the richest widow in Meereen. Her most recent letter from Irri, received just before she left, had detailed the revolts that raged in the Sunset Lands. And then, she'd written of a stunningly beautiful noblewoman, who possessed hair of beaten copper, and a heart of gold, for whom she had fallen. Well, good luck to them both.

Vaes Dothrak held bad memories for her. It brought back the time in her life when that animal, Drogo, and his bloodriders, had raped her, her sister, and poor, sweet Doreah, in every orifice. They and Daenerys had been made to pleasure one another, for the brute’s amusement, too. She’d thought she’d hate his silver bride, before she discovered the kindness in her nature. Doreah had sickened in the Red Waste, and died in the khaleesi's arms. She paid a shaman to perform rituals for Doreah's soul, every anniversary of her death. He assured her, she rode through the Nightlands, as part of the Great Stallion's khalasar. It didn't take Jhiqui long to realise there was a real tension in the city. People walked about with heads downcast, avoiding eye contact.

She rode up to the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen. And, there she saw them, at the entrance to the Temple; six, black, horsetail standards, the call to war among her people. Something had happened.  She knew that the khaleesi had faced war and revolt in the savage West.  In recent months, the Red Clergy had proclaimed a holy war against her enemies, and thousands of followers of the Lord of Light were joining the fight.  She had written to the Khagan, Jelme, urging him to send his riders West, only to be informed that the khaleesi had said she had men sufficient to crush her enemies.  He had sent reinforcements, but he had enemies in the East, too.  He could not let the realms he governed as regent go up in flames.  But, now, all was changed.  She wondered what.  She found out once she dismounted, and entered the Temple.  A fire burned in a pit, in the centre of the building, which smelled of wood smoke and incense. The reverend mothers of the Dosh Khalleen were filing in, and before them stood a man she recognised, Khal Barchuk, the Khagan's eldest son, to whom had been given the ancestral lands around the Silver Sea.  He was surrounded by his kos, and bloodriders, as well as members of other khalasars not all of whom owed allegiance to Jelme.  She joined him, and then heard the news that sickened her.

"Princess Missandei has been murdered, Lady Jhiqui.  The so-called "holy men" did it.  A young girl!"  She felt first numb, then cold with fury.  More than once, she'd visited the manse where the girl lived with Lady Cersei.  She had loved her, saved her from that monster, Jorah the Andal, only for this!

"Your vengeance is my vengeance, my Prince", she said, finally.  

The chief of the Dosh Khaleen, Tengerin rose, and addressed them.

"Khal Barhuk, you have brought the standards of war to this holy city. Why can you not simply lead your khalsar to avenge the wrong done to you?"

Barchuk bowed low, for even a Khal must show profound respect to the Dosh Khaleen. "Reverend Mothers, you know that I am Barchuk, Khal of the Sky Blue Wolves, son of Great Jelme, the Khagan of the People, Regent for the Khaleesi, Daenerys Targaryen. My sister, the Princess Missandei is - was - adopted as a daughter by my father, and the Khaleesi. She accompanied my mother to the Sunset Lands. She has been foully murdered, by men who profess holiness but practise evil! " There were shouts of anger, across the chamber, although the tale was known to almost all. "This concerns not just me, nor my parents, nor even my khalsar and those sworn to follow us. It is a crime against the entire People. So, I seek your blessing - to summon the People to war."

"This wickedness is known to us, Khal Barchuk. I shall confer with my sisters." They rose, and retired to a side chamber. Jhiqui had expected a lengthy discussion, but they returned after perhaps no more than half an hour.

Tengerin rose to address them. "Khal Barchuk, Khals, brothers and sisters a monstrous crime has been committed, against our People. The Great Stallion acknowledges that there are many Gods and powers in this world. He is mightier in war than any of them, but He has never sought to compel the worship of other races. But these ... monsters, they mock him, they mock all Gods. Khal Barchuk, we, the Reverend Mothers of the Dosh Khaleen, decree that blood must be answered with blood. We charge you to tear down the altars of the false priests and destroy their temples. We command you to slay the men in their iron suits..." By now the crowd was roaring approval. "You will drag that pig who calls himself High Septon, and all his herd, behind your horses, to the summit of the Mother of Mountain. And there, in the sight of Eternal Heaven, you will make their deaths a thing of horror. I, Tengerin of the Dosh Khaleen, command this of you." The crowd applauded wildly.

Blood must be answered with blood, there is no other way, Jihqui reminded herself, during the course of the following day. She had followed Tengerin, Barchuk and the rest, barefoot and wearing sackcloth, to the summit of the holy mountain, and there, the shamans had performed the rites for the murdered Princess. She had followed a different God, she remembered, the Lord of Harmony, but He would surely not begrudge their own tribute to the murdered girl. Three days later, she rode out of the city with Barchuk, to seek their vengeance.

Chapter Text

"They boiled him?" exclaimed Sansa, shocked. She stood just outside the entrance to Hayford Castle. Squadrons of light Dothraki horse, and knights of the Fiery Hand, were riding away Westward, the van of the army. The men of the imperial guard, the retinues of the loyal lords of the Crownlands and Vale, the new recruits from the people of the coasts and islands, and the footsoldiers of R'hllor, would shortly be marching in their wake. They were heading for Redgrass Field, intending to intercept the enemy as they marched up the valley of the Blackwater. A place of good omen, thought Sansa. It was there, a century ago, that the pretender Daemon Blackfyre had been slain.  And may they be victorious!  She had no desire to see Riverrun fall to her enemies, and no doubt, thoroughly looted.  And, in light of the horrific death inflicted upon the Lord of the Vale, the enemy would surely have something equally nasty lined up for her, should she fall into their hands. As a woman who willingly took part in a bigamous marriage, as well being the lover of a Queen who they branded as an infidel, she knew she could expect no mercy.

"Aye, Sansa", replied Lady Brienne. She had come to her with the grim news. "Our informants say Lord Harrold was screaming in his cauldron for two long hours. Each time he tried to clamber out, they pushed him back into the scalding water with long poles. Apparently, the crowd found it all most amusing. "

"Gods above!" She had no love for the man, but she would never have wanted this! Jon, on the other hand? She knew he was unhappy that she’d given herself to Hardyng, as part of the plot to bring down Baelish. Jon might find it amusing. He shouldn’t. Had he been captured, that might have been his own fate!

"What’s left of him is exhibited on a gibbet, apparently, at the entrance to the Great Sept. It shows the high stakes we're playing for", remarked Daenerys, who had walked over towards them. She wore a suit of black ring mail, over leather, looking gorgeous as ever. “Still, Myranda will hate us all the more, now. The Vale will pass to one of Lord Hardyng’s sisters." The thought of Dany or Jon suffering a similar fate was the stuff of nightmares! Her wedding night had been most enjoyable, with Daenerys leaving the pair of them in bed, together. She feared that the Queen was destined to play the role of Visenya in their relationship, albeit, a Visenya who was the senior of the trio, and one with whom she was very much in love.

Did Queen Rhaenys feel for her sister, what I feel for Dany? The thought of the two beautiful sisters entwined was foully erotic.  A sign of my degradation, of the sin and corruption, that dwells inside my heart.

”A word please, Sansa.” Dany drew her aside. “If I lose, if Jon and I fall in this fight, you must flee East, across the sea. If God forbid, Ygritte falls, then take her daughter. She - and your child - are the future of our dynasty. Seek out the Khagan, my husband Jelme. He will lead an army to avenge me - and Missandei. Wed him, or one of his sons, if you must. I’ve told Irri the same thing.”

”You won’t lose, Dany. Your God favours you.”

”I’m not invincible. I'd have died at Rosby, if it weren't for Ygritte. Now, it's time for Jon to see if Rhaegal will take him as a rider." Sansa had distinctly mixed feelings about that. The dragons were still young, vulnerable to attack, however deadly the fire that they delivered. The enemy would surely loose volleys of arrows at them. She might know little of war, but she well understood that arrows splintered on impact. All it took was one splinter entering through an eye hole. ... But then, there were other ways of dying, too.

"Your Grace", said a messenger, interrupting them. " A holy man, Merribald, begs your attention."

"Merribald? Who saved Arianne Martell from the flames? “. She and Brienne joined the Queen as she walked to meet the Septon. He was aged, white-bearded, and bare-foot. An ascetic, she supposed. Such men would sometimes wander into the Dornish desert, there to spend their lives perched on rocks, or living in caves. Some even climbed pillars, erected by their followers, there to live out their days in privation. Septa Mordane had been full of praise for such men. More than once, she’d suggested that Jon could expiate the shame of his bastardy, by becoming one such. Jon had held his temper in the septa’s presence, but made quite clear what he thought of “that evil bitch” in private.

"You have my very great thanks, Father", said Daenerys. "You saved the life of an innocent woman."

"A pity I could not save the life of her companion, Maegelle, your Grace", he replied. The Queen bowed her head. Then,

"Great service demands great reward. What may I give you?"

"Mercy for the people of the city, your Grace. They suffer from hunger and want of shelter." Sansa saw the Queen's face harden.

"And, that is not my doing. The Warrior's Sons, in their folly, stored wildfire in their hall. The Sparrows attacked my men as they tried to dampen the fires. These men murdered my daughter, boiled one of my lords, alive.” The Septon nodded.

"And, they are a disgrace to my Faith, your Grace. They lead the simple astray. I ask your Grace not to judge us all by the worst among us."

”I won’t. Perhaps when this is over, you yourself could take the role of High Septon. Reform the Faith.”

”Alas, I do not read, and I’m too old to learn. That would rule me out.” Daenerys was silent a few moments. Then,

”It’s no secret that battle is coming, very shortly. Allow me to win, then I’ll turn my attention to the city. Stay with us. Despite what the Sparrows may claim, there are many followers of your Faith, among my supporters.” The man nodded, then bowed, before walking away.

"Come", Daenerys commanded. She and Brienne walked with her, a couple of hundred yards, to where the dragons were kept under guard, by a squad of attendants. The work was highly paid, but undoubtedly hazardous. More than one guard had paid with his life, for provoking one of these beasts. They made Sansa distinctly nervous. Jon was waiting for them. They raised their heads, emitting a low rumble as Daenerys approached them. Apparently, that was a greeting.

Dany spoke to him. "All I've heard of dragons Jon, is that they bond with one rider for life. Rhaegal and Viserion will follow me, but I don't think they'd ever consent to let me mount them. But Rhaegal, he seems to have a liking for you. "

"How would I know if I could ride him?"

"How can any man know whether he can fly, until he leaps from a height? It's not about you, it's about Rhaegal. A dragon will consent to bear a rider, or he won't. He's not a slave, as Master Kraznys would tell you, were he not a heap of charcoal."

"How can I know if I'm a dragon lord? Many have tried, and they’ve been burned for their pains."

"The Valyrians, our own ancestors, relied upon sorcery. We don't. If you can rely on a dragon carrying you, rather than it eating you, well, you're a dragon lord. And you are a Targaryen.”

"That fills me with immense confidence.

“Well, Sansa, will you join me?." She shook her head, vigorously, but still the sight fascinated her. And, in a flash, she knew Daenerys for what she was. A cold-blooded leader, who wanted a son from Jon, and a second dragon-rider, but who never expected love. And, that was what Visenya had been. A born leader, with a heart of stone.It only makes her the more desirable to me.

Jon approached Rhaegal, talking softly to him, as he might to a horse. He kept this up for a few minuts, before the fire serpent crouched low, and stretched out his long neck. Jon patted him, affectionately. "We need a saddle, and the chains", said Dany. A pair of attentants went to fetch them. Evidently, she had already had them made, for when a rider was found. A few minutes later, they returned, and saddled Rhaegal, under the Queen's direction. "Up you get", she commanded. Jon did as he was bid, as Sansa's heart rose to her mouth. Daenerys loosed the chain that fastened Rhaegal to his post. Drogon and Viserion looked on, curious. "Now what?" asked Jon. "The command is "Soves", replied his wife. "Lykiri" when you want him to descend. And here", she handed him a riding whip. "Tap him gently, and he will fly to the side you tapped him on. A dragon flies towards a threat, not away from it." There was a long pause. Then, Jon commanded, "Soves" loud and clear. The dragon beat its wings, then launched into the air, flinging him back in his chains, and then he was gone, as the dragon spiralled into the air, vanishing rapidly into the distance.

"There's nothing quite like the sight of it", said Dany to Sansa. The sight was awesome, but terrifying, and she dreaded Jon falling from the sky. She walked back to the castle, making for the Sept, to pray for Jon's safe return, and for his, and Dany's survival, in the coming battle. Only to meet Myranda Royce, clad already, in widow's black. Plainly, she'd heard the news. "Bitch", she hissed, "I know that you and Jon were behind this somehow!"

"Myranda, we all share your grief. We hate this as much as you. And, we'll avenge Lord Harrold."

"Spare me your lies, Sansa Stark. I know you hunger for the Vale, just like the aunt you murdered. Oh yes, Baelish did the deed, but let's not pretend you weren't egging him on. "Alayne Stone", a sweet, gentle, girl who won everyone's heart, as pure as the driven snow, but with the heart of a devil." Well, she wasn't wrong in that assessment. Somewhere along the way, I turned evil.  Yet, what choice did I have?"Don't imagine for one moment that you can worm your way back into my affections."  Myranda stalked out of the chapel, leaving Sansa to face the judgement of the Gods, alone.

Chapter Text

“I’ve always said, you can smell the shit from five miles away”, said Olenna to her half-wit nephew, Leo, "the Lazy", as they rode through the Gate of the Gods, in her carriage. She’d smelt the burning far further off than that. The city was now in the hands of the rebels, following the conflagration. She’d wondered why the Silver Bitch had surrendered it, without a fight. A mistake surely? It took her about five minutes to realise why. She had never worried unduly, about the fate of the lice-ridden simpletons who tilled the land, and infested the rookeries and slums, in the towns, but she couldn't deny, she was shaken by what she witnessed. The city had just ceased to exist. Across whole districts, there was ... nothing. The occasional gable end, a stone chimney, but otherwise, just piles of charred logs.

The people she saw were gaunt, and either listless, despairing, or else angry, shouting in defiance as preachers roused them to fury. Some, she saw, standing in queues, waiting their turn to be served bread and soup by the Sparrows. She was escorted by two dozen riders, and that was well, she realised. The jewellery that she and Leo wore was worth several years’ wages to the starvelings. They’d eat them raw, if they could.

”Words are wind it seems”.

”I beg your pardon, auntie.”

”At Dragonstone, Daenerys Targaryen gave us all a pretty speech about how she wanted to break the wheel and emancipate the villeins. She was even going to make the Great Council a permanent body, and allow some of the commons to sit in it. But, the moment she faces any opposition from them, she burns them out of their homes.”

”So what are we fighting her for? We’d do the same.”

Perhaps Leo wasn’t so stupid after all, despite the poor reports the maesters at the Citadel had given him. Increasingly, she suspected she had blundered by stirring up the High Bigot and all his little bigots into revolt. Her grandson Willas, theoretically the Lord of Highgarden, could not venture into the Reach, on pain of death. Daenerys Targaryen might have all manner of foolish ideas in her empty silver head, about freeing the commons, but she wasn't seeking to asset-strip the highborn. The Sparrows on the other hand? Well, they hadn't preached the overthrow of the social order, to date, but they had no qualms about putting their betters to death. She'd been told about the fate of Lord of the Vale, a couple of days ago, and it horrified her. There were remnants too, of the Pretender's armies, now gone rogue across the Dornish Marches, robbing estates, and kidnaping the highborn and the merchants, for ransom. And where was that wretched eunuch Varys? He must still be lurking in the undergrowth somewhere. The problem was, the die was now cast. The Dragon Queen would show no mercy to a woman who had betrayed the hospitality she had been given, in Volantis. Matters would be a lot easier if Jon Snow (or Aemon Targaryen) had simply switched sides.

”We fight for the sake of our Holy Faith”, she lied. “The Dark Arts have given Daenerys Targaryen her armies, and brought her to this Realm. The thought of a woman in service to such Powers sitting the Iron Throne? I can think of nothing worse.” She shuddered, while her nephew made the sign of the Seven, to ward off evil. In truth, she doubted that the Gods existed at all. At any rate, they showed no interest in the doings of mortals. Not that that was one opinion she would ever share. She had no desire to be dunked in a cauldron. They rode up towards the Red Keep, over which flew the banner of the Tyrells, and the Seven-Pointed Star. She winced as they rode through the gate. The palace was now half a ruin. Windows were smashed, statues broken or toppled, the gardens trampled.. No doubt it had been sacked, once Daenerys' soldiers pulled out of the city. Still, she had promised to meet his High Holiness.

The man greeted her in the royal chambers, which it seemed, he had taken for his own. So much for his pretensions to austerity! Still, he served up an agreeably lavish meal, of roast duck, venison, crispy capons, and a fine Dornish sour red wine. Also present were Ser Bonnifer Hasty, two of the Most Devout, and Leo's father, Ser Moryn, who was in command of the garrison. Ser Bonnifer filled them on the military situation.

"Battle is imminent. We have perhaps forty thousands, and, so far as we know, the Whore has slightly above thirty thousands. But of course, she has her dragons. Old enough now, to inflict real harm."

"And, how do you propose to fight those monsters?" enquired the High Septon.

"Massed ranks of archers, scorpions, other torsion weapons. Killing a dragon is nigh impossible, unless it's cornered, on the ground. But the rider is always vulnerable to a single shot, and we'll unleash thousands of shots." That sounded encouraging, she thought.

"You must destroy her swiftly", commented the High Septon, "I have ill tidings. We know that the demon-worshippers of the East have proclaimed a holy war against the Faith of the Seven. You may rest assured that their followers have been rooted out of the city, and given to the flames. Yet, this damnable heresy spreads, through the Crownlands. Holy brethren have been murdered, who have preached against the Dragonwhore. Even some of the nobility have foresook the true path. They must, of course, die. " Olenna made noises of commiseration. "But, given victory, we can begin the work of purging, and of cleansing. Every trace of this evil cult must be removed from the Realm. But, another danger approaches. I have received a message of remarkable insolence, from the Khagan of the Eastern savages. Allow me to read it:"

We, by the power of Eternal Heaven, and by the will of the Great Stallion, Khagan of the great Grass Sea, and Regent of the Bay of Dragons, Our command, to the vile and insensate slave who calls himself HIgh Septon.

We are the punishment of God. If you and your people had not committed such sins, He would not have sent such a punishment as us. Your servants have slain our beloved daughter the Princess Missandei, and you have committed treason against our dear wife, Her Grace, Daenerys of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals. the Rhoynar and the First Men. We shall come against you with all our power. You shall present yourself, and your followers, to us for judgement, with heads shaved, and dressed in sackcloth, with halters around your necks. Only then will we acknowledge your submission. And if you do not follow the order of God, and go against our orders, we will know all your people as our enemy. We shall lay your towns in waste, we shall render your people but a memory, and make your lands fit only for the pasture of our horses." There were noises of indignation, around the dinner table.

"An empty threat", said Leo confidently. "They won't cross the sea. They call it The Poisoned Water."

"I would not be so sure", remarked Olenna. "I have met this man. He is not like the others of his kind. For a Dothraki, I would even call him a visionary. I think he will cross the sea. Ser Bonnifer, you and my grandson must finish this war quickly. And ..."

"What is it?" asked Ser Bonnifer.

"There must be some among our enemies who would fear the Khagan. Lady Sansa for example."

The High Septon frowned. "A woman who has wed her cousin, bigamously, in defiance of the Gods. A woman who, it is said, practises every form of depravity."

"Perhaps rumours exaggerate, your High Holiness. I knew Sansa Stark as a girl. I cannot believe she is depraved. And, she is a peer of the Realm. I could perhaps, seek her out. I'm certain, I could make her see sense. No one says she has foresaken our holy Faith, however poorly she may practise it."

"Let it be so," remarked Ser Bonnifer. "In time of crisis, your High Holiness, we must seek to make common cause with the least bad of our enemies. Once the war is won, why, this Lady Sansa can be made to perform penance, confined to the strictest of our Motherhouses, there to expiate her sins in a lifetime of penitence." After a pause, the High Septon nodded.

"Very well, Lady Olenna, you have our blessing. And may the Gods go with you."

Forget about the bloody Gods, as poor, dear, Margaery had been wont to say. No, turning Sansa Stark would take subtlety and skill. And, on no account, must she hint at the fate that lay in store for her.

Chapter Text

"It's the waiting I can't stand", said Gilly. "Oh, and all the shit." She and Andrastos were sitting in a cart to the rear of the main army, as part of the baggage train. The column had ground to a halt, for some reason. It was raining steadily, churning the road into mud, which hardly improved matters.

"Shit, and waiting... the two constants of a soldier's life", replied the eunuch, huddled under his cloak. "A disciplined army like ours will dig latrines, every time it makes camp. But, nothing can stop the animals letting fly as they please."

"I just wish it was all over. This gets on my nerves"

"The van has crossed the Blackwater, and cut the enemy off from the Riverlands. They'll either have to fight us, or march back they way they came. That's always demoralising." That sounded hopeful, but she was now quite familiar with the maps of Westeros.

"So, why don't they just march East, into the Crownlands?”

"Every castle is garrisoned. They'd face one siege after another. They'd starve, long before they got far. And, then we'd trap them." Gilly had read voraciously, since she entered the Queen's service, but the art of war still remained a mystery to her. She heard orders being shouted up ahead, and then the column got moving again. Right on cue, the big draught horse that drew their cart, raised its tail, farted loudly, then took a dump, while releasing a stream of piss. She fastened her hat and cloak as the rain came down more heavily. As ever, she wondered about the rights and wrongs of this conflict. The Sparrows were evil, no question, and they had to be beaten. The Queen had avenged her babe, and she must be grateful for that, but then, she'd also married the bastard who'd placed him in danger in the first place. And, the Red priests worried her too. They were a bit too fond of burning people for her liking. But then, the same was even more true of the enemy, who would happily murder anyone who so much as looked Valyrian. Queen Daenerys was the best hope for this land, but wasn't she becoming a bit too convinced that her will was the Will of God? Oh, how she hoped it would end, and she and Ygritte could head North to the lands they'd been promised, and never have to worry about war or politics again.

"One final battle, and all will be well", said Andrastos, guessing her thoughts. "That's what I once thought. But, it's like cutting the head off a hydra. You destroy one enemy, and two more appear. " A depressing thought, that. "As a species, we have this unerring desire to foul our own nests. The Queen's enemies have so much, and still it's not enough for them!"

"The Fuck!" she suddenly exclaimed, "By the Dead!" . A familiar figure suddenly rode up to them, followed by more riders.

"The Gillyflower, good to see yer again." Tormund Giantsbane, his very self.!

"The fuck you doin' here?” So surprised was she, she'd reverted to her old manner of speaking.

"I take it, I'm witnessing the reunion of old friends", remarked Andrastos, plainly amused.

"Tormund, this is Andrastos, my chief. Andrastos, this is Tormund, who claims to be the mightiest warrior among the free folk, and is actually, quite good in a fight. When he's sober."

"Har! An' Gilly escaped the white walkers with a fat Crow under her wing" explained Giantsbane.

"So, why are you here?", asked Andrastos.

"Heard there was revolt against the Silver Queen. She came North to put down the White Witch, and saved me life into the bargain. One good turn deserves another. Two hunnerd of our hardest bastards rode South. Sigorn, Boroq, Holly, Shama Heartless, plenty o’ named men, an' spearwives. An' Dacey Mormont an' Benfred Tallhart, too. "Course, we lost a few on the way, but no bunch of kneelers can stop us joinin' the fight. An' of course, it'll be good to see the Lord Crow again, see if he's figured out how to use his pecker by now." There was an awkward silence as Tormund suddenly realised just how much she hated the man. Andrastos rescued the situation.

"Well, Tormund, you and your comrades will be made very welcome by the Queen's Grace." The others rode on up the column, but Tormund walked his horse beside them, chatting about events up North. It seemed that a powerful local lord, called Manderly was in revolt. They'd evaded his men, and made their way South, through the narrow strip of land they called the Neck. They'd run into more trouble down by the River Trident, where there were more rebel lords and mobs of Sparrows. "But, the fight went out of ‘em soon enough", bragged the Giantsbane, "We strung up a few by the river bank, with their guts hanging out, right where it did most good t’ see, an’ stuck a few heads on poles. Heads on poles. Never go out of fashion." Well, that was true enough. Then they'd reached a castle called the Twins, where the garrison had directed them towards General Malazza, who'd then sent them South. She'd often got bored in the past, by Tormund's bragging and his stupid tales about fucking bears and giantesses, but she couldn't deny, it was good to see him, and others of the People, this far South. She had occasionally met free folk in the Queen's service, but all of them were men who'd left the North, years ago, and fought in the East, and were now, quite changed.

As dusk was falling, so they reached the army camp. She might or might not see Ygritte, depending whether she was on duty. No doubt Tormund would press his suit, again, and no doubt, her friend would tell him to go fuck himself. But, as luck would have it, the first person she saw, striding through the mud was Lady Sansa. Ygritte had warmed to her somewhat, but as far as Gilly was concerned, she was still the same spoiled Southron snob who viewed the free folk and small folk alike as animals. She might fancy herself kind to animals, but Gilly'd rather not be seen as one. And, there was the beautiful red-headed prostitute, Ros, holding a letter in her hand.

"My lady, a merchant gave me this letter, for your ladyship". Sansa frowned at it, broke the seal, then exclaimed out loud.

"Fucking bitch!" She'd never heard Lady Stark swear like that. She couldn't help asking,

"What is it, your ladyship?"

"It's Lady Olenna Tyrell. She wants me to have dinner with her."

Chapter Text

"Some women like pretty girls ... "  Sansa blushed hot and cold at those words, as she always did, in the presence of Margaery Tyrell.  They were walking, arms linked, through the gardens of the Red Keep.  The wind came in from the sea, fresh and keen, a welcome change from the stench of shit that usually pervaded the city.  Her friend led her into a gazebo, out of sight of prying eyes, and leaned in for a kiss.  Sansa might have intended it to be chaste, but it soon ceased to be, as their tongues touched.  After, it  seemed, an eternity, they drew apart, her heart fluttering. She had to say it to Margaery.

"I love you."

"As I do you, sweetling."  There was a calculating look, on Margaery's face, before she took the plunge.  "You do not love the Imp, do you?  You remain a maid?"  Sansa nodded.  "And yet, I envy you your marriage.  I'm to be wed to the creature you so aptly called "a monster", a week hence. He tortures animals for his pleasure, as you know. But now, I’ve heard tell he shot a whore to death, with his damned crossbow. Once I've borne him an heir, I'll be just his plaything."  Sansa felt sick.

 "Do you still wish to escape to Highgarden?"

"Of course I do, Margaery."

"Matters are coming to a head.  I can't tell you more, save this.  A friend will come to you, offering to lead you to safety, away from this city. Do not hesitate to follow him.  Your safety is of the utmost importance to me.  I promise you, have faith, and the two of us will stroll together through the gardens of the place I love most in the world.  Nothing will separate us, ever again. You and I will grow old together. But, you must trust me in this."

”Of course.” Oh, thank all the Gods, to leave this place for good, and spend the rest of her life with her beloved.

”You led Lady Margaery into sin, you flaunted yourself to her, corrupted her”, said Septa Mordane, glowering at her. “She burned in one fire, and then she passed to another, still hotter. She screams in agony now, and her screams will not end till time itself is no more.  The Gods are not mocked, Sansa Stark, and she died, and she was damned, for your iniquity.”

”You lie, you bitch!” she shouted. “I have masses said for the soul of Margaery Tyrell, every week. She dwells in Heaven with the Gods!”

”The Gods have no compassion”, said Margaery, sadly. “That’s why they’re Gods."  They stood together on a bleak, snow-covered hillside, somewhere in the  North, she supposed.  It was dusk, and there were stars in the sky she did not recognise.  She took her friend's hand, finding it frozen as ice.

"There are no fires in the Land of the Stranger, Sansa, only the endless cold.  Only quiet despair. I've seen men and women who died for love, pass each other by, without recognition." Margaery sighed. “I rose too high, loved too hard, dared too much. I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell. I wished to be The Queen, and so I was for a time, until the Usurper came.

"You have been avenged, Margaery. The Usurper, Connington, Tyene Sand, they died screaming. So will the rest of them."

"A small consolation, but I'd sooner be alive, with you."

”I should have been with you, at the end. I'd have died alongside you, gladly."

"We were both betrayed Sansa. Baelish wanted you for his own ends. The Usurper promised me my life, and those who were dear to me, if we yielded the city without a fight."

Sansa woke, and leaned over to throw up into a bucket, placed by the side of her bed. Either her dream, or her pregnancy. There was a definite swell now, to her belly. She rinsed out her mouth with small ale. She was alone, she realised, in her bed, in the royal pavilion. Jon and Daenerys were frequently up very late, planning for the coming fight, and preferred not to disturb her. Her retching had woken the Queen, however, who slept on a cot, outside, and peered around the curtain..

Daenerys stared at her, concern on her face. "I don't like this idea, of you meeting Olenna Tyrell. That woman is a snake. Better by far you return to a stronghold like Rosby, and stay safe".

"I think I have to. I need to know what she's planning. I hope, and believe, she thinks I'm still the naive girl she manipulated , all those years ago, in the Red Keep." She had discussed the matter, first with Jon and Sansa, before writing a reply, under seal, which she had handed to Ros. She had found out who the go-between was, but for the moment, the man need not be taken into custody. She had stipulated where they should meet, in an inn, The White Horse, a few miles distant, with no more than two companions each. Rhaena and Ygritte had agreed to accompany her. In addition, each would provide a cook.

Dusk found her on horseback, a few hundred yards from the Inn. Ygritte emerged, it seemed, from nowhere, out of the gloom. She'd scouted the area for them. How she did it was a mystery, but it came naturally to any wildling. "There's no ambush, Sansa. I saw her enter the Inn, with three others. " They rode forward, reaching the Inn, and riding into the courtyard. A pair of servants took their horses, and they entered the common room. Olenna was waiting for them, with a pair of guards. There was no one else present, other than the Innkeep and his wife, who fawned over the pair of them. She kissed the Queen of Thorns on the lips, as was only polite. Recriminations could wait for later.

The Innkeep brought a flagon of Dornish red wine, and Olenna poured for them both. Pointedly, Sansa refrained from drinking, until Olenna had first done so.

"I'd hate to die like Joffrey", began Olenna. "Not at all what I intended. Imagine it, being unable to breathe, clawing at his throat, panicking and throwing up. I thought it would be gentler." Liar.  The Strangler is never gentle.  "But, Joffrey was a cunt.  I couldn't allow my Margaery to fall into his clutches.".  She felt a wave of fury, not for Joffrey but for the woman she'd loved.  Margaery Tyrell, who'd thought herself a player, but had turned out to be pawn, a piece to be played, by the woman sitting opposite.  There were scores of Tyrells, no doubt mostly expendable, in her eyes..

"Lord Baelish claimed the credit, for the deed. "  Sansa smiled nastily.  "What's left of him is mounted on a pole, outside Rosby Castle.  His dying was worse than Joffrey's, I can assure you."  

"You've come a long way, Sansa.  No longer the "little dove" who the bitch Queen loved to torment.  Baelish was lying, as was his wont.  The deed was mine. "  

"I don't mourn Joffrey, Olenna, not in the slightest."

"Ah, the soup", she responded.  The Innkeep served them both.  It was a game pottage, the taste of it to die for.  They sipped it for a few moments, before Olenna remarked.

 "Daenerys Targaryen is a threat to all of our class, Sansa. Worse, she's a heathen, which makes her hated by the smallfolk, too. Worse still, her husband, the Khagan, is bringing his savages to this country. They will try to lay it waste.”

”Then, perhaps, you chose the wrong side.” Olenna gave an exaggerated sigh.

”Neither you, nor I, nor your husband, need lose, provided we act sensibly. All that King Aemon needs do, is proclaim himself sole ruler, and you as his Queen. Who would be left to support Daenerys Targaryen then?"

"Her army. Her other husband. Thousands of followers of R’hllor. They’ve won many converts.”

"Fighting the combined resources of the Seven Kingdoms.  You know that can only end one way."  They were interrupted by the Innkeep and his wife bringing the fish course;  river trout, in a cream and almond source.  He refilled their glasses.  The wine was excellent, while the fish melted in her mouth.

"Let's suppose you're right, what then? What of the Sparrows?  I tell you, they worry me a lot more than the Red God's followers do."

"I share your feelings.  What happened to Lord Harrold Hardyng, that was wrong."

"Wrong?  Is that all you have to say?  Don't you see, they were sending a message to us all?  They can put any one of the highborn to death, in any manner they see fit."

"You have grown up, dear".  Patronising bitch.  " Yes, they are a worry.  But, the chivalry of the Seven Kingdoms, united, can put an end to the threat, I have no doubt. "

"Tell me why I should trust you?  I've not forgotten, and I've certainly not forgiven, who gave me an amethyst hairnet for my name day present."  For the first time, she saw doubt on Olenna's face.  "You said yourself, it was you, not Baelish, who poisoned Joffrey Falseborn.  There was an amethyst missing, when I checked it, after I fled to the Godswood.  Who else removed it, but you?"

"I'd gut the vicious old trout, I really would, but it's yer call, my Lady", she heard Ygritte speak up, for the first time. She'd told her, Dany, and Jon, all about the hairnet. "Or take ‘er back to Rosby and shove a pole up 'er arse. I'll bet it ain't the first time she 'ad a stick up ‘er back passage."

"Were you given permission to speak? A wildling slut? Keep quiet when your betters speak of matters beyond your wit!"

"Lady Ygritte is mother to an heir to House Targaryen. You will apologise to her," responded Sansa coldly.

"Apologise, to King Aemon's whore? I think not."

"Then, I think our business here is done. " She rose. "Margaery would despise you. In her hour of need, you fled to the court of the woman, you now betray. She meant nothing to you, save as a means to secure the Iron Throne."

"You little bitch! Oh yes, I know exactly what you wanted to do with Margaery. Thank all the Gods, she did not share your disgusting proclivities. Do you serve as the Queen's whore, too, like Cersei Lannister? Do the two of you molest serving girls together?” Without thinking, Sansa dashed the remains of her wine into the sneering face of the Queen of Thorns.

"Lady Olenna, may the Mother have mercy upon you. I promise you, next time we meet, I shan’t." Then, she turned on her heel.

Chapter Text

"R'hllor’s blessing be upon you, your Grace", remarked Moqorro, in his deep bass rumble. "I have prayed for the Queen's Grace, for you, and for the whole army to prevail. I have placed charms of warding on the two of you. They cannot guard you from all dangers, but they will help"

"Why not ward the whole army, then?" asked Jon.

The red priest smiled. "Now, that would be a mighty undertaking. Magic does not come without a price, one that must be paid in fire or blood. To ward thirty thousands, why I should have to alter the balance of the world."

"You're telling me that magic is difficult to perform?"

"It is extremely so. We pretend that it is effortless, but that is not true. When it comes down to it, persuading men to kill one another is a great deal easier than working a spell." Isn't that the truth?  

Jon commanded a mixed force of cavalry, free folk, and mounted archers, in the van, who had taken the high ground, furthest from the Blackwater Rush. He'd thought of riding Rhaegal.  His first flight had been exhilirating, if inept. However, despite practising, he yet lacked his wife's abilities.  Daenerys was reluctant to risk more than one dragon in this battle.  She would be unleashing Drogon's fires on the enemy.   To his right, his flank was protected by a ravine, through which flowed a stream that eventually made its way behind them, towards the river.  The rest of the army continued to march and ride into position, to their left, some still waiting to cross the bridge over the river.  He'd thrown a screen of mounted free folk under Tormund, and light Dothraki horsemen ahead, to harrass the enemy, who were steadily approaching in the distance.  Through a Myrish eye, he could see the enemy light cavalry, and behind them, a great mass of heavies, the Warrior's sons, and knights riding under the banners of the Reach, Hightower, Fossoway, Redwyne, Rowan, Tyrell.  His riders were doing their job, riding in, clashing with the enemy light horse, loosing shafts, and then wheeling and turning, gradually withdrawing before the enemy.  On no account must they let themselves be caught by the heavy horsemen. His own heavy cavalry were forming up, the knights of the Fiery Hand, and squadrons of men at arms from the Vale, eager to avenge the brutal murder of their lord.

Harrold Hardyng. He’d loathed the fucker, but for him to be boiled alive! Lady Myranda of the huge tits had called him a murderer. Well, he’d done what any leader would have done in his position. He’d got most of his men to safety, even if that meant sacrificing individuals. But, some individuals are easier to sacrifice than others.

He glanced to his left again. Companies of footmen were starting to deploy in a checker-board pattern, a mix of imperial guards, armed mostly with pikes and pole axes, longbowmen from the Crownlands and Summer Islands, and lordly retinues. A woodland occupied the centre of their line, with a village behind it, on a low ridge, dominated by the tower of a Sept. Daenerys had plans for that woodland. He feared whatever further plans Daenerys had, in the event of victory. Every argument he had deployed in favour of selective mercy, she'd rejected. She was leaving the enemy no choice but to fight to the bitter end. Especially now that he knew that the Dothraki had been summoned to war. Turning the Reach into pasture for their horses was no empty boast, he knew full well. But, I am to blame. I failed to protect Missandei.

He was a poor husband to her, just as he had been a poor lover to Ygritte. He could only pray that he would do right by Sansa, and the two children that would be born, shortly.

Enough of this. First, there was a fight to win.

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"I trust you have your men under control, this time," remarked Ser Bonnifer, as he and Ser Garlan rode amidst the Warrior's Sons.  He had to grit his teeth, as he remembered the shameful rout at Horn Hill.

"We learned from our mistakes, Ser.  General Orhan's head is proof enough of that."  The grisly trophy had been dipped in pitch, and was currently being paraded on a pole, among the footmen.  His soldiers had no compunction inflicting the most dreadful deaths on the savages, whenever they caught them. The Grand Commander nodded.

"It's tempting to unleash our horsemen against their foot, but I suspect it would be unwise. Heathens they may be, but they possess discipline."

"Aye. They have the advantage of the ground.  And those guardsmen won't break easily. "

"A hard slog then." Garlan scanned the ground through his Myrish eye, before handing it to Ser Bonnifer, who did likewise.  "No doubt there are men, hidden in those woods, and the village behind it... but if we took it, we'd divide the enemy in two, and we could destroy them at our leisure."

"And that is doubtless what our enemies are counting on", replied the other.  "But, we have the numbers, and plenty of Sparrows, eager for the fight.  Yes, let them bleed the enemy, and win martyrs crowns in the process.  Cavalry to the flanks, I think."  Well, that was the usual order of battle.  Frankly, the Sparrows gave him the shivers, with their eagerness to bring murder to their enemies. And he misliked their treatment of the Lord of the Vale. If lords had to be put do death, then it should be done decently, at the hands of their peers, not their inferiors. Yes, thinning out their ranks would suit him and his fellows, admirably.  It was curious, though, that Ser Bonnifer should have so little concern for their lives.

"I shall give the necessary orders", he remarked, before turning back on his horse to the main body of the army.

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"Pear brandy, your Grace?" enquired Gilly, bearing goblets on a tray.  Dany wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it.  Not that she did laugh these days.  Not since her daughter had been murdered by these scum who were advancing against her.  Like a thick fog of black smoke, her fury rose within her, threatening to choke her.  She forced herself to stay calm. She wore a suit of black plate, the visor of her helm drawn up.

"Thank you," she replied smiling.  She was looking down on to the battlefield, from the steeple of the village sept. Sworbreck the place was called.  It looked quite prosperous, the buildings of brick, or wood, although very wisely, the inhabitants had all fled, before the fight began.  

"To a fine days's hunting", remarked Monterys Velaryon, raising his glass. He would very shortly be joining the men he'd levied from Driftmark. Kinvara, Andrastos, Lord Celtigar, and Ygritte, all took snifters from Gilly's tray. A fine day's hunting indeed! This would be a hard fight. They were outnumbered, perhaps four to three, but they had to the better ground, and she hoped, the better army. Most were seasoned fighters, with the newer recruits, drawn from the smallfolk and the followers of R'hllor, being mainly used to garrison her strongholds.

"You are the Lord's Chosen", remarked Kinvara. "Victory will be yours." Perhaps. Quite why the Lord of Light had chosen her, remained a mystery, but there was no doubt left in her mind that she was His champion, the Shadow of God on Earth. Of course, He in His inscrutable wisdom, might decide that Azor Ahai's time on this Earth was done.  But, she hoped she'd live long enough to see the leaders of the Sparrows, and the rebel lords, feeding His fires. She'd certainly prayed for it, long and hard, at Dawn. Prayed too, that Jon, or Aemon, would remain loyal. He must be, surely, given that she and Sansa bore his children. Still, she honestly wouldn't be hugely surprised, if he rode over to the other side. She finished the last of the brandy, before commanding "To your places."

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"Is it time, Ser?", remarked Pod, the chief engineer, for the fourth time.

"Not quite yet", replied Red Lamb, peering out at the oncoming host, a great mass of footmen, tramping across the vast field towards them. He commanded the rocket battery, under the eaves of the woodland, below the village. A double company of light infantry protected them. As Quartermaster, he'd been responsible for purchasing and checking the rockets, and they'd fascinated him. Eventually, he's asked for a transfer to the engineering corps. Fourteen tripods had been set up, the rockets attached to them like long, thin, silver fish. Spares were neatly propped up, ten per tripod. He'd tested them again, and again, using up hundreds, over the past year. But, now he was quite confident they'd work as intended. Well, almost. There were, inevitably, accidents, from time to time. A great cacophony of voices rose from the enemy. He frowned. Ah, they were singing a hymn. Or what passed for a hymn among them, at any rate - all about sending the Silver Whore to her eternal damnation, and filling the Seven Hells with the unbelievers. People like him. He now worshipped R'hllor. The God of his people, the Great Shepherd, was a useless cunt, who'd never done anything for them, so often taken as slaves.

"I was Quartermaster to the Imperial Guards, Pod. Armies run on details. Just look at the workmanship", he gestured towards one of the rockets. "Details, like calibrating these things just so, and firing them at precisely the right time." He smiled as he looked back at the enemy. The wind picked up, whipping strems of smoke from the slow-burning tapers in the hands of the lads who stood by each rocket.

"Please ser, is it time?" asked Pod, sounding a little desperate. Red Lamb squinted again, the enemy now fewer than three hundred yards away. Then he nodded. "It's time". The engineer visibly sighed with relief, before commanding,

"Rockets will fire from left to right in order, and keep firing, until I order you to cease." The aproned engineers sighted the tripods carefully, then stood back, and nodded to the young men with tapers. Each lit their rocket's fuse in turn. Then, after a brief interval, with a roar and whoosh! each rocket went off in turn, and opened the gates of hell to the enemy. .

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Septon Hogg was in high spirits, as he approached the woods. A great column of his brethren marched with him, singing praises to the Seven, and rejoicing in the damnation of heathens. He knew that there were followers of the Seven who fought for the Pagan Whore, and that had puzzled him. But, his High Holiness had explained it all, when he last preached to them. There were no true followers of the Seven among the enemy, only men who had been possessed by the Eastern Demon God. They could slaughter them with a clear conscience, secure in the knowledge that the Father, the Warrior, and the Stranger would bless their handiwork. A simple soul, he had ministered to his flock in a large village near Bitterbridge. But then the Sparrows had come, telling him that the Faith was threatened as never before. He had to admit, the very thought of a woman sitting the Iron Throne filled him with horror. Rhaenyra the Usurper, of cursed memory, had seized power, a century and a half ago, and the Gods had destroyed her for her presumption. But she at least, had been a follower of the true Faith. This one was a pagan, and, if the rumours were to believed, she coupled indiscriminately with either sex as well as beasts.

Nearly to the tree line, he raised his shield and spear, ready to charge. And, just at that moment, the world exploded in orange flame. He never even saw the metal shard that took his head from his shoulders.

Chapter Text

Ygritte was both fascinated and appalled, as she watched the rockets explode, from her position in the woods. Dany had told her she would be riding Drogon on her own, for maximum speed, and so she'd asked to join the light companies in the forest. She wore a mail shirt, and halfhelm, carrying sword and buckler. Some of the rockets went off in odd directions, but more than enough exploded, scant feet above the oncoming mass of Sparrows, sending shards of metal scything through their ranks, severing heads and limbs, or gutting them. One rocket exploded, a hundred yards away, and where there had been half a dozen men, there was now just a quivering, red mess. She felt her gorge rise.  Stop being so fucking stupid, Ygritte, this is war.  Still, it felt different, somehow, to fighting an enemy, blade to blade.

Within minutes, the Sparrows had broken and fled, leaving hundreds dead or injured in their wake.  A few, braver than the rest, had charged forward, and made it to the trees, but her comrades had made short work of them.  She hadn't even had to join the fight.

In the distance, she heard a military band playing, as hundreds of soldiers sang:

And who are you, the proud lord said,
that I must bow so low?
Only a cat of a different coat,
that's all the truth I know.
In a coat of gold or a coat of red,
a lion still has claws,
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
that lord of Castamere,
But now the rains weep o'er his hall,
with no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep o’er his hall,
and not a soul to hear.

And that was weird. She knew enough of the Queen's family history, to suppose she'd have forebade this song, but it turned out, the fallen Queen, Cersei Lannister had taught it to some of the Imperial Guards, back East, and they’d made it into a marching song. Well, Myrcella was now a loyal ally, after all. Odd, how enemies could become friends, and the opposite as well.

”I doubt if it will stay this easy”, remarked the commander, Red Lamb. “The Sparrows are a rabble. They can sacrifice them, but the Warriors’ Sons, the Reachmen, they’re another matter. And, some of your own folk have joined them, I’m sorry to say. Not everyone was happy that the Queen slew the White Witch.”

"I thought they hated us as heathens."

The other sniggered. "Of course, they do, but they'll still pay good money for bad killers."

Well, that made sense, she guessed. She'd been startled to meet Tormund, and his folk, but yes, Val had had her supporters too, among the free folk. "Look" said Red Lamb, gesturing. Opposite them, light footmen were forming up for another run at the woods, but leaving big gaps between their lines. "They've learned their lesson, they won't attack in a mass, and they'll come at us hard, and fast. Our rockets won't stop them, it's down to cold steel." He smiled, seemingly relishing the prospect. Ygritte made her way to the front rank, ready for the fight.

Then, without warning, the enemy charged, hundreds of the arseholes. And, there certainly were her own people among them, howling like wolves as they loped towards them. More rockets exploded, and some of the defenders loosed arrows, dropping some of them, but not stopping them. Suddenly, she exclaimed.

"By all the Dead!" She knew that one! He wore a human skull over his helm, and was leading a small band. Fucking Rattleshirt, the Lord O'Bones, himself! She yelled at him "Try me, yer cunt!" He glanced over at her, and grinned, showing a mouthful of broken teeth.

"Ygritte, they call yer The Red Spear, but ter me, yer'll always be the Ginger Minge", he yelled, tearing towards her, sword up. None of her own side moved to stop him, guessing that this was a grudge fight. Rattleshirt reached her, then cut right and left at her head, as she dodged, quick as a striking snake. She yielded ground, parrying his blows with her buckler, then gave a good hard thrust into his flank, when he exposed himself. Like her, he wore mail, which held, but it must have hurt, for he swore at her, "fucking cunt". They circled, each looking for an opening, as she taunted him,

"Yer own tribe kicked yer out, did they? Even yer own lot can't stand rapers."

"Still sucking Lord Crow's cock? I'll rape yer fucking corpse, Ginger. Yer cunt'll be nice and warm for a bit, once I've cut yer throat. " He lashed out with his right foot, catching her shin, and sending her toppling, sword flying from her hand. He gave a grunt of satisfaction, and then chopped down with his blade, just missing her head as she rolled aside, drawing a dagger from her boot, then thrusting it upwards, under his mailshirt and into his fruits. How he shrieked, clutching his balls as she rose to her feet, and thrust her dagger into his left eye. There was a stench of shit as his bowels opened, and he fell to the ground.

Still alive, still alive, she said to herself, as she picked up her sword, and made her way back to where the footmen battled each other, under the trees, but for how long?

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"Dross", remarked Ser Garlan to his friend, Ser Jon Fossoway, as he watched the Sparrows limping back, through their lines. Still, they'd done their job, testing the enemies' fire, before the better-quality light infantry were sent in. He'd no love for wildling savages, but they knew their business, no doubt. He'd found a small hillock which gave him a good view of the battlefield. On both sides of the woods now, his footmen and archers were moving forward, the latter exchanging shot with the archers of the enemy. Men were falling on both sides, but at last, his own companies of pikemen met the enemy. He just had to keep bleeding their foes, using superior numbers to his advantage. Ser Bonnifer commanded their left flank, ready to unleash his cavalry on those commanded by King Aemon. Bloody fool! His grandmother had told him of her meeting with Lady Sansa, who'd roundly insulted her. Both of them would have switched sides if they had the wits the Gods had given to a turnip. No doubt the Silver Whore had ensnared both of them with her body, just as she had Cersei Lannister, according to grandma. If he captured Daenerys Targaryen, he planned to give her to his own men to enjoy, before she was strung up. Which reminded him. If that bloody fool Aemon refused to switch sides, they’d need a new king. Someone from House Tyrell!

He nodded with approval as he saw the ballistae being brought forward, just before the front line. If the dragons appeared, they’d meet a storm of bolts and arrows. He swept the battlefield again with his spyglass, and then he saw it, on the right flank of the field, closest to the river. Quite a gap had opened between the enemy footmen and their cavalry. Lord Hightower commanded there. He turned to his friend.

”Jon, give my compliments to Lord Leyton, and tell him he’s to charge forward.” A skilled commander would already be preparing to advance, but he knew Leyton was cautious, and would be waiting for orders. They might just win this battle swiftly.

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"I'd give the big woman some strong children, if she wanted", remarked Tormund, grinning through his red beard.

"She's a member of the royal family now", replied Jon. "Lords and knights are beating a path to her door. But, if she ever says to me that she wants strong children, I'll tell her exactly who she must contact." His friend laughed in response. It had been a welcome surprise to meet up with him again. Brienne, so far as he knew, would be fighting on other flank, with the crownlanders.

Jon saw a horseman riding hell for leather towards him. He recognised him as an aide to Symon Stripeback, who commanded a double regiment of guards, at the foot of the slope.

The man saluted. "Your Grace, General Symon is hard pressed by the enemy. He requests your support. " Jon stared down at the fighting. The guards had been pushed back by enemy pikemen, who far outnumbered them. Their defence was centred on a large manor house, surrounded by stone walls. Men on either side were fighting in the farm's orchard, perhaps four hundred yards away. He didn't want to leave his position. Half a mile distant were the Warriors' Sons, a great dark mass of horsemen, and behind them, more squadrons of Reach cavalry under their banners. He knew they'd advance before long, and he had little doubt his own men were outnumbered. He frowned, weighing his options. Looking down again, he saw the enemy had begun to lose formation, as the front ranks dropped their pikes, drawing swords, and clambering over the manse's walls, to get at the defenders. Yes, he'd keep back the Fiery Hand and Vale knights, the heavies. He called over a Dothraki named Batu, who commanded two squadrons of light horse.

"I need you to break those infantry at the farm. You and Tormund's riders. Just break them, and return, don't pursue them, you understand." Lord Commander Mormont had once warned him that horsemen could so easily lose their heads on the battlefield, and think themselves invincible.

"Your Grace." The man saluted, returning to give orders to his own men. After a few moments, they came trotting over.

"Now Tormund, now's your time," he commanded, and the wildling laughed in response. No more than three hundred riders, but they could break ten times that number who'd lost formation. They began trotting downhill, towards the farm.

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Ser Edmund Ambrose had been pleasantly surprised by the way the fighting had gone so far. He commanded a couple of thousand pikemen, and five hundred archers, and they were beating the imperial guardsmen opposite. The fight had been grim enough, but like any sensible commander, he led from the centre of his forces. His men could bleed the enemy, and if the front ranks perished in turn, well, that was just the way of things. What mattered was that he should get the credit. He'd no great dislike for the Dragon Queen, even welcomed the way she'd avenged poor Queen Margaery and her cousins. But, the whole notion of freeing the villeins - well, the Seven Hells would freeze over before he'd agree to such a bloody stupid thing! The enemy had fought hard, but they'd pushed them back through a large orchard. Good apples, he thought irrelevantly, then winced as a flying arrow struck his helm. It made his head ring, but thank the Gods, no harm was done.

"On lads, you're breaking them", he shouted. Ahead, stood a stone manor, surrounded by thick stone walls. His men were clambering over to get at the defenders, who continued to resist fiercely. Take this position, and the battle might just be won! He nudged his horse forward with his heels, trampling a pair of enemy wounded as he went. "A swallow of brandy, sire?" suggested his squire, holding out a skin. Damn yes, that felt good, as he felt the fiery taste hit the back of his throat. Time to draw his sword, Skull Splitter, a fine blade of Valyrian steel. He'd leave the worst of the fighting to his men, but he'd take a juicy swipe at some fleeing enemy. A bloody blade always impressed his fellows. From the left, he heard, suddenly, the sound of galloping horsemen. What the fuck?

To his horror, a bunch of savages on horseback were tearing down the hill at him, no more than a hundred yards off.  And, his men were now exposed to them, out of all proper formation.  "Form ranks", he shrieked.  "Form ranks".  He heard the fierce howl of the wildlings, and the keening of the Dothraki, and now, arrows were falling in earnest among them, from the bows of the latter.  Far from forming ranks, those of his men closest to the horsemen were edging back, and then they started to flee. "Stand and fight you cowards", he yelled, cutting down a couple of panicking men, and then the enemy were among them, barrelling men over with their horses, and chopping down. And, some red-bearded maniac was making straight for him. He considered his options, but flight was even more dangerous than fighting. He rode for the man, barely parrying the savage blow he aimed at his head.  Then his horse collapsed, an arrow in its neck, toppling him forward into the mud, leaving him winded. Desperately, he turned to see that his assailant had dismounted, and was approaching, sword raised. He wrenched off his right gauntlet, holding it out, and yelling "I yield. I am worth a great ransom." The man ignored him, chopping down at his neck, as he screamed, and cried, and died.

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Dany surveyed the battle, from her vantage point on the steeple. Gilly was still with her, along with Kinvara, and Grey Worm had joined them. Aides came and went, informing of them of the battle's progress.

"Your Grace, look", he said urgently, pointing back towards the river. "The gap." Yes, she could see it. A big gap had opened between Monterys' footmen, and the guards cavalry, under Ser Lucifer Strong. And, the enemy had spotted this, for they were starting to walk their horses forward, about to charge. "Take command, Grey Worm", she ordered. She hadn't planned to ride Drogon so soon into the fight, but she couldn't let the whole left flank collapse either. She ran down the steps inside the steeple, and out into the main square, where the mighty beast sat waiting for her. He was already saddled. A guard fastened her into her chains, before she gave the command "Soves". Roaring, Drogon rose to his haunches, and then launched himself into air.

Chapter Text

Drogon rose in a slow spiral, hundreds of feet into the air, until Dany could see the entire battlefield, spread beneath her. The soldiers were like armies of ants, some units still marching in perfect formation, others swarming over one another. She saw the Blackwater Rush in the distance, a silver ribbon, glittering with light. Closer to hand, a dark mass of the enemy engulfed her footmen, on the left flank. Too late, her horse were trying to close the gap. And she felt ... nothing at all. Or rather, she felt as if she was burning up, under the blaze of the Sun. There was a furious clamour below, of screams, and squawks, and the clash of metal on metal. A hammer seemed to be striking inside her own head. She wondered, briefly if she'd been poisoned, by Lady Miranda, perhaps, or even by Jon. Her breath came fast in shallow gasps, and now, as she flew towards the fight, every breath she took was full of the the reek of battle - blood, shit, mud, fire, until her mouth and lungs were full of it. Her throat was burning, and she could not swallow. Drogon was now a black shadow, vast, terrifying and ominous, and she felt as if her own brow were crowned with lightning. She had drawn her own sword without thinking, and it glowed orange, as flames ran down the blade.

Her head was full of the stench of the enemy, and that was good. Hatred is the mightiest of weapons in the right hands, and she, the Bride of Fire, the Daughter of Death, hated all of creation. But, her most passionate, deepest-rooted, and hottest-burning hatred, that was for the rebel Lords of the Reach, and their false priests. She nudged Drogon with her thighs, and the mighty beast glided downwards, like a great bat, towards the fighting. The song of clashing steel echoed around her, the most beautiful and thrilling of songs, and she revelled in it, drinking it in. So engrossed were her foes in their battle, that they could not see that justice had come for them at last. But, they would discover it, soon enough. She laughed, and then she screamed, and the sound was like water hitting hot coals. She slammed down her visor, and upon her command, Drogon dived steeply. This was the beautiful moment. Her only desire was to turn the living into the dead, and now it was time for the good work to begin.

"Dracarys", she ordered, and the dragon released his fires, bathing scores of riders and footmen, in black flame, within moments. Horses screamed, their manes ablaze, as burning riders sought desperately to control them. Men cried out in panic, before the flames engulfed them. Their armour glowed orange, red, and gold, in fires as hot as any blacksmith’s forge, roasting them alive. She saw one leader, gesturing wildly to a row of archers, from horseback, before Drogon turned him to screaming charcoal, just as they released their arrows. Shafts whistled around her, and bounced off the scales of her steed. One struck her helm, making her head sing. God, how it hurt! But, that was to the good. Pain was simply fuel to the flames of her anger, anger which burned all the hotter, as she continued. Lords, knights, squires, common soldiers, camp followers, all alike burned in her flames as she flew, and that was ordained. That was the terrible justice, the awful beauty of it. They had awakened the Dragon. And, the Dragon has no favourites, the Dragon does not discriminate. She deals death, without favour or partiality. All the world is her lawful prey. Teach them the meaning of our House words, screamed her brother, Viserys.

She flew on, leaving a trail of death and burning in her wake. She felt a great draft of wind as a mighty bolt passed a few feet away to her left, and she nudged the dragon upwards again, as other bolts missed them. She briefly raised her visor again, to see a row of ballistae, the engineers desperately scurrying to reload. She closed her helm, and dived again, laughing at the their futile antics. As easy to stop the incoming tide as to destroy the Dragon. Within moments, the engines of war were reduced to kindling, and the soldiers to ash. Men no longer offered resistance, but fled before her in all directions. Let them flee! She would have excellent sport, hunting them down in the days to come. But, there was more fine work to be done. In the distance, there loomed the enemy encampment. Time to destroy forever, their ability to defy her. Somewhere, in the background, her conscience told her there were women, children, innocents in the camp. Your daughter was an innocent, too, came the answer. The victims of the Sparrows were innocents, men, women, and children, murdered  for worshipping the true God, the Lord of Light, or butchered for their Valyrian looks.  Avenge them.  Your enemies' women are your enemies. Their children will grow up to be your enemies.  And so she set the lines of tents, the corrals of beasts, the carts, the forges, the shelters ablaze, as the people screamed, and cried, and died.  

She turned, and rose again into the air. Looking down, she saw that the enemy's right flank was broken, men and horses streaming away down the road to Kings Landing. Her own men seemed rooted to the spot, for some reason, rather than chasing them in hot pursuit. Had they betrayed her? Well, she would make them pay, later. Elsewhere, oblivious to the rout on their flank, the enemy engaged her forces closely. On the left, she saw a great mass of horsemen, surging uphill to where her husband awaited them. And in the centre, a great host of men were fighting their way into the woods below the village, trying to break her army in half. She smiled. Their death was a thing already written.

She knew now what she must do, as she guided Drogon downwards. She would set the forest ablaze.

Chapter Text

Gilly had been left alone in the Sept's tower with Kinvara, the red priestess. That wasn’t really the kind of company she’d have welcomed. She was a pagan, after all, in this woman’s eyes, and no doubt she had a stake and a pile of logs, somewhere, with Gilly’s name written on them.

"Look Gilly, observe the power of the Lord of Light, at work” said the other. In the distance, towards the river, she saw the dragon, and its tiny rider descending towards the enemy. Only now, they appeared transformed. The dragon seemed grown to tremendous size, a vast menace of darkness and despair. Daenerys herself was robed in shadow, a nimbus of gold light about her head Even from so far away, she could see the Queen’s sword in her right hand, glowing orange and gold. What dark magic was afoot, she wondered? And then she shuddered as the enemy were withered in flame, breaking and fleeing within minutes. They had to die, she knew that well enough, but still she couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the men who were being roasted in their armour. Not to mention, their poor horses! The dragon vanished far into the distance, returning to view, perhaps fifteen minutes later.

"The Lord will welcome the thousands of souls that the Queen's Grace has delivered to him, today. And she is His champion."

"Does any of this killing worry you, my Lady."

"God smiles upon results, Gilly", she replied, looking serene. Drogon now flew closer, burning enemy soldiers advancing into the woods beneath the village, who started to break and flee in turn. Somewhere, down in those woods, she knew Ygritte was fighting, alongside other of the Queen’s soldiers. She'd seen the rockets come flying out, to explode above the Sparrows, tearing them apart. She couldn't say she felt nearly as much sorrow at their deaths as she did over the ordinary soldiers' and the horses'. Those bastards had killed Missandei, and that murder, she very much feared, had killed off a lot of what was kind and compassionate in the Queen. The dragon rose again, circling, before diving for the forest.

"Ygritte, Ygritte!" she screamed, at the top of her voice, fearing very much now that Daenerys planned to set the forest ablaze.

"If it's the Lord's will, your friend will live. And, if it is His will, she will die. Why should you worry?" asked Kinvara. She was strongly tempted to gut her, but instead, she kept shouting. Perhaps the Queen had heard her, for the dragon rose again, then flew for the village.

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Daenery's fury left her, as suddenly as as it had arrived. She felt drained now, exhausted. From somewhere, she had remembered that her friend and bodyguard fought below in the forest. Gilly, she well knew, would never forgive her, if she were to kill Ygritte, but more importantly, she would never forgive herself, were she to do so. She wondered if she merited forgiveness, anyway. She recalled now, that some of her own men had perished along with the enemy, when she unleashed Drogon's flames, against the enemy's left flank. She guided the mighty steed down into the village square, the dragon now as weary as she was. A dragon, she well knew, needed to rest, after expending so much energy and fire. She slumped in her saddle, as two guards came forward to release her chains. Two more brought a pair of goats for Drogon to feast upon.

Grey Worm approached her, on horseback, looking grim-faced.

"The manse at the foot of the hill on our right flank is taken by the enemy, your Grace. The Warriors' Sons have gained the summit. The King and Prince Khosrou are hard-pressed, I've sent gallopers to Ser Lucifer, commanding him to roll up the enemy's centre, but he may not come soon enough." She felt a stab of guilt, about the doubts she had harboured about her husband's true loyalties, upon hearing this news. What if he dies?  "I've held back four hundred guards cavalry, and a thousand foot in reserve. Give me permission to reinforce our right flank." That would of course, leave the village almost defenceless, should the enemy break through, save for one exhausted dragon. Still, much must be risked in war. She nodded to her commander, who summoned the cavalry commander, Hero.  

"Take your rascals, Hero, and and ride for that hill. I'll bring up the foot."

"Don't trouble yourself 'Worm. My lads will take that hill, and hold it till you catch up", the man replied, grinning.

"Go to it then, damn your eyes!" She smiled at the banter.

"The Lord's blessing be upon you, Grey Worm." The Sirdar had served her faithfully since Astapor, all those years ago. May the Lord of Light and the Lady of Battles protect him now! She turned back to the tower, each step like lifting a lead weight.

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Grey Worm rode down to take command of the footmen. They were all veterans of Astapor, the regiment called the Lady of Battles, the very heart, first of the Unsullied, and now, the Imperial Guards. Hero's cavalry were trotting forward, to the rescue of their comrades. He was, honestly, glad that Daenerys and Drogon had not won the battle on their own, The outcome of the fight would come down to cold steel, and that was as it should be.

He turned to address them, men who were a byword for valour and loyalty. "Daenerys Targaryen gave us our freedom, all those years ago. She has never let us down, and nor have we ever faltered on the battlefield. And, you have never disappointed me, my brothers. On now to victory. Oaths ye have taken, now fulfill them!"

A great roar went up from the regiment, and then he turned his horse, leading from the front, among the standard bearers. As they stepped off, so they sang, to the sound of pipe and drum;

The world withers and the wind rises;
the candles are quenched. Cold falls the night.
It’s dark! It’s dark, and doom coming!
Is no light left us? A light kindle,
and fan the flame! Lo! Fire now wakens,
hearth is burning, house is lighted,
men there gather. Out of the mists they come
through darkling doors whereat doom waiteth.
Hark! I hear them in the hall chanting:
stern words they sing with strong voices.
Heart shall be bolder, harder be purpose,
more proud the spirit as our power lessens!
Mind shall not falter nor mood waver,
though doom shall come and dark conquer.

As he sang along with them, so his spirits rose. The day would be won. A few hundred yards off, he was Hero’s cavalry were joining the fray. Let them just hold long enough for the foot to arrive and drive the enemy off the ridge for good.

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I've fucked this one up.  Tatters or Meris would have cut my cock off, for this.  Ser Lucifer Strong cursed himself for allowing the left flank of the army to come adrift, nearly leading to disaster at the hands of the Reach cavalry.  Without the intervention of the Queen on Drogon, the footmen might have been overwhelmed.  The Dragon.  A sight of wonder, and horror.  He'd seen men melting in their armour, as Drogon's flames swept over them.  His own men had ground to a halt, shocked, and awestruck.  He could only imagine the effect on the enemy, who had broken and fled within minutes, leaving hundreds, perhaps thousands, of their number charred, or worse, burned but still partly alive and screaming, on the battlefield.  Still, enough.  He could at least redeem himself now.  He told his aides to instruct the footmen who had come so close to disaster to advance, and pin down the enemy's centre.

"We ride around the flanks, and hit them from the rear", he told Lewis Lanster, his deputy  A sodomite, who'd supposedly committed all manner of brutality in the South, not that it mattered Ser Lucifer, but he knew that Lord Willas Tyrell wanted the man court-martialled.  Proof positive that lawyers knew nothing whatsoever of war.  

"Sound the charge", he commanded the trumpeter, and he started to trot forward with the front ranks.  Like a stream in a rainstorm, they slowly gathered momentum, now moving into a slow canter.  The enemy footmen were no more than four hundred yards off, and in some disorder, he was pleased to note.  The scorched grass revealed the reason for their disarray, although the dragon had disappeared.  The ground was firm, perfect for a charge.  On his right was the woodland, just below Sworbreck.  In front of him there stood a low drystone wall, which he and his riders cleared with ease.  Two hundred yards off, the enemy were trying to form a line of pikemen, and archers, but with only partial success.  Arrows began falling among his riders, one bouncing off his own breast plate.  He closed his vizor, raked back his heels, lowered his lance, and hit the gallop.  Riding boot to boot, they crashed into the enemy foot, breaking them apart like rotten wood,  He skewered one fleeing archer with his lance, before drawing his axe and splitting the head of another.  Then they were among them, cutting, slashing, and breaking them into ever-smaller groups.  Even the horse fought, biting mens' faces, or trampling them.  Gods, this was war as it should be!  Even if he was dismissed from service for his errors, he could at least enjoy himself in the meantime.

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Gods, this is desperate, thought Jon.  Tormund and Batu, who had broken the enemy foot so effectively, both lay dead, somewhere in the maelstrom of clashing horses, and their riders.  The enemy had renewed their attack on the manor house, eventually carrying it, and driving the remnant of Symon's guards, back up the hill.  Before he could come to their aid, the Warrior's Sons had struck, trotting forward, followed by a great company of Reach horsemen. He'd ordered his own men to ride forward, both sides clashing near the foot of the slope. The ground had given him the advantage, enabling his men to cut down the front ranks, but gradually, numbers had told. Step, by step, fighting all the way, they'd been pushed back up the slope, to the point where his men were now at breaking point. He saw Prince Khosrou, in the thick of the fighting, laying about manfully with his tulwar, before the press of men drove him out of sight.

"Heathen" screamed one of the enemy, riding straight for him. He nudged his horse aside, barely parrying the blow that the man aimed at his head with his axe. "I am Bonnifer Hasty" the man snarled, "Your death." The man was good, Gods damn him, nimbler than most younger men. The horses circled, the Grand Commander blocking his own cuts with ease, on his shield, while cutting down at him with deadly force. The axe caught his arm, causing him to drop his own sabre, even though the armour held. This was the end, he was sure, only for the man's horse to scream, and rear upwards, as a guardsman, drove a pike through its belly. He hardly had time to thank the man, before he felt the weight of the fight begin to shift. More guardsmen joined in. Vulnerable to charging cavalry they might be, but they were quite capable of cutting them down in a melee. Quite suddenly, the fight went out of the enemy, who turned about, streaming back down the slope. He rode forward, his swordarm hurting like hell, unable to flex his hand. The enemy were broken, in wild retreat now, but his own men were too exhausted to pursue them. Thousands of corpses, and writhing wounded, lay strewn across the field. Time for him to seek a healer, and his wife and Queen.

After his arm had been bound, and put in a sling, he rode towards the village, accepting the congratulations of the soldiers along the way. When he reached the village square, he found Daenerys with Drogon. Men had told him of the carnage they had wrought from the air. Well, that was inevitable. She greeted him warmly, embracing him, then thanking him for the courage he and his men had displayed, and praising him to the others.

"And what happens now, Daenerys?"

"We retake the capital, feed its people, then we burn the rest of the rebels, and return their strongholds to the dust."

"You'll burn our prisoners?"

”Not the common soldiers. They will be given the chance to bend the knee. But the lords, the knights, the Sparrows, they will feed R'hllor's fires, tomorrow."

"A righteous act, your Grace", said Kinvara, who had joined them.

The following afternoon, Jon stood next to Daenerys, Sansa, Kinvara, Grey Worm, and Ygritte, as well-nigh three hundred men were burned alive, in succession. He wondered if he'd ever get the stink of charred flesh out of his nostrils. As he stared down at the charred corpses, and watched birds of prey, tearing at the bodies of the slain, he turned to his queen, and asked,

"What do you call this, Daenerys?"

"I call it what it is. Victory."

Chapter Text

"He has your eyes, Aemon, and my hair. A true Targaryen prince". Daenerys beamed fondly at the babe that suckled at her breast. "For years, I thought I could never bear a living child."

She had given birth, a fortnight hence, as had Sansa, three moons ago, to a red-haired daughter. Three times, now, a father. He had everything a man could desire. A crown, two beautiful wives, one of whom, at least, he loved, and three children. And, he rode Rhaegal. Everything, he had dreamed of, and more, when he was a boy. Everything that his supposed father, and Lady Catelyn, would have denied him, when they steered him towards an early grave, in the Nights Watch. He ought to be ecstatic.

And yet, he felt, mostly, apprehension, partly due to the behaviour of the beautiful woman, who lay opposite him, on a pile of cushions, suckling their babe. And that of Ygritte, of course. He and his former lover were, perforce, thrust into each other's company, but he knew that her hatred for him remained undimmed. She had no shortage of highborn admirers, now that the Small Council had formally legitimised their daughter as a Targaryen princess. Indeed, the girl now stood third in the line of succession. Sansa had named their daughter Margaery, after her beloved friend, so cruelly slain. She would be both Stark and Tully, excluded from any claim to the Iron Throne, but due to inherit Riverrun in due course. Cousin Edmure's poor son was currently being raised with the Velaryons, and he would receive rich estates in time.

So what was the issue? They had returned to Dragonstone, yet even so, Dany had kept her promises to feed the capital, and to rebuild it. Indeed, her plans were ambitious. Thousands of temporary shelters had been constructed for the people, but in due course, the place would be rebuilt in brick and stone, and acqueducts would bring in fresh water. She intended to encourage people from the coasts and islands to settle there, ensuring a loyal population. But, she had made it entirely plain, as they rode into the city after the battle, that it was now hers by right of conquest. The guilds and council had been dissolved, and the capital was ruled by martial law, under a huge garrison commanded by Grey Worm. A tame High Septon, and Council of the Most Devout, had been appointed, ordered to preach unquestioning obedience to the Targaryens, and to adhere to the Doctrine of Exceptionalism. The arch-bigot and his minions had fled to Oldtown, where he had pronounced sentence of excommunication and anathema, on his rivals. The Faith had been allowed to retain the Great Sept of Baelor, but ground had already been cleared for a Temple to the Lord of Light, which would be twice the size. It was politic to convert. The Dragon Standard of the Targaryens, and the Bleeding Heart of R'hllor, both flew prominently over the city.

The city was kept under strict curfew.  The work of retribution was relentless.  Kings Landing's inhabitants might hate his Queen, but there was no shortage of informants, willing to sell out their neighbours, in the hope of reward.  Lord Willas had insisted that suspects be given trials, and some were indeed, acquitted.  But those found guilty were hanged, very publicly. Captured Sparrows were burned.

Of course, he had acted similarly in the North. Treason must be punished, inevitably. Much more alarming were his wife’s plans for the rebels. Her terms remained unchanged.

Unconditional surrender and no mercy for the leaders.

Perhaps half the enemy had escaped the battle. But there was no prospect of their surrendering, when the knights and lords among them faced certain death. Before long, they would mount a brutal invasion of the Reach, with all the attendant horrors of war. But, there was far worse on the horizon. He knew that tens of thousands of Dothraki were planning to cross the Narrow Sea to lay waste the region, as vengeance for the death of Missandei.

Not everyone was happy. Lord Willas had pressed repeatedly for her to offer more lenient terms.

”For the love I bear you, I shall commute your brother’s sentence to exile, should he surrender”, Dany had replied. “That is the extent of my mercy.”

”You’re the King, make your wife see sense”, Yohn Royce had urged him, in his usual gruff way.

As if.

Yet, there was another side to Dany. The side who’d insisted that only small portions be served to starving city folk, at first, lest their stomachs burst; who had made a priority of resettling orphaned children, with parents who had lost their own; who had sent healers to treat those who had fallen sick. The young mother who played with the children at Dragonstone.

There were darkened rooms in his own mind, too, ones that were best kept locked up. His own sins and crimes might lead him down some very black paths.

Sansa was right. They were both hellbound.

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About this time, Ygritte was resting her own daughter, on her knee, talking to Gilly. The pair had been moved to the royal apartments.

”You are mother to a royal princess”, Daenerys had told her. “Of course, you must be treated as royalty.” She couldn’t get her head around the fact she was surrounded by servants, who expected to do the simplest of tasks for her. A stupid kneeler custom, but worse, it meant she was becoming a kneeler, as well. Just, one that most others knelt to.

It also meant that any number of kneeler lords were almost getting on their hands and knees before her, in the hope of marrying a member of the royal family. Some of ‘em made her skin crawl. If she said she wanted a piss, they’d probably beg her for the privilege of drinking it.

"I guess we won't be going back North?" remarked Gilly, intruding on her thoughts.

"Why do you say that? The Queen's offered us all free passage, and plenty of gold."

"She's clever. She knows you can't accept, not now your daughter's a princess. Oh, you might think you and I could protect her, but let's face it, some of our people are vicious bastards. Most of them really. They couldn't wait to get their hands on a royal princess, and hold her for ransom. We'd need a small army to protect her." That was true, once she thought it over. Perhaps if Tormund were still alive, she could have hired him and his band to protect them, but he'd fallen on the battlefield. Gods, the fight in the forest had been vicious! She'd lost count of the number she put down. But, she was pleased to finish that fucker Rattleshirt, for good. After the battle, she'd chopped his head off, then stuck it on the end of a pole, while Red Lamb and the other survivors had laughed. It might still be there for all she knew, though no doubt the crows would have eaten their fill.

There was a knock on the door, then a liveried page boy entered.

"My lady, it it is time for your fitting."

"My what?"

"I come from Modestus. He considers it is most unjust that a lady of your standing should be inappropriately clad. The Queen's Grace has concurred. You are to be fitted for clothes more suited to your high station. Dresses of silk, satin, and damask."  What the fuck?

"But I like my clothes".

"Please, my lady."

"You must do as he says, Ygritte", said Gilly, with a smirk.  "Welcome to life as royalty."

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"My mother desired you, you know".  Sansa lay on her bed with Jon.  Margaerey was asleep in her cot.

"Seven hells, she hated me!"

"Resented you, rather.  She wanted you, but she couldn't have you.  She was surrounded by attractive young men, but she couldn't dare run the risk of a pregnancy, outside of the marriage bed.  Tell it true, Jon, you wanted her too, didn't you?  You'd have taken us both together, if you could."

He hesitated, looking shamefaced.  Then he nodded, "I would." 

"Well then, I want you to call me Catelyn, while I fuck you."  

Chapter Text

"Tell me Jon", cried Sansa, as she rode his cock, “What's it like to fuck your own father's wife? Making the Lord of Winterfell a cuckold. He'd send you to the Wall for this, take your head even!"

"Shut your filthy whore’s mouth, Catelyn!" growled Jon. "I'm only interested in one part of you. Your cunt!"

”Not just my cunt. My tits, as well, you sick little bastard. Ned, he didn’t notice, but I saw you, eyeing them up. What kind of vicious little pervert wants his Mama’s tits in his mouth.” She moaned, as she leant forward, placing her left nipple in Jon’s mouth. “Suckle on them, you fucking bastard!” Oh, Gods, this felt so good!

She sat back on her haunches, now approaching her climax.

”What kind of Lady are you? Just a bitch in constant heat! There’s not a guardsman or groom you haven’t played the whore to. I saw you in the stables, with Jory’s cock in your mouth!”

"None as good as you! None as hard as you, as long-lasting. Go on, then, give it to me, give it to Mama". Quite suddenly, she saw stars, and screamed Jon’s name, no longer caring if she woke Margaery. Jon came a few moments later, his seed flooding into her, before running down her thighs. She gradually recovered her breath, wondering where such an obscene fantasy had come from. She thought she'd already plunged the depths of perversion, only to discover there was no limit to her depravity. Hell’s worst fires awaited her. But, she’d taste every pleasure the world could offer her, before she got there.

Eventually, she got up, and went to the privy, to clean herself. Gods, her parents and Robb would be disgusted by her, if they knew what she was! Honestly, she disgusted herself, at times. She remembered verses from a tragedy:

This girl is old enough to know better.
The fact is, she would do anything,
don’t you see that?
No shame at all.

Ah now there you mistake me.
Shame I do feel.
And I know there is something all wrong about me—
believe me. Sometimes I shock myself.
But there is a reason: you.
You never let up this one same pressure of hatred on my life:
I am the shape you made me.
Filth teaches filth.

The Gods, Septa Mordane, the Lannisters, the Boltons, Baelish, all of them had moulded her into the filthy creature, she’d become.  The execution of Roslyn Frey gnawed at her conscience, too.  The poor woman had no choice, she now realised.  She'd robbed her cousin of his mother;  and his birthright.  

One day, he would come for her.

She pushed away the obvious solution to that risk.

Speaking of which, her maidservant, Kyra was waiting in the bedchamber for her, when she returned. Jon, thankfully, had made himself decent. The girl was staring down adoringly, at their daughter.

"Your Grace, a raven has arrived, from Lady Myrcella Lannister."

"Thank you, Kyra." She took the letter, and broke its seal. It bore good news.

"Jon, the Westermen have broken the siege at Riverrun." Oh, now that was a relief. She'd dreaded to return to find her mother's home, sacked and burned. For a time, she talked of how they'd divide their time, between Riverrun, Winterfell, the Red Keep, and Dragonstone, once the war was won. Jon was largely silent, in response. Once Kyra had left, she asked him. "You're troubled. What is it?"

"The war", he sighed.

"But, we're winning it."

"And then what. Daenerys may not want the Reach turned into a wasteland, but that's what the Dothraki will do, when they arrive. She may want tolerance for all religions, but the Red God's followers will burn the world, in her name. "

"All the more reason for us to stand by her side. I love her, Jon, you know that. I know it's wrong, but I feel for her, exactly what I feel for you. You don't, I'm aware of that. So, I'm the one who can hold our alliance together. And one day, your son will rule the Seven Kingdoms. What more could a man want?"

"Peace". She frowned.

"You've never shrunk from bloodshed. Ask Ser Alliser Thorne, and Janos Slynt. Ask Ramsay Bolton and his vile paramour. I'm told, you fought valiantly, in the battle, and before that, at Rosby. Jon, we've waded through blood to get where we are. We can't go back."

"And, perhaps, I've had enough of it. We need to leave. To go home."

"You're making no sense. Of course, we'll return to Winterfell. But, it's not our only home, now."

"I'll govern the North in her name, I'll put down Manderly's revolt, but I'll take no part in this fight. If we stay here, I will kill Daenerys, eventually. I took vows to protect the Seven Kingdoms. How can I take part in unleashing horrors on one of them? But, what kind of man would murder the mother of his own son? His own kin? A monster, cursed by Gods and men."

"Don't be ridiculous! You won't kill her! I won't allow it."

"I am fated to do it."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Red priestess, Melisandre, gave me a vision. She knew things, things she had no way of knowing, except through her magic. She knew that I desired you, even as a boy, and that we were lovers. More, she knew that my father was Rhaegar Targaryen. And then she foretold, I would drive a knife through Daenerys' heart, and you and I would rule this land together." Sansa listened, with mounting horror.

"I will kill her, to try to forestall the horror that comes, but of course, I'll fail. The whole Realm will burn. Melisandre said that R'hllor wants me for his champion, and that Daenerys will be his sacrifice. "

"But, Melisandre's a renegade. To the rest of them, Daenerys is Azor Ahai reborn."

"They're using her to fulfill their own plans. I'm convinced of that. They can make her fit their prophecies. Azor Ahai had a bride, supposedly, Nissa Nissa. He drove his sword through her, to temper his blade, and she died screaming. If I kill Daenerys, they'll fit me into their prophecy, well enough. They'll say she was a willing sacrifice, that she gave herself to my knife, so that her spirit might continue to lead her followers."

"A prophecy can be averted, surely?" said Sansa, eventually.

"Which is what I'm trying to do. Don't you see, Sansa, we have to leave. With our daughter."  Sansa was silent for a while, before remarking.

"And how do we do that?"

"We fly."

Chapter Text

"Can I trust them?" asked Daenerys. She sat in an armchair, nursing her babe, whilst Ygritte sat opposite her, doing the same. Strange. Both infants had been fathered by the same man, who she hoped she’d never set eyes on again.

”Sansa, yes. I told you, remember, if you flew back to Riverrun, she’d ‘ave ‘undreds of archers, waiting to shoot you down. Well, I was wrong, I must admit. She’s as arrogant and proud as most of her kind … but underneath it .., she has a good ‘eart, I think. She cares something for the smallfolk. Okay, she expects them to get on their ‘ands and knees, but she does care, unlike nine parts o’ those selfish cunts the kneelers call lords and ladies. Honestly, the sight of ‘em crawling before me, wanting to marry me, makes me want to puke. I know, privately, they think I’m a dog turd. They just want the wealth and lands that comes with raising my daughter. An’ Sansa, she loves you. You only has to see the way she looks at you, to see that.”

“‘‘Im, on the other hand, well you know what I think, and Gilly. We both hates him, and we always shall hate 'im. Still, he fought well, from all I’ve ‘eard. If you can’t trust him, you’re probably better off with him up North, rather than in your bed.” She saw Daenerys nod. Then, the Queen surprised her, by saying,

”I don’t know if I can trust myself. Trust myself to protect you, that is. You might be a whole lot safer, if you were well away from me. I'm a danger to those I care for. Would to the Gods, I’d left Missandei back in the East!”

"You can't blame yourself for that Dany. Those Sparrow bastards, they were the ones who murdered her!"

"I have a confession to make to you, Ygritte. If, at the end of it all, you say you can't stand my presence, then I'll understand. I'll give you, and Gilly, and your daughter, enough money to live anywhere in the world. " Where was this going?

"During the course of the battle, after I mounted Drogon, I became transformed into something else. Something ... looking back, that scares me to death, and which should scare you. I wanted to deal out death. Well, I must have killed hundreds, probably thousands, but this was different. As if, I were a different person, a killing machine. Was I berserk? Did God take possession of me? I don't know. But, I actually thought of myself as a dragon, killing without mercy, and rejoicing in that fact.

"I don't think any of us are complaining", she replied drily. "You destroyed the enemy's right flank. I know of some of yer own men died, but sometimes, that 'appens in war."

"You were fighting in the forest. I was intending to set that forest ablaze. I wanted to do that. I'd have destroyed the enemy, yes, but I'd have also killed you and your comrades." Ygritte digested that information.

"So, what stopped you?" she asked finally.

"From somewhere, I seemed to hear your name being called. It brought me back to myself. I'm worried, one day, I'll lose myself completely. A risk of being God's Chosen, I suppose. I've told you of my dream, of decades of war across the world. Of burning towns, and pyramids of heads, millions slaughtered in my name. I don't want that, but buried deep down, there's a part of me that hungers for it. What if that part wins out, in the end? Suppose it's God's will that it should. God's will, perhaps, that I bind you, your daughter, Gilly, Irri, perhaps Myrcella and Arianne, even my own son, to a pyre, and burn you all, in His name?”

"I'd kill you, before I let that happen", she replied, without thinking. She realised, suddenly, that this might be just about the most stupid thing she'd ever said. She held her breath, while Dany stared at her, seemingly shocked. Then her face softened.

"And, you would be right to. I can't say that I'm proud of all I've done. I may be God's Champion, upon this Middle Earth, but that doesn't mean he won't send me to hell, if it pleases Him. No God will forgive the kinslayer, nor the traitor to her friends, and I see you very much as kin now, Ygritte, as well as a friend. If I fall into madness, into real evil, like my father, you must end my life."

Well, this was about the strangest conversation she’d ever had. She liked Dany a lot, loved her, even, but her own daughter, Gilly, sweet Myrcella, and the rest? She’d kill anyone, even Dany, to protect them.

”I worry, what kind of world am I bringing my son into, what kind of example I’ll set. What will he think of a mother who commanded fifty thousand Dothraki to turn the Reach into pasture? I’ve ridden through the Dothraki Sea, seen the ruins of great civilisations, where now there is only grass. Sometimes, there aren't even ruins left behind."

"These are the times, Dany." Ygritte rose, and placed her daughter, carefully into her cot. Then, she took her friend's son, and did the same. "Still, there is one thing. Remember, I said chiefs sometimes used men to do their dirty work, then handed them to their enemies as a peace offering. Your good-son, that Orhan, died on 'is own sword, so you can't offer up 'im any more." Myrcella was at court, and she had told her about her and Joy's visit to Gray Alys, the woods witch. Ygritte had completely approved. But, that Lewis Lanser, and some of 'is men, Gilly says that Lord Willas wants them put on trial for their crimes.

"Yes, that would be just. " She was silent for a little longer, before remarking. "I'll never stop mourning Missandei, but slaughtering a myriad of peasants in the Reach won't bring her back to life. And, it's not what my dear girl would ever have wished. I'll give the enemy the chance to come to terms. For the High Sparrow, his Most Devout, the leaders of the Warriors' Sons, there can be no mercy. Nor for Lady Olenna. They must be given up, and I'll hand them over in turn to my husband, Jelme, to use as he sees fit. For the rest of the nobles, let them submit, and their lives will not be forfeit. I know that's what Lord Willas wants. Some will fight on regardless, no doubt, but most won't want to die in a lost cause."

And that, thought Ygritte, was an immense relief. She was good at killing, but peace had its blessings, too.